The COVID-19 pandemic has systemically disrupted sport organizations and spectator sporting events around the world. Major and minor sporting events have been cancelled, youth sports have been put on hold, and professional leagues have followed the National Basketball Association (NBA) in suspending their current seasons. “Social distancing” largely underpins these unprecedented adjustments, as sport organizations heed the recommendations of the World Health Organization (WHO) and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) for slowing the spread of the novel coronavirus. The disruptions will undoubtedly result in a financial hit for leagues, teams and players, and exacerbate the precarious economic situations of low-wage stadium and arena workers. For women’s sports, the pandemic has meant the sudden interruption of recent progress made in the push for greater financial equity and media coverage. Amidst fears of a pending economic recession, American consumers now must adapt to living without much of their common sporting entertainment for at least the near future.

This momentary disruption of the sport industry, however, does present us with an important opportunity for reflection on the role of sport in a future impacted by environmental and public health crises. For decades, scholars have documented the power of sport in shaping modern, capitalist life. Sports are “big business,” with corporations, advertisers, universities, media outlets, and non-governmental organizations raking in billions of dollars each year. Sports promote values like self-interest, competition, and individual achievement, values that serve the interests of capitalist economies. Recent business management research underscores the importance of sports and exercise for improving the health and productivity of workers. Yet, we are now entering a period of world history defined by the harmful effects of human activity on the environment. Researchers like Rob Wallace argue that “agribusiness”—agriculture dominated by multinational corporations—has directly fueled the rise of pandemics and dangerous infectious pathogens. In the world of sports, we are increasingly aware of the immense environmental consequences of large-scale sporting events, calling into question their sustainability in this era of climate change. “It is hard to think of a better formula,” environmental activist George Monbiot wrote, “than a global sporting event for causing maximum environmental damage.” Maybe “we should recognise that some sports are simply too wasteful to be sustained.”

As we come to grips with the adverse effects of human activity on the planetary ecosystem, a number of authors are writing about the importance of “doing nothing” in the pursuit of a happy life. American artist Jenny Odell, in her recent bestselling book How to Do Nothing, suggests that “what gives one’s life meaning stems from accidents, interruptions, and serendipitous encounters: the ‘off time’ that a mechanistic view of experience seeks to eliminate.” In other words, Odell argues that people should be allowed ample time for self-reflection, curiosity, solitude, “observation, and simple conviviality,” as these things are more important for living a healthy, happy life than one’s economic and technological productivity. Author Celeste Headley, in her new manifesto Do Nothing, similarly argues that we are missing these important moments for “lightheartedness and play” because “[w]e are members of the cult of efficiency, and we’re killing ourselves with productivity.” These are renewed calls for “doing nothing” that extend from earlier arguments about the importance of leisure time and shorter work hours for improving the lives of workers living in a capitalist society. In 1880, Marxist writer Paul Lafargue wrote that the working classes have a “right to be lazy” and pursue their own self-defined, creative projects. In 1932, British philosopher Bertrand Russell suggested limiting the workday to four hours and expanding leisure time for workers, arguing that “there is far too much work done in the world…immense harm is caused by the belief that work is virtuous.” These authors suggest that people have been defined by work and wage labor for too long. What if, following scholar Kathi Weeks, we imagined and moved toward a “post-work” society that valued activities alternative to wage work and approached leisure time as an “inalienable right”?

“Doing nothing” does not mean leading a life of unproductive idleness, but rather embracing the creative, healthful, and pleasurable qualities possible in the experience of unstructured leisure time. The “idle life,” we need to remember, is an idea historically tied to patriarchal attempts to restrict women’s civic and social opportunities (which often included sports and exercise) based on stereotypes regarding their physical inferiority and limited capabilities. However, we often think of things like sitting at a park in solitude as “doing nothing,” not because it actually is nothing, but because life under capitalism is often defined by one’s productivity and the “efficient”use of time. In this historic moment of social distancing and self-isolation, what if we reflected on the assumptions of human activity that inform our philosophies of life? What if we considered, for example, the social and environmental implications of our competitive activities, embracing activities and behaviors designed to make us mindful of our interconnectedness with each other and the Earth? Instead of outdoor, adrenaline sports like mountain climbing, which remains linked to problems of misogyny and is often based on the unsustainable notion that nature is an obstacle to conquer and overcome, we could engage with forms of meditation, which can improve cognitive functioning, instill a compassion for others, and enhance an awareness of one’s interconnectedness with nature. In short, we could embrace “doing nothing” by advocating practices that foster compassion, reflection, creativity, respect for the environment, and sustainable behaviors.

If we are to build a healthier, equitable society after COVID-19, we should rethink the value of competitive and commercial sports, and consider the benefits of activities we often equate with “doing nothing.” Historian Russell Jacoby writes that in this “age of permanent emergencies, more than ever we have become narrow utilitarians dedicated to fixing, not reinventing, the here and now.” As we respond to the damage brought by global pandemics, environment devastation, and consequences of an economic system based on the sanctity of the market place and one’s economic self-interest, we should also reflect and perhaps rethink social institutions like sports. The arrival of COVID-19 is requiring us to adjust to a new normal of social distancing and the absence of previously-accepted cultural practices like commercial sporting events. Perhaps, too, we can use this time to consider the possibility that “doing nothing” is more valuable and important to broader society than we once assumed.

Samuel M. Clevenger is a lecturer in the Department of Kinesiology at Towson University. His research focuses on the colonial politics of modern sport in American history, as well as the cultural and environmental politics of modern urban planning. His research has been published in Urban Planning, Rethinking History: The Journal of Theory and Practice, and Sport, Education and Society.

While St. Patrick’s Day gives people of Irish descent around the world an opportunity to celebrate their heritage, soccer serves a key role with regard to Irish ethnicity in Scotland—and on a much more frequent basis than once a year. To help understand this we need to go back to May 25, 1967, when Celtic Football Club of Scotland defeated Inter Milan, 2-1, to become the first club from outside of Spain, Portugal, or Italy to win the European Cup (now the UEFA Champions League). Recognised as the most prestigious soccer trophy in Europe, only 22 clubs have managed to win it since its initiation in 1956.

A closer inspection of Celtic’s victory helps us begin to appreciate its magnitude and iconographic meaningfulness for many Catholics of Irish descent in Scotland. Celtic’s win has been noted, reported, and highlighted regularly through the years: particularly during its recent 50th anniversary celebration. Although other sides from Britain have won the trophy in subsequent decades, the socio-cultural significance of Celtic’s win goes beyond that of these other clubs.

Celtic FC was born from within the Irish Catholic immigrant community in Scotland that was then, and varyingly still is, negotiating and surviving in an adverse socio-cultural-religious environment.  From 1888 until today, Celtic has been one of its most revered totems.  Fifty years after its 1967 victory, the enormity of the achievement was recalled by Scotland’s most eminent historian, Tom Devine, who encapsulated the extraordinary significance of the win for Catholics of Irish descent in Scotland, suggesting the event represented:

a key factor in the long story of the emancipation of the Catholic Irish in this country [Scotland]…… in terms of signal events, [it] probably stands alongside the visit of Pope John Paul II in 1982.

Celtic’s origins begin with the cataclysmic Great Starvation (An Gorta Mor) in Ireland, when millions of people died or were forced to flee the British colonised island. One of the outcomes of this catastrophe for Scotland was that Irish Catholic migration led to the foundation, development, and establishment of Celtic FC in Glasgow. The purpose of the club’s formation was explained in a circular issued in January 1888:

The main object of the club is to supply the East End conferences of the St Vincent de Paul Society with the funds for the maintenance of the ‘dinner tables’ of our needy children in the missions of St Mary’s, Sacred Heart and St Michael’s. Many cases of sheer poverty are left unaided through lack of means. It is therefore with this object that we have set afloat the ‘Celtic’.

While not a Catholic football club, without Catholics, Catholicism and the post-Reformation revived Catholic Church in Scotland, there would be no Celtic. This fact is fundamental to understanding the club’s origins, appeal, evolution, resilience, identities, and the significance of its 1967 victory. Ex-Celtic player and manager Tommy Burns commented that Celtic footballers had to remember, ‘it’s more than just a football team they’re playing for. They’re playing for a cause and a people’.

For Celtic and its supporters, 1967 has become a moment when the underdogs in Scottish society proved their worth on soccer’s biggest stage.  To assist in understanding the impact and legacy of Celtic’s win, my colleague John Kelly and I examined several commemorative accounts of the win, while we also conducted a focus group with supporters who attended the game in 1967.

In one commemorative book, a supporter wrote:

It was the best week of my short life.  I made my Confession on the 19th, my Holy Communion on the 20th, my Confirmation on the 24th and Celtic won the European Cup on the 25th.  I was the centre of the world that week.  When Tommy Gemmell scored the equaliser my two big brothers held me up and waved me about.  Could life get any better?

Another spoke of his encounters while attending the game in Lisbon:

As most of us were Catholics and it was a holiday of obligation we headed for a church.  There were a few old ladies in black, a few rich people with seats inside the alter area, and masses of Celtic fans with scarves and banners.  The locals were totally bemused.

One supporter who attended the match said that in Scotland, those of Irish immigrant descent in Scotland were, “no longer afraid to stand up and be counted”.  Another stated, “They were our heroes in a way that Muhammad Ali might be for black guys in America”. In 2017, journalist Dani Garavelli added her own gloss:

Their achievement was a powerful beacon of achievement for an immigrant community that had been forced to deal with sectarianism and political marginalisation in Scotland.

Although people from non-Catholic and non-Irish backgrounds have always supported Celtic, the club’s 1967 victory loses socio-cultural-religious significance unless considered in close relation to the history of the multi-generational Irish community in Scotland. To paraphrase historian C. L. R. James, when Celtic triumphed as European champions, on what other occasion was there ever – among those of Irish descent in Scotland at least – such enthusiasm, such an unforced sense of community, of the universal merged in a single team of (local) sporting representatives?

Celtic’s 1967 victory was a landmark and iconic moment in the social and cultural history of a country (Scotland) and a people (the offspring of Irish-Catholic immigrants) within and beyond that country. This is a success constantly remembered and memorialised in documentaries, through song, story, music, books, replica jerseys, fashion wear, and theatre.  Hugely celebrated during its 25 and 50 years anniversaries, the story of Lisbon represents a seemingly permanent link through generations of Celtic supporters.  It’s a connection to Celtic’s roots, purpose and rationale; to the Great Irish Starvation, founder Brother Walfrid, the Catholic Irish experience in Scotland, and the worldwide Irish diaspora.  The European Cup victory represents a monument to the survival, experience and success of a community – one that frequently views numerous aspects of its Irishness and Catholicism in Scotland, as yet marginalised, unrecognised and discriminated against.  It is in this context that Celtic’s 1967 victory demonstrates the symbolic capacity of sport to rise above events on the field of play.

Dr. Joseph M. Bradley is senior Lecturer at the University of Stirling, Scotland, UK. He has authored, joint authored and edited several books, and written numerous journal and newspaper articles on sport and ethnic, national and religious identities and prejudice. A full version of the study referenced in this article can be found in the journal Soccer & Society.

The X League is an arena women’s tackle football league where women pay to play full contact, scantily clad, televised, football. Arena football has slightly different rules than traditional football with no field goals or extra-point kicks. Several arena football leagues exist, but the X League has one unique quality. In the X League, players wear bikini-like “performance apparel” and modified equipment, such as hockey helmets, less leg padding, and modified shoulder pads that do not cover their chests

The X League started as a pay-per-view alternative to the Super Bowl Halftime show in 2004. It became the Lingerie Football League in 2009, then rebranded again to the Legends Football League (LFL) in 2013 with hopes of gaining credibility as a sport rather than being seen as a “gimmick.” In December 2019, the league went through another rebranding to become the “Extreme Football League” (or X League) and claims that this change will “enter a new era of women’s empowerment” by allowing players and coaches the possibility of receiving team ownership shares.

Overall, the league aims to capitalize on the idea that “sex sells.” The core audience of this league has predominantly been young men, but recently audiences of women and children are growing. As a result of this model, the league has experienced some success. Approximately 4,000 fans attend each league game. The X League’s Facebook page has over 1 million likes, whereas the more traditional Women’s Football Alliance has just over 20 thousand likes. The media is also essential to the X League’s success, as weekly games air on FUSE, making the X League the only women’s football league with a mainstream television deal.

Tackle football is traditionally seen as a masculine sport, but women’s involvement is growing with teams forming across the world. However, youth teams for girls’ are forming at a slower pace. Therefore, many players only begin tackle football in adulthood after playing other sports in their youth. The X League is a good case study to analyze high-level women’s sport structures broadly because women have the choice to play more traditional versions of tackle football or sports they have specialized in; yet, some choose to play X League football.

But what is it like to be a player in the X League? To answer this question, I gathered stories from 10 former players using blogs, podcast interviews, and news articles. The sentiments shared by former players can be interpreted as what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu referred to as symbolic violence. Symbolic violence is about structural levels of control that people face, but often accept, because the structures seem natural and unchangeable. It is harmful because people learn to accept and reproduce systems of oppression. Symbolic violence is expressed in three categories: denial of resources, inferior treatment, and a limitation of aspirations.

In the players’ statements, I found evidence for all three categories, starting with resource denial through a lack of pay. A common concern for high-level women’s sport, players are commonly paid very little (if anything) for their labor. In the LFL’s first season, players were paid a small amount linked to ticket sales and wins. Now, they pay $45 in league fees and $150 in equipment fees each season. In an attempt to advocate for better wages, in 2014 one of two lawsuits claimed that the demands put on players by the league resemble an employee-employer relationship. The 2014 case resulted in a default judgment because the X League was uncooperative. Additionally, another former player recalls having a paid contract position as the team’s media manager, yet received no financial compensation. Therefore, players are actively denied income, which impacts both their livelihood and ability to train and compete.

The second indicator is inferior treatment, perhaps exemplified by one player’s statement: “Would you rather go pay more money to play in a league that respects you as an athlete? That treats you as an athlete. That looks at you not as a sex symbol…” This quote focuses on the issue of sexualization, which Sang and Powell argue is symbolic violence, because it undermines players as athletes. Football is a largely male-dominated place, where toxic masculinity is normalized, and where women’s involvement is positioned as abnormal. Therefore, sexualizing women playing high-level football serves to reproduce exclusion by positioning women as sexualized subjects rather than athletes.

Finally, the third indicator of symbolic violence is a limitation of aspirations. In the X League, this is a process where high aspirations are sold but then limited as players see a trend of false promises. One former player offers a difficult reflection about the league: “you’re kind of like in an abusive relationship where your boyfriend constantly tells you that he’ll put a ring on your finger… But, he’ll constantly find excuses for you to not be loyal enough.” Comparing the league to emotional abuse from a partner highlights a similar structure of gendered violence. Moreover, regarding the promises made during the recent rebranding, a former player said, “We are a part of that. Of empty promises… So now that you’re not even changing the image, why would anything else change?” In other words, this player sees the promise of empowerment as unrealistic. The players’ aspirations are actively limited because of the league’s broken promises.  

So, why do players still pay to play in this league? Some insight is provided by Bourdieu’s concept of misrecognition, which argues that symbolic violence is accepted because it is framed as natural and unchangeable, so it often goes unchallenged. Former players’ statements of “sport at any cost” represent symbolic violence as a necessary sacrifice to play women’s high-level football. Several former players explain, “It’s the only professional women’s league that gets attention…sometimes when you’re a female athlete you have to suck it up. You have to do whatever it takes to get people to your games,” and “it’s hard cause there are a lot of girls that know that they wanna leave, but they don’t know where else they could go.” These statements illustrate a feeling of despair where players recognize facing symbolic violence but see it as necessary in order to play football.

In conclusion, the X League’s structure perpetuates symbolic violence that is all too familiar in high-level women’s sport. The X League’s existence is largely contingent on players feeling trapped in women’s sport systems that are plagued with low media coverage, little to no pay, small fan bases, and inferior conditions. These factors force players to accept systems of symbolic violence similar to what can be seen in the X League.

Kasie Murphy (@KasieMurphy61) is an MA student in the School of Kinesiology and Health Studies at Queen’s University in Kingston, Canada. Her research interests include gender, embodiment, collision sport, and women’s sporting experiences. As a former player herself, much of her current work looks at women and girls’ experiences playing tackle football.

After emphasizing that “America loves India” during the “Namaste Trump” event, President Donald Trump opened his address with several references to India’s most popular sport, cricket. A crowd of more than 100,000 responded with cheers.

“Five months ago, the United States welcomed your great prime minister at a giant football stadium in Texas,” Trump noted on Feb. 24. “And today India welcomes us at the world’s largest cricket stadium in Ahmedabad.” Next, Trump mentioned Indian cricket stars Sachin Tendulkar and Virat Kohli, although he mispronounced the names and was called out by social media users, including the sport’s governing body, the International Cricket Council.

Like many Americans, Trump likely knows little about the history or the significance of cricket in India. As scholars who study the social and cultural significance of sports and their globalization, we understand how this 18th-century colonial import grew into a revered – and lucrative – cultural institution in India.

A British colonial legacy

Originating in England, cricket came to India with the East India Company – an English company formed to develop trade in Asia.

According to British sailor Clement Downing’s “A History of the Indian Wars,” written in 1737, the first cricket match in India was played between sailors like him in 1721 in Khambhat, near India’s western seaboard, only 55 miles from the stadium where Trump gave his speech.

The introduction of English traditions and sports helped the colonizers affirm their supposed cultural superiority and justify their rule. Some Indians, however, were actively involved in making the foreign sport their own.

The Parsis, an ethnic minority, who were enterprising traders with close ties to the British, for example, were particularly enthusiastic about the sport. By the mid-1800s, they had formed their own cricket teams.

Thereafter, English sports began to surpass traditional Indian games in popularity, such as local forms of wrestling. Other pastimes, such as “Kabaddi” – a team sport involving chasing and tagging opponents – started to be organized like English sports in the 1920s with rules, formal competitions and federations.

However, leading up to India’s independence in 1947, fierce debates raged over this British influence. Student protesters saw the cricket contests between different Indian groups as “a slow poison given to the rising Indian generation and blockading the path to independence.”

Cricket fans, however, continued to flock to local contests, including the Bombay Pentangular, an annual tournament between teams consisting of Europeans, Parsis, Hindus, Muslims and other minority faiths.

From colonialism to commerce

A major stepping stone in cricket’s rise to a national sport was India’s 1971 triumph in England. The Indian cricket team defeated the former colonizers at their own game, on their own turf.

Then again, in 1983, India won the cricket World Cup at Lord’s Cricket Ground in London – the original home of the sport, once called the “cathedral of cricket.”

In addition to its success in international competition, India has also turned cricket into a multi-billion-dollar industry. The Indian Premier League, inaugurated in 2008, features a fast-paced variety of cricket known as Twenty20. As opposed to traditional “test matches” between national teams that last up to five days, Twenty20 matches are typically completed in three hours and encourage aggressive, offensive play.

David Richardson, the chief executive officer of the International Cricket Council, said in March 2019 that the Indian Premier League had helped locate India at the center of the cricketing world.

When President Trump delivered his remarks at the new stadium, located in Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s home state of Gujarat, the venue served as more than just a convenient space to accommodate a large crowd. It symbolized the evolution of a sport with a political history. Or, as historian Boria Majumdar notes, a sport that is like “religion at home.”

