Sport sociologists like Harry Edwards have long fought against the notion that sports and politics can be kept separate, battling back against assaults by people like Fox News’ Laura Ingraham, who in February 2018 told NBA star LeBron James to “shut up and dribble.” In the midst of the NBA and WNBA finals, and at a time of intense political polarization, basketball fans ought to be aware of the stakes that exist for Black athletes and listen to their voices. How else can you as a fan ethically focus on the games if many of your favorite players say that they themselves cannot? In this brief essay, we offer some considerations for basketball fans today, building upon the work of many sports sociologists who have come before us.

But before we look forward, let us take a brief step back. In March, the NBA suspended play amid the global pandemic, while the WNBA delayed its start. In May, the murder of George Floyd by police officers in Minneapolis unleashed some of the largest Black Lives Matter (BLM) protests to date, where many NBA and WNBA players joined in among the protesters. In early June, NBA team owners proposed a plan to bring basketball to a Disney World “bubble” in Orlando with no live fan attendance, which they promised would have safeguards to prevent virus transmission. Later that month, a 113-page NBA manual detailing health rules to thwart virus spread was leaked, amidst controversy among some players that a summer return to play, even if carefully managed, might hamper the work that players were doing to advance the BLM movement. Ultimately, professional basketball returned with the NBA and WNBA in July, and many fans like us found ourselves reinvested in the sport as never before.

With high-flying dunks and bombs-away threes, we realized what we had been missing. For almost a month, basketball was back. Then, all of a sudden, the games were gone again, but this time they were suspended for a different reason—a different kind of “pandemic.” On August 26, the Milwaukee Bucks refused to play a crucial playoff game against the Orlando Magic, telling the press that they were protesting the senseless maiming of Jacob Blake, who was shot seven times in the back by police in Kenosha, Wisconsin. The Bucks’ strike led others in the NBA and WNBA to do the same, and both league’s playoffs seemed to be in jeopardy. Ultimately, the players struck a deal with the league to return to play, but only on the condition that several basketball arenas would be used as voting locations and that a league-wide social justice coalition would be formed.

Since Harry Edwards’ 1969 The Revolt of the Black Athlete, sports sociologists have highlighted the tension that exists in a society that devalues Black lives but elevates Black athletes in certain sports. In this context, Black basketball players, by virtue of their physical abilities and elevated status in society, occupy a unique social position with a powerful political platform the likes of which most American Blacks have never known. And, laudably, many of them are using the media’s microphones as megaphones, their social media feeds for advancing social justice, and their public power as leverage to advance the agenda of the BLM movement. They know that outside of sports, the lives of less athletically talented African Americans are simply not valued to the same degree.

The events of 2020 have brought racial inequality into clearer focus for many people, as numerous African Americans have been killed by the hands of white police officers. But make no mistake: Floyd’s murder and Blake’s maiming were just the latest horrors done unto Black men in America, patterns of institutionally-condoned violence that stretch back to the days of slavery, sharecropping, and Jim Crow. The lives of Black men—and women like Breonna Taylor—have simply never mattered as they should.

So what about our role as basketball fans? On one hand, the return of basketball was welcome news – for us. But as human beings, we know this is selfish. If we keep watching the games, but do nothing to fight the racism on which their protests are focused, or do nothing to combat the white supremacist ideology that has been softpedaled by the President and contributes to the ignorance that helps racism endure, then we will have missed our opportunity to be true supporters of our sporting heroes. Without us—the “average” basketball fan—the voices of these players will never be amplified to the degree necessary to achieve real societal progress.

Many fans have traditionally thought of basketball fandom as apolitical. According to this line of thought, you’re supposed to root for a team, a city or region, but never advocate for a political cause. But as basketball fans today, we feel the need to show our support for these players who are clearly prioritizing their values over profits, even at great risk. To properly support the players we root for, we must educate ourselves and help advocate for the causes they are fighting for, such as transforming the nation’s criminal justice system. As we mentioned above, after Blake’s shooting, one of the conditions demanded by players for the season to continue was that NBA arenas would be turned into polling places for the upcoming election. LA Clippers Coach Doc Rivers was seen donning a mask saying “vote” and actively fought against voter suppression, while LeBron James and others started a voting rights group. Our favorite players are not taking their democracy for granted, so neither should we.

America needs change now, and that change must include us as basketball fans. We may not be as talented athletically as our heroes, but our voices, when raised in concert, can also echo not only to the rafters but also out of the arena. When change seems hard to achieve, let us be inspired not only by the dunks and three-pointers made by our favorite players, but by the spotlight that they are putting on the crucial—and inseparable—intersection between sports and politics. Now, amid two pandemics, basketball players are slamming down the cruel idea of “shut up and dribble,” and it is time that we as fans do our part, too.

Aaron L. Miller, PhD teaches at California State University, East Bay, and St. Mary’s College of California. Ziggy Tummalapalli is a senior at Palo Alto High School.

A TIME magazine article recently discussed college athletes realizing their power to create meaningful change. While college athletes as a collective have great power, it is Black athletes in particular who are leading this charge by placing emphasis on their racial identity. Recent atrocities, such as the unjust shooting of Jacob Blake, as well as the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd, have placed increased attention on racism. Injustice has caused college athletes to speak out, when in the past, they have remained mostly silent.

Black college athletes are expressing frustration with conditions in society and on their campuses as they grapple with racism, stereotypes, and exploitation. While Black female college athletes are also using their voices and advocating for social change, this article focuses primarily on Black male college athletes in football and basketball, as they are in particularly influential positions to affect change due to the attention these sports receive. Coinciding with this attention, Black collegiate football players help produce revenue streams that can supplement much of the athletic department budget, which is why many departments are pushing so hard to play football amidst a global pandemic.

Within research on Black male athletes, the focus has often been primarily on their athletic identity. This focus on athletic identity comes from athletes being socialized to direct most of their attention and effort to sport while neglecting other social roles. However, recent events that perpetuate the unjust and systemic mistreatment of Black people have appeared to spark change. This was evident with Florida State defensive tackle Marvin Wilson taking a stand. Wilson stated, “Yesterