What Football Still Teaches Us

I love football because for three hours we forget the chaos of life and go all-in for our team. We boo the calls, we hold our breath when a player goes down, and we celebrate with strangers wearing the same colors. For a little while, we belong to something bigger than ourselves. In the fall, that something is football.

I grew up on Joe Montana. He was the master of the two-minute drill — calm, surgical, unstoppable. Watching him march the team down the field in those final seconds was like watching a machine run with perfect timing. Everyone knew their role. No panic. Just precision.

I still remember sitting cross-legged on the carpet as a kid, heart pounding, watching him complete pass after pass. The living room seemed to shrink as the clock ticked down, every snap pulling me closer to the edge of my seat. It wasn’t just the winning that mattered — it was the way he made the impossible look routine. The way every player trusted the others to do their part.

Those moments stayed with me. They taught me that sometimes the most extraordinary results come from doing the simple things with absolute precision. Even now, decades later, I can still feel that childlike awe whenever a quarterback pulls off a perfect two-minute drive.

And it’s not just about the drive. No matter what team you love, there’s a shared understanding of the game. We all know when a ref blows a call, and we all know the difference between a tough hit and a cheap shot. And when a player stays down, everything stops. The stadium goes silent, tens of thousands holding their breath. Every fan hoping for him to get up on his own.

There’s no better example of that compassion than John Madden years earlier. When Darryl Stingley was hit so hard it paralyzed him — left by his coach and team — Madden stayed. He refused to let him face that moment alone.

It’s not just history that proves this. Everyone remembers the night Damar Hamlin collapsed on the field with cardiac arrest. For a moment, the league itself seemed to stop breathing. Rivals dropped to one knee. The stadium fell silent, united in hope he would be okay.

In fact, the NFL follows a ritual that echoes the old warrior codes of Hagakure and Bushido: honor isn’t just how you fight, but how you treat your opponent when the fight ends. When the clock runs out, players cross the field, shake hands, and say good game.

They leave it all on the field, then step back into reality.