With all the ranting and whining which took place prior to last night's game between the Vikings and the Bears, I want to voice my opinion. The game was moved to the University of Minnesota's TCF Bank Stadium when the roof of the Metrodome collapsed. Because the franchise wanted to keep the game in Minnesota--especially after the fiasco last week when the game between the Vikings and Giants was moved to Detroit--the University stadium was the logical choice. As all the sports' outlets reported, TCF Stadium is only suitable to be played on through late November, thus no underground heating coils, no plan for extreme winter weather. It was never meant to be played on in late December.
And so began the complaints. The Bears' players voiced their concerns first--valid concerns as this game had playoff implications for them. As snow continued to pour every few days, the safety of the field was continually questioned--especially in light of the league's new dedication to safety this season. The ground underneath the turf was frozen, the turf itself was frozen, layers of snow and ice made the surface a virtual skating rink. The teams would be playing on glorified concrete.
And I'm sure the ground was hard.
But since when is the National Football League a group of overpaid babies? They are already paid millions of dollars a year, plus endorsements, to play one game a week. Key word: Game. A backyard children's game.
Yes, the ground was hard. Yes, it was cold outside. Suck it up.
In college I was a local sports reporter covering mostly high school games. There was more than one evening I stood shivering on the sidelines during football games. It was technically "fall," but the temperature often dipped below twenty degrees, windchill under ten, with frozen fluries--the same conditions the Vikings and Bears played in last night. My toes were numb in my dress shoes before the National Anthem was finished. I could barely take notes in the second half--my fingers shaking and twitching with a mind of their own. By the end-of-game interviews, my teeth chattered as I asked my questions. My knees frozen in a locked position. Week after week I did this...and I was paid $7.50 an hour. I didn't have a $10 million over four years contract. Nike didn't ask me to endorse their shoes, Gillette didn't design a razor around my signature, no national campaign of my face with a milk mustache. $7.50. That was it.
Even more impressive than my measly paycheck--the athletes I was watching weren't paid anything. They pounded each other into the frozen ground, took repeated beatings without as much as spending a down on the sidelines. They sprinted every play--eyes drilling to the endzone--no touchdown dances or flair. They played on a frozen cornfield-turned-football-field. They didn't have hundreds of personnel to keep the field warm, perfect, and clean. There was blood. There were aches, pains, noticeable limps, bruises. Concussions.
But one thing they were missing...complaints.
They played because they could. Because they wanted to. These kids' heads weren't swimming with NFL dreams. Most of them wouldn't even play in college, and they knew it. They were just doing what they loved, playing on the surface they had. No matter what the condition of the field was.
THAT'S playing for the love of the game.