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Lars Dzikus and Adam Love are associate professors in the Department of Kinesiology, Recreation, and Sport Studies at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. They recently authored a chapter on the globalization of U.S. sport in the book, Teaching U.S. History through Sports (University of Wisconsin Press, 2019).

Electronic sports, also known as eSports or competitive video gaming, may be a subject of laughter or mockery for some traditional sports enthusiasts, but for a growing number of fans they are a serious and lucrative matter. The eSports game “League of Legends,” for example, garnered a peak viewership of 200 million during the November 2018 broadcast of the World Championships. Despite this growth, anecdotal accounts and emerging research regarding the experiences of women in eSports point to troubling issues, as women report being harassed, threatened, and isolated within the realm of eSports. In light of such issues, we conducted a two-part study (read the full study here) to understand the nature of feedback women receive in the eSports community. The results of our first study suggest that women and men eSports participants do not perceive gender differences with respect to the criticism they receive. A follow up study, however, suggests that women who play eSports receive a substantial number of sexualized comments.

To better understand the findings of our research, some additional background on eSports is necessary. eSports is broadly defined as competitive forms of video gameplay, including competition against other players in-person or online, playing for points and trophies, and competing for the best in-game accomplishment (e.g., beating Super Mario in record time). The types of games that are commonly played in eSports are strategy, first-person shooters, and fighting games. Larger video game companies, such as Riot games and Electronic Sports League, hold tournaments which offer individual and team players hundreds of thousands of dollars in prize money. Players may not only earn a living by playing in tournaments, but many also live-stream their play from home and receive subscription payments from followers.

Disparities in prize money have emerged as a concern regarding gender equity. As of September 2019, Johan Sundstein, a Swedish eAthlete who uses the tag N0tail, has earned a total of $6.8 million. However, by contrast, the highest women earners do not break the top 300 in rankings at https://www.esportsearnings.com/players. In addition, reports by women eAthletes point to poor efforts by larger companies to form competitive women eSport teams. This includes poor training and questionable recruitment practices.

Regarding our first study, we asked students from a state university about their experiences in gaming online by administering a quantitative survey with questions about the ways in which they received praise or criticism from other players of a particular gender. We relied on participants to determine the gender the other players using cues such as names, voice on microphone chat, and profile. The 92 participants (61 women and 31 men) reported no gender differences in the likelihood of receiving criticism from men compared to women. These findings were somewhat surprising given the anecdotal accounts of vitriol and abuse directed toward women in eSports. Given this unexpected finding, our research team conducted a follow-up study by directly observing online gaming.

In the second study, we randomly observed selected players on Twitch.Tv, which is a live streaming platform that allows people to spectate and interact with players as well as provide monetary support in the form of subscriptions. We collected 170 lines of chat messages from each of 87 randomly selected twitch streams from the top watched list and assessed the content of each message. Our analysis indicated that women streamers received a greater number of positive comments than men. A closer look at these positive comments, however, revealed that most focused on physical appearance and often objectified women’s bodies. Further, women received 11 times more sexual comments than men. In fact, women streamers received an average of one sexual comment every two minutes.

As indicated by our findings, women who participate in eSports receive substantially more sexualized comments and body focused comments in comparison to men. As an emerging sport, eSports has the potential to address gender issues that have become rooted in other sports. Harassment faced by women online may be pervasive and influence offline attitudes and behaviors such as negative changes to self-esteem, self-objectification, and passive engagement (e.g., offline or silent) or disengagement from eSports. These effects have been observed within a misogynistic workplace. We can say confidentially that the effect of gender harassment, as observed in this study and our ongoing research, influences women’s decisions to participate in eSports. As long as behaviors related to sex and gender are not discussed and harassment discouraged, eSports may continue to prove unwelcoming for women eAthletes.

Jeffrey I. Shulze is a Ph.D. Candidate at Saint Louis University in St. Louis, Missouri. His research interests involve the intersection of clinical and sport psychology. His particular focus involves intervention effectiveness, athlete coping, and career transition. He is also a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu competitor and has medaled in region, national, and the world championships.

Omar Ruvalcaba is an assistant professor of the psychology department at California State University, Northridge. His research focuses on ethnic and gender disparities in video game culture and computer science and technology careers. The complete version of the study discussed in this article can be found in the Journal of Sport and Social Issues.

People often associate concussions with traditionally hard-hitting sports like football, ice hockey, boxing, and rugby. In fact, most concussion research, to date, has focused on these types of sports. Those who study concussions have given little attention to non-contact, individual, and alternative sport settings such as surfing, despite studies indicating high rates of head injuries in many of these types of activities. As an avid surfer who does research on action sport subcultures, I recently conducted a study that explored concussion among surfers on the Canadian West Coast.

Contrary to many mainstream sports, surfing lacks both formal key figures (coaches, referees, medical staff, and teammates) and formalized rules (timeframes, scoring, and arenas). Given the lack of key figures and formal rules, I wanted to understand how surfers obtained information about concussion and how they were treating, diagnosing, and preventing the injury within the larger surfing subculture. Through interviews with 12 experienced surfers and participant observations of surf breaks along the West Coast of Canada, I concluded that surfers tended to demonstrate mixed or ambiguous understandings of concussion. For example, the majority of participants knew that concussions were a type of head injury, but they often lacked knowledge about common symptoms, treatments, and protocols to follow when faced with a suspected concussion. This ambiguity fuelled some participants’ decisions to surf through their concussive injuries, downplay the severity of concussion, and in some cases, outright ignore their concussive symptoms. In general, surfers were willing to push through their concussive symptoms for three primary reasons: 1) having a limited amount of time to surf at a particular location, 2) pressure from other surfers in the water, and 3) to avoid missing out on favorable wave conditions.

With respect to the first reason, surfers often stated that they would be more likely to continue surfing with a concussion if they were on vacation, in a remote or difficult to access surf location, or at a location for only a short period of time. Additionally, some surfers claimed that they would be more likely to continue to surf while concussed due to the specific surf season. For example, a number of surfers noted how the best surf in Canada is often in the winter months due to the larger swells produced by Pacific Ocean storms. However, because of this shorter surf season, surfers indicated they would be more inclined to push through their concussive symptoms as a way to catch the larger and more consistent waves. This not only demonstrated the unique sporting environment in which surfing takes place, but also highlighted what previous concussion research has shown—that the sporting environment, such as the importance of an event, can influence an athlete’s willingness to (not) report a concussive injury.

With respect to pressures from other surfers, a number of participants indicated they would be more likely to surf with a concussion if there were other surfers present in the water. They also noted how surfing with friends often placed additional pressures to downplay or ignore their head injuries as a way to demonstrate to friends that they were “real” and “dedicated” surfers. Such findings illustrated surfers’ general willingness to seek out both risk-taking behaviours and thrill-seeking experiences in order to stay out in the water and present themselves as committed surfers.

