Bob Collins
Most of us love football. It’s the national pastime. If someone ends up with Alzheimer’s, or shoots themselves (in the chest, of course, so their brain can still be studied), it’s a price we’re willing to have someone else pay. “They knew what they were getting into,” we’ll tell ourselves,except when the kids grab their helmets and equipment, and ask for a ride to the nearest field on a Saturday morning.
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