The NFL doesn’t care about your concerns.

It doesn’t matter if you think the most recent purge of black head coaches is proof that the league’s vow to end racism is a sham.

It doesn’t matter if you think the league is too “woke” or caught up in virtue signaling.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve had enough of debilitating injuries and beloved players shocked by the game’s inherent brutality.

The NFL doesn’t care because it doesn’t have to. It weathers all storms – from Hurricane Kaepernick to the deluge of pain, uncertainty and death caused by Covid-19. It has an ever-tightening grip on America and its culture, tapping into our fascination with violence, our need for high drama, our desire to see brilliance unfold under extreme duress. (See: Brady, Tom.)

Rather than set back, the league added a 17th game to its regular season this year — not to mention exposing players to even more concussive blows. For the first time, fans watched an NFL playoff game hosted on a Monday night.

In March 2021, the NFL signed an 11-year deal with its media partners valued at approximately $110 billion. Viewership on television and on digital streams surged that year, jumping 10% and reaching its highest regular-season average in six years.

What better indication of the dominance of American professional football than this? NFL games accounted for 48 of the top 50 shows during the 2021 regular season and 91 of the top 100. , the Grammys will move to a date that won’t rival the conference championships.

Why should the league care about what we think, what do we worry about or even protest about, when more money and better grades keep pouring in?

No matter his problems. Never mind the e-mails from Jon Gruden, or the reprehensible sexual harassment within the Washington football team and the involvement of its owner. Forget the unethical way professional football treats ex-players. (Just one example: its recently changed policy of using race to distribute smaller disability awards to black players with brain damage.) Nothing changes.

Owners of the league’s 32 predominantly white, conservative and male teams are very happy with the status quo – as long as we keep watching.

Why can’t we turn away?

Along with the drama, crushing blows, and brilliant spectacle of it all, another reason is the game’s unparalleled ability to bring people together. The nation’s most popular sport remains almighty in the way it unifies, even during the pandemic, and when the divisions in American life seem to widen with each passing day.

The staunchest supporters of rival politicians find themselves shoulder to shoulder in bars or perched together on the upper floors of NFL stadiums. And even if they don’t watch together in person, TV and streaming shows allow people with differing views on everything else to share a spectacular interception of the team they both love.

I confess my own complicity. I’m an NFL critic, not just because I’m a journalist who sees power with a skeptical eye. I think the league mishandled its response to the pandemic.

Watching two of the league’s three black head coaches, David Culley of Houston and Brian Flores of Miami (who is black and Latino) lose their jobs last week, becoming fall guys for organizational ineptitude, makes my stomach turn. . The feeling of unease heightens when I think of Brandon Staley, another young white head coach hailed as a genius despite having minimal NFL experience. The Los Angeles Chargers missed the playoffs due to his incompetence.

The NFL doesn’t care about diversifying its ranks. And it gives no idea what any of us think of his pathetic hiring practices.

And yet, even when I’m not reporting, I watch the games, struggling with internal conflicts from the start. I’m not a rabid fan, but the game that helped me bond with my dad as we watched the Seattle Seahawks of the 1980s and 1990s now helps me connect with my 11-year-old son.

My boy will never play football because his parents know the risks of brain damage, and so does he. But the NFL craves it. He loves Patrick Mahomes, in part because they share mixed-race heritage. He clings to Pete Carroll’s every move. To him, Russell Wilson is still “Danger Russ!” and Aaron Rodgers is still “Rodgers Rate!” — a sign that State Farm insurance ads led by Green Bay’s most prominent anti-vaccine activist are working their devious magic.

Sometimes he asks to watch highlights from the 1970s and 1980s. We’ll post YouTube clips of the 1985 Chicago Bears or John Madden and Ken Stabler’s Raiders.

“Is he still alive?” often asks my son. “Is he okay today?” »

I often have to deliver bad news. “No, Kenny Stabler died way too young. He had brain damage, just like Dave Duerson.

“Jim McMahon, my God, that’s a shell of himself.”

“Steve McMichael, well, son, he has ALS And this guy too, and this guy too.”

We talk about ways the game can get better. Maybe new NFL leadership would help, or better tackling techniques. Maybe better helmets or safer rulers.

We search for answers before realizing that we don’t have good answers. So I’m telling the truth: the league will never change significantly, not until it’s this popular. And then we sit and watch more, my child and I, like so many others.