Watching pro football is not like the ancient Romans watching gladiators killing each other in the coliseum. But it’s not so very different either. Especially now that we know the systematic, longterm, life-shortening physical toll taken on players. Nevertheless, I notice that I go on rooting for the Pats. A part of me shows up Sundays forr those three hours of completely guilt-free enjoyment of the violent game. I can’t even say that it’s out of anything as noble as loyalty. If we didn’t have the good luck of being able to claim on the basis of geography one of the most successful teams in our time, I would probably find it easier to do the principled thing and boycott.
There’s a parallel with eating meat: I know the story of the meat industry, the life and death of animals under bigtime corporate meat production. If I had to kill the cow, the lamb, even the chicken myself myself I’m pretty sure I’d become an instant vegetarian. But I go on, day after day, happily consuming the flesh of fellow creatures.
Fortunately for my enjoyable old habits, my inner left hand doesn’t know what my inner right hand is doing. Three cheers for psychic compartmentalism. Well, maybe one cheer.
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