I love the game of football. Not the face-painting hyperfandom, not the tailgate excess, not the sideline T&A. I love the game itself. The Xs and Os, the playcalling and audibles, the micro-contests among guards and linebackers, defensive backs and receivers. A Richard Sherman interception, I maintain, is as beautiful as any Mozart passage played by Yo Yo Ma.

But I’m done. I’ve been off pro football now for three months.

The reasons for renunciation, for me, were obvious before Week 1. The NFL’s institutionalized camouflage of criminal behavior—the apparent least of which is domestic violence—along with its hypocritical stance on drug use (both narcotic and performance enhancing) reveals an organization eager to protect players whose behavior risks tarnishing its bullshit mom-and-apple-pie persona, while simultaneously and without hesitation scrapping those same players once they’ve hit their on-field expiration date.

It was in a moment of Facebook grandstanding that I posted a simple status update: “NFL Boycott—activate.” Reading and re-reading my declaration, I realized I would have to follow through. If not, I’d be all talk, the outspoken vegetarian caught double-fisting cocktail weenies.

That meant Sundays (as well as Monday and Thursday evenings) were suddenly and terrifyingly free.

I had to live up to the promise. What would that look like? I decided on cold turkey. No watching games, of course. But also, no workarounds like following online or listening to the radio. As of the first week of September, I shut the league out entirely.

Anyone who’s fought to change a habit understands that replaced zealotry can help. I had a neighbor who redirected smoking three packs a day into building incredible model battleships, and we all know the marathoner who used to weigh 300 pounds. To keep the NFL at bay, I needed a fresh outlet.

Fortunately, and quite literally, it was as close as my own backyard.

My goal became its complete transformation, from a neglected and overgrown city lot to a pastoral combination of garden and playground, where my wife could grow salad greens in raised boxes, and my daughters would rule from a scratch-built swingset.

Sundays became not a day of rest, but a day of work.

I cleared vines, dug up roots, planted and transplanted hydrangea, knockout roses, rhododendron, and azalea.

I borrowed a friend’s pickup and brought in $500 worth of fruit trees and evergreens. I borrowed it again and unloaded massive 6x6x12 pressure-treated beams that I sunk three feet into the earth and anchored in concrete.

Over three weekends, I set ten-foot boards across the top and along the sides, measuring, cutting, checking for plumb and level—all emerging skills I absorbed with well-measured patience.

There was no need to rush because there was no worry about missing a kick-off. The weeks have worn on. The yard has transformed. And I have no idea who’s atop the NFC North.

Any question as to whether my NFL boycott was a good decision has been evidenced by the increasing wavelength of my daughters’ smiles. I bolted the swings in place, added a trapeze, rings and climbing rope. They’re in the backyard well into the autumn darkness, giggling and shivering and with no apparent memory of the father who used to lay mollusk-like on the couch most Sundays, lost in a fog of lite beer, automobile, and erectile dysfunction commercials.

At the twelve-week mark, I’ve hit that point where ignoring pro football is no longer work. Even better, I haven’t replaced it with evangelical bullshit, where I’ll chew your ear off with explanation.

Someone asks if I saw the game, I say no. That’s it. If pressed about my thoughts on the season, I say, “I’m not following the NFL this year.” That often gets an arched eyebrow, but it has, several times now, earned an affirming nod.

There are moments when I miss watching the pro game, both the jaw-dropping artistry and head-knocking intensity, along with the brilliance of good offensive and defensive play calling. I don’t miss the histrionic battlefield sound effects, digital animation, eternally scrolling statistics, and insipid commentary.

I played (or more aptly, struggled to play) football for almost a decade, from an awkward middle-school beginning through a mediocre if enjoyable conclusion as a Division III running back. I met exceptional people, had a few noteworthy moments on the field, and endured plenty of frustration. But I kept lacing ‘em up year after year because it was just such a fun way to spend a Friday night or Saturday afternoon.

But Sundays? Not any more. I let you have them long enough, NFL. They’re mine again.

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