Another key reason why surfers continued to surf with a concussion was due to the wave conditions present that day. Participants suggested that the conditions and size of the waves influenced surfers’ decisions on whether or not they would continue to surf following a concussive injury. As one surfer put it, “It’s super based on the waves. I mean, if the waves were the best I’ve ever seen, I’d have to fight…I would fight a concussion.” Similar responses were echoed by other participants in the study, illustrating that for many surfers, the thrill of wave chasing, and the search for transcendent experiences (through the catching of waves) appeared to outweigh their general concerns of concussion. Through interviews and participant observations, it became clear that underlying social, political, (sub)cultural, and environmental factors appeared to influence many of the surfers’ attitudes toward and understandings of concussion within surf culture, while also illustrating that ideas linked to risk seemed to influence many of the surfers’ decisions to continue surfing while concussed.

While this research stemmed from gaps in literature and my own personal experience of concussion, one of the main motivations for this research project was the story of Harley Taich and her experiences with a surfing-related concussion. Taich used her platform as a popular professional surfer to create awareness about the severity of concussion in surfing by authoring a children’s book, entitled, “Heads Up!” The Story of Finn and Reef, which educates children about concussion, the acceptance of injury, and importance of allowing time for recovery when dealing with a brain injury or other illness.

Through efforts from people like Harley Taich, and calls to action from researchers studying concussion, such as sociologist Dominic Malcolm’s call for a public sociology of sport-related concussion, more-and-more individuals are beginning to use their own (social media) platforms and public outlets to discuss the larger social, political, and (sub)cultural influences and implications of concussion within sporting cultures. For example, work from this project has been featured in media outlets such as The Guardian and Globe and Mail and has had the capacity to reach much larger audiences because of these public engagements. Through a commitment of sharing new and important information about concussion with larger audiences, it is both my hope and anticipation that the public dissemination of concussion knowledge and research has the ability to stimulate important conversations, networking, and new collaborations amongst various stakeholders, as we try to better understand this complex injury. These collaborations should include the voices of medical professionals, coaches, trainers, researchers, parents, and participants, as the voices of athletes are often excluded from important conversations about concussion. For example, taking a holistic approach toward the topic of concussion, and in collaboration with a number of stakeholders, Surf Canada developed one of the first surf-specific concussion protocols for surfers to engage with following a suspected concussion. Through similar efforts, and by accounting for and including a wide range of perspectives, researchers studying concussion can create a space where important issues related to concussion recognition, management, and prevention can be discussed and put into action through educational platforms, protocols, and policies across sporting bodies.

Nikolaus A. Dean is a PhD student in the School of Kinesiology at the University of British Columbia. Nikolaus’s research interests lie in areas related to the sociology of sport, youth (sub)cultures, action sport research, qualitative methods, and sport and leisure studies. A full version of the study, “‘You’re only falling into water!’: Exploring surfers’ understandings of concussion in Canadian surf culture” can be found in the journal Qualitative Research in Sport, Exercise and Health.

Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) is a combat sport that involves a combination of different fighting styles. As it has gained prominence in mainstream cultures, MMA has introduced the world to a variety of martial disciplines, such as wrestling (grappling), Muay Thai (striking), and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (submission grappling). Given that the goal of an MMA competitor is to defeat an opponent, which can occur by way of a knockout or submission (e.g., “tapping out” due to pain or injury), the sport involves a substantial level of physical risk.  When a fighter inflicts visible damage on an opponent, it is categorized under what the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), one of the world’s biggest MMA organizations, calls “significant strikes.”

What determines a “significant strike” ranges from the opponent’s facial expression of pain to blood drawn from a strike. Concussions and head trauma are prevalent concerns in my experience as a combat sports competitor and in contact sports more generally. With rising concerns about the consequences of concussions, head shots are still encouraged by spectators and professional combat sports organizations. It is common for professional combat sports organizations to favor fighters who knock out their opponents, “brawl” or “finish the fight,” because the brutality of knocking an opponent unconscious is seen as entertaining and brings in more viewers. Fighters are encouraged to knock their opponent unconscious through financial incentives, such as Glory Kickboxing’s “Knockout of the Night Bonus,” which offers an additional $5,000 to the fighter who knocks out their opponent. Often combat sports organizations take advantage of the entertainment value of knockouts by prioritizing advertising knockouts as opposed to other facets of the sport. Fighters who have “knockout power” are often portrayed in the media as “knockout artists” to attract viewership for the fighter’s following bouts. For example, knockout footage is compiled together into highlight reels, such as a knockout countdown of the year, that highlights the least to the most intense knockout. So, why do people continue to compete in combat sports despite the risk of serious injury?

To explore this question, I conducted in-depth interviews in my research with combat sports competitors: 11 individuals (2-hour sessions each), ages 18-40 years of age, male (8) and female (3). Based on these interviews, I argue that social bonds with other fighters heavily influences participants’ decisions to continue competing in a sport where physical harm is all but guaranteed. In the discussion below, pseudonyms are used to protect participant confidentiality.

A fighter’s community involvement and the relationships a fighter develops with their training partners are important factors that keep competitors in combat sports. For example, Jake, who is in his mid-20s and a high level Muay Thai amateur fighter, explained that his training partners are his “best friends” and fighting gave him “a sense of belonging.” Sam, a fighter in his late-20s and an amateur Muay Thai world champion, also expressed “a sense of belonging” with his training partners. He continued: “you don’t get these relationships outside where you see each other’s weaknesses and other sides…There is a non-verbal communication which is stronger here. I don’t feel judged in the gym, I feel more authentic compared to outside.” Fighters “sense of belonging” with training partners illuminates the significance of identifying with a community. Sam’s response suggests a sense of comfort and openness, within a combat sports context, that enables fighters to see each other’s weaknesses. A combat sports context offers an openness that leads to a shared intimacy and bond between training partners that is often difficult to foster outside this athletic context. In particular, male fighters’ intimate interactions with each other contrast with traditional gender norms because men showing signs of weakness is often considered socially detrimental under dominant notions of masculinity. 

I also observed social pressure as a key component for fighters to continue to compete in combat fights. Training partners, coaches, and family members were often cited as sources of pressure for fighters to continue fighting. For example, Lucus, a Muay Thai head coach in his mid-30s, said: “definitely, pressure from friends and family to continue, to live up to their expectations, to win in front of them.” Carol, an elite boxer and Muay Thai fighter in her mid-20s, initially stated that social pressure is not a factor in her motivation to compete in combat sports, but then admitted, “but on a subtle level, yes when coaches ask me to take a fight that I do not want to because I feel like I need a break. Also, peers expect something from me.” 

The motivating factors of community and social pressure exemplify the influence of people around fighters they care about. Sociologist Pierre Bourdieu used the term “habitus” to explain the influence of people’s surroundings on their ingrained habits and dispositions. Habitus explains how an environment can shape an individual’s personality to reflect the environment they interact within. An interplay between a person’s agency and the environment they inhabit helps us understand how fighters are shaped by a combat sports context through taking up the social role of a fighter. Fighting becomes part of fighter’s identity and, because of this, quitting combat sports would raise other issues that may seem more daunting than fighting itself, such as an identity crisis, loneliness due to the disconnection from peers, and a loss of “a sense of belonging.”

One participant’s responses succinctly express Bourdieu’s concept of habitus, specifically how individuals are shaped by their surroundings. As Lucus stated: 

it is who I am, but I chose to be in this environment and to be molded by it, I didn’t just be a passive subject to my surroundings. I think the difference between animals and humans is that we can change our environments.

Lucus’ response captures not only how individual identities are shaped by their surroundings, but also the agency individuals have in choosing to adapt to a combat sports environment. Overall, fighters continue to compete in combat sports because of engrained habits, views of others around fighters, and relationships. Social determinants, such as a sense of belonging, pressure or lifestyle, are significant factors in a fighter’s decision to continue to compete in combat sports. 

When we talk about the complex nature of head trauma and the possibility of physical harm, it is important to understand the need for fighters to identify with a community and how these needs come from both internal and external influences. 

John Deidouss (@johndeidouss) is a PhD Candidate at Queen’s University in Kingston, Canada. His research interests are in the sphere of racism and combat sports. He is part of the socio-cultural studies branch in the Kinesiology department. John Deidouss is a striking coach, a Muay Thai Classic World Champion and a 2x Fightquest K1 Champion.

In November 2018, Canadian outdoor recreation giant Mountain Equipment Co-op (MEC) sent ripples through the community of “outdoorsy” folks in Canada with a statement framed around the following provocative question: “Do White People Dominate the Outdoors?” The statement was a response to an Instagram callout from Judith Kasiama (see Figure 1), in which Kasiama pointed out “a narrative that [Black and Indigenous peoples and people of colour] don’t enjoy the outdoor[s] compare[d] to their white friends.” In its statement, MEC took responsibility for its role “in underrepresenting people of colour in the outdoors,” and promised “that moving forward, [MEC] will make sure [they’re] inspiring and representing the diverse community that already exists in the outdoors” (see Figures 2 & 3 below).

In this analysis, we draw on the work of Sara Ahmed to analyze MEC’s announcement, and gesture toward the broader constellation of diversity practices evident in (social) media produced by MEC. Specifically, we take up Ahmed’s ideas about how “diversity work” works. Ahmed suggests that in doing diversity work such as forming equity committees or issuing diversity statements, organizations often reproduce dominant forms of power. She highlights, for example, that diversity statements by organizations are often seen as a “diversity success,” and further work to actually address racism or sexism, for example, does not get done. It is with this in mind that we analyze the kind of work MEC undertakes, and how it serves to erase a key issue in outdoor recreation: settler colonialism.

Settler colonialism is the term used to describe the process by which Europeans colonized the lands now claimed by Canada, despite the presence of hundreds of nations of Indigenous peoples with millennia-long histories and sophisticated systems of government, education, trade, and more. Through a variety of means, European (and later Canadian) authorities claimed these lands as their own and asserted authority over them. Making (and breaking) treaties, state-sanctioned processes confining Indigenous peoples to small parcels of land, and policies and practices aimed at severing Indigenous peoples’ connections to their land are all part of the story of how Canada came to be as a nation, and a key part of the story of how the “great Canadian outdoors” came to be understood.

MEC should be considered in light of this history. Founded as a cooperative by a group of climbers and mountaineers in 1971, MEC aimed to address a gap in the outdoor retail market in Canada, providing gear for outdoor adventure activities. Over almost half a century, MEC has grown exponentially, now boasting almost 5 million Canadian members (in a country of approximately 31 million people aged 15 years and over), 13 million products sold, and $462 million in sales. Named one of Canada’s most trusted brands, MEC is clearly a goliath in the Canadian retail environment.

In their statement, MEC claims that white dominance of the outdoors “isn’t true at all, and [is] part of a bigger problem” (see Figure 2). Further, they note: “We can’t move forward until we acknowledge our past” (see Figure 3). In these statements, MEC acknowledges a past (the company’s past going back to 1971), to name the past that needs acknowledging, to move past acknowledging other (for example, settler colonial) pasts. MEC names the “bigger problem,” and what it means to move forward: better representing the “diversity that exists and continues to grow in outdoor spaces.” In so doing, MEC positions its response as the solution to the problem – it lets itself off the hook as the problem. Further, MEC’s apology is one that homogenizes. In their particular invocation of “everyone,” MEC not only erases Indigenous peoples, communities, and histories, but constructs “everyone” as having the same access to land. To “outside.”

In drawing attention to the “bigger problem” of representation, MEC sidesteps bigger, more enduring problems—problems with longer pasts that MEC seeks to move past. For our purposes here, the most important past (and present!) that is erased in this apology is that of settler colonialism. European settlers came to these lands – lands already occupied by hundreds of nations with sophisticated systems of government, worldviews, kinship, education, and more – and treated the lands as empty, as wild, as available for claiming. The nation now known as Canada, in other words, arose out of concerted efforts to dispossess those already here of their land base. The nation now known as Canada claimed these lands as its own. The nation now known as Canada continues to assume and assert authority over Indigenous peoples in numerous ways, including treaties that have repeatedly been violated; policies and practices (such as the pass system of the late 1800s and early 1900s) aimed at restricting the movements of Indigenous peoples; genocidal government policy (e.g., residential schools and refusal to support clean water infrastructure); and “consultation” processes that have routinely neglected free, prior, and informed consent (for which the United Nations Declaration of Indigenous Peoples calls).

MEC’s letter locates wrongdoing neatly in the past. But the colonial settler past that MEC fails to acknowledge is one that haunts the present, that continues to be (re)written in government policy, in disagreements over land claims and resource development projects, and more. MEC’s apology sidesteps the questions of land dispossession and settler colonial violence altogether; this particular silence speaks volumes…in saying nothing, it says a great deal. It erases both a past and a present, both of which would call for something much more than simply better representing the “diversity that exists and continues to grow in outdoor spaces”. As such, MEC’s statement takes as its unquestioned starting point that “the outdoors” is and should be a playground available to all “Canadians.”

Finally, MEC’s letter frames the “problem” as simply one of representation – the disjuncture between the “reality” of diverse bodies in the backcountry and the white bodies that have historically peopled their catalogue and website. What MEC invokes is the idea from which the Canadian nation state gets so much mileage – that “we” are a hardy, outdoorsy people, that experiences with “wild places” are the very foundation of our so-called nation. That it is what unites us. But our histories – and our present – shatter the rosy idea that on these lands, “outside is for everyone.”

In a country in which we often celebrate outdoor spaces and our relationship to them, MEC is central to how many of us think of ourselves as Canadians. As important as their statement is, it is important that we think critically about it – and outdoor recreation more broadly – and ask ourselves which histories and ideas are being brought to light, and which are being left in the shadows. This is particularly important at a moment when “truth” and “reconciliation” are, in principle at least, on the centre stage.

Tiffany Higham is a queer, white, non-binary scholar and settler on Blackfoot land. They are an undergraduate student of Kinesiology and Sociology at the University of Lethbridge.

Jason Laurendeau is a white, cis, settler scholar in the Department of Sociology at the University of Lethbridge, in Lethbridge, AB, located on lands of the Siksikaitsitapii people, who are part of the Blackfoot Confederacy. His research interests lie at the intersections of sport and physical culture, gender, settler colonialism, and childhood. Find him on Twitter: @JasonLaurendeau.

Danielle Peers is a white, queer, non-binary, crip scholar. They are a treaty six settler and Tier II Canada Research Chair in Disability and Movement Cultures as the Faculty of Kinesiology, Sport, and Recreation, University of Alberta.

Recently, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, the leader of Canada’s Liberal Party, made a memorable campaign stop in Sudbury, Ontario. After paddling a canoe around a local lake, Trudeau emerged to make an announcement related to land and ocean conservation during the federal election campaign. Specifically, he outlined a Liberal Party promise to teach young Canadians to camp by Grade 8 and provide support for 75,000 lower-income families to spend time in provincial and national parks. This announcement points to the iconic place the “wilderness” and Canada’s park system play in the Canadian imaginary. In the following narratives, I draw on some of my own experiences with Canada’s park system to situate outdoor recreation in a broader and more troubling history rarely considered in Canadian mainstream media, classrooms, or politics.

July, 2017

I wake before anyone else, and slip out of the tent as quietly as possible. As the sun begins to make its presence known, I follow the trail around Bertha Lake, taking in the majesty of what is now commonly known as Waterton Lakes National Park in Alberta.

This weekend, I get to share my love of the mountains with my favourite eight-year-old for the first time, and it is…magic. Yesterday, after we set up camp, we wandered part-way around Bertha Lake, and Quinn was as in awe of this place as am I (see Figure 1).

This is, without a doubt, one of my most memorable moments as a father. I am sharing something that I love deeply with Quinn, and watching him fall in love with it as well.

But here is the rub: More than a simple love of the mountains is connecting the two of us right now. There is something deeper lurking there, something more troubling…

There is nothing inherently “wild” about the wilderness. “Wilderness” on these lands claimed by Canada was, in fact, produced as colonization unfolded. The formation of iconic spaces like Banff National Park came to be through complex processes that involved, among other things, the active removal of Indigenous peoples who called those lands home for millennia, who gathered foods there, who engaged in important cultural practices there, who lived in relation to their non-human kin there. At the same moment as settlers were being invited to come enjoy the splendors of “pristine wilderness,” Indigenous peoples were being subjected to – and often actively resisting – numerous state-sanctioned measures to confine them to small parcels of land.

In the area now commonly known as Banff, for example, the introduction of a pass system in 1885 coincided with the completion of the Canadian Pacific Railway, and criminalized the movements of local Nakoda peoples (by making it illegal for them to leave the reserve without explicit permission from the “Indian Agent”), with the clear purpose of protecting land and “resources” (e.g., wildlife, hot springs) for the consumption of colonizers. At the same time as Indigenous peoples were considered “trespassers” in the lands that were to become Banff National Park and various provincial parks that would collectively come to be known as “Kananaskis Country,” settler entrepreneurs were advertising far and wide for visitors to come enjoy the beauty of this “untouched” wilderness.

September, 2017

It’s day two, and our campsite is perfect; Peter Lougheed Provincial Park is my favourite part of Kananaskis-Country. This morning, as we hike toward Three Isle Lake, we are negotiating a steep section of the trail, gaining a couple hundred meters of elevation in less than a kilometer. I spot a small outcropping that looks perfect for a rest. The views are stunning, and I take several photos, one of which will serve as the lock screen on my cell phone for the next several months (see Figure 2).

I nuzzle in next to Quinn as we munch on trail mix. “Do you know how few people have seen the view we’re seeing right now?” Wrapping my arm gently around his shoulder, I offer: “I am so happy that this is something we get to share, love.”

He leans his head against my shoulder. “Me too,” he says, simply. I am in this moment, knowing that it will be a touchstone in our relationship.

Reflecting on this moment, however, it is more complicated than that. This moment, and our camping trips more generally, are more than simply salve for my soul, more than a collection of touchstone moments and Facebookable photos. I am introducing him to something that I love, something that feels to me like a spiritual home, of sorts. But there is another education at work here, one that I have yet to trouble with him in the ways that I can or should.

In my conversation with Quinn, for example, I erase both the long history of Indigenous peoples’ (especially Stoney Nakoda) presence on these lands, and the fact that these folks lived here. For them, this was not a “view” to be consumed, but a landscape with which they lived in relation. Our presence here constitutes a continuation of this history, and raises critical questions about our complicity in ongoing settler colonial violence on these lands.

Coda

Dear Quinn,

Have I told you, my love, that being a father is the hardest thing I’ve ever done? It’s the most rewarding, but also the hardest. And it’s hard in new ways, too, as I worry about different things. One of the things I’m worrying about these days – as you approach your teenage years – is what kind of future you’re going to help build.

The point here is that we have a role to play in terms of the things I’m writing about. We need to better understand the histories, voices, and memories of the places we go. I also want us to learn about the other parks we visit, and about a number of Indigenous-led movements to create new parks and bring other ones under Indigenous control and management. Indigenous peoples and organizations have been doing this work for a long time. Our job is to listen to them, and figure out how to make space.

To be clear, my love, this is not so that we can be kind, or benevolent. Rather, it’s about asking ourselves what kind of future we want to be part of.

With the deepest love for you, and for the world I can’t quite see yet,

Dad

Letter first composed in July, 2019

Jason Laurendeau is a white, cis, settler scholar in the Department of Sociology at the University of Lethbridge, in Lethbridge, AB, located on lands of the Siksikaitsitapii people, who are part of the Blackfoot Confederacy. His research interests lie at the intersections of sport and physical culture, gender, settler colonialism, and childhood. Find him on Twitter @JasonLaurendeau.

Racial stacking – the tendency of certain racial groups to be overrepresented in particular positions on sports teams – is a longstanding issue in numerous sports, including college football. Even though the last of the segregated college football programs disappeared in the early 1970s, racial disparities still exist on the field today. Even someone observing American football for the first time might notice that white and black players tend to occupy different roles and positions on the field. To explore these issues, I conducted a study – recently published in Sociology of Sport Journal (unpaywalled version) – to provide a contemporary picture of if and how stacking persists in college football. I also looked beyond race and examined the social class origins of college football players at different schools and playing positions. Social class reflects economic forces that affect the development of talent, as well as athletic outcomes. I learned that race and class intersect in both high school and college to provide different playing opportunities and outcomes for black and while players.

The study was based on a combination of three datasets. First, I collected data from university athletics webpages for 41,484 football players. Specifically, the websites included player pictures, positions, hometowns, and high schools. Second, the National Center for Education Statistics Common Core of Data and Private School Survey was used to garner information on the racial composition of players’ high schools. Third, data on median household incomes for high school zip codes were taken from the American Community Survey.

Results showed that positional stacking is still prominent in college football. On team rosters, white players are disproportionately quarterbacks, offensive linemen, and kickers/punters. Black players are disproportionately running backs, defensive linemen, wide receivers, and defensive backs. However, stacking is influenced by the institutional opportunity structures of high school and college football programs. Opportunities for black athletes to play stereotypically white positions are most likely to emerge in high schools and colleges where teams are predominantly comprised of black players. Likewise, when white athletes play stereotypically black positions, they tend to come from whiter high schools and play on whiter college teams. Put simply, opportunities for whites and blacks to play non-stereotypical positions at the high school or college level are more likely to emerge when there are few or no other personnel options for coaches.

In order to highlight one specific example of how institutions influence player stacking and opportunity structures, I compared positional stacking on football teams from “predominantly white” academically elite conferences (Ivy, Patriot, NESCAC, and Centennial) with teams from conferences of Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) (MEAC, SWAC, CIAA, and SIAC). When a black athlete plays football on a predominantly white team, they are quite likely to play a stereotypically black position. For example, 30% of black football players at historically white schools play defensive back, even though defensive backs only comprise 14% of Division I football rosters. In contrast, 19% of black players at HBCUs play defensive back. White players are five times more likely to play quarterback than black players in “predominantly white” conferences, although this gap closes to 1.8 times more likely at the HBCUs. Of the 132 white players in those four HBCU conferences, 42% are either kickers, punters, or long snappers. Although those three particular positions are relatively low-status specialist roles, this raises the question of why even at HBCUs, black athletes are less likely to be recruited or developed to play those positions.

Examining the median household incomes for the zip codes of players’ high schools provides another angle on stacking and player opportunities. The average annual income of high school zip codes for white players was $13,000 higher than black players in Division I football and $10,000 higher in Division III. For white players, there was no meaningful relationship between high school income and position. In other words, white players come from relatively similar economic backgrounds, regardless of what position they play.

In contrast, black players come from different economic backgrounds depending on their collegiate position. Paradoxically, black players playing stereotypically black positions (running back, defensive back) tended to come from wealthier schools. In contrast, black players playing stereotypically white positions (quarterback, kicker/punter) came from the poorest backgrounds. Specifically, black quarterbacks’ family incomes were $5,000 less than black running backs, wide receivers, and defensive backs based on zip code data. These results may be surprising, given the importance of the quarterback position both in the game and as a cultural totem for organizational leadership.

So, what causes this paradox? Recall the previous results showing that opportunities for black players to play non-stereotypical positions are more likely to emerge in high schools and colleges with a greater proportion of black players. Thus, it follows that black quarterbacks are more likely to develop and be given opportunities in less-wealthy institutions. Given the competitive disadvantages of playing at economically poorer high schools, as well as underfunding of many HBCU’s – both as athletic programs and schools – opportunities for black athletes at less-wealthy (and less-white) institutions are often a double-edged sword. Playing for college teams representing (often well-resourced) predominately white institutions may be a desirable opportunity for black athletes. However, this upward institutional mobility may circumscribe opportunities for black athletes within stereotypical roles in the football field, if not also on campus. Consequently, some have argued that the prestige and resources of many predominantly white colleges do not outweigh the disadvantages of such institutions for racial minorities.

There are also significant racial differences within the quarterback position. College recruits are distinguished between “pro-style” (passing-oriented) and “dual threat” (running and passing) quarterbacks. Of the 50 top-ranked pro-style quarterbacks by rivals.com at the time of the study, 39 (78%) were white and eight (16%) were black. In contrast, 31 (62%) of the top fifty dual-threat quarterbacks were black, while 18 (36%) were white.

Passing-oriented offenses tend to be resource-intensive. Extra coaches and video resources facilitate the installation of more complex offenses. For example, compare former Pro Bowl QB Neil Lomax “running the snot” out of the same eight running plays at an impoverished Portland (OR) high school with suburban high schools boasting $70 million stadiums. If complex passing offenses are favored by NFL teams – and many college teams hoping to place players in the NFL – it follows that high schools with more resources will be more likely to produce passing quarterbacks. This renders black athletes less likely to play quarterback – especially at wealthier and whiter schools – as they are more likely to develop running skills if they do play quarterback. Running QBs can be successful in college in running-based offenses like the triple option, but are seldom considered as professional prospects.

While college football is just a game – albeit one worth billions of dollars annually and with glaring ethical issues about player health and compensation – this study raises a number of important issues on and off the field. Sports are often symbolic microcosms of the broader society. Equality of opportunity is seen as a virtue in most societies, both as an axiom of meritocracy, and as a means of developing the best possible talent. College football involves racial, institutional, and social class factors that result in different roles and market outcomes for different players. Leadership or stereotype-defying opportunities for minorities may tend to emerge in economically poorer contexts, while upward mobility into wealthier, whiter institutions may circumscribe opportunities for racial minorities.

Dr. Kyle Siler is a sociologist at the Science Policy Research Unit at the University of Sussex. His research mostly focuses on risk and innovation in science. He also studies sport from an organizational theory perspective. A recent preprint analyzes how luck in the National Football League influences subsequent decision-making and performance. Kyle received his Ph.D. from the Cornell University Department of Sociology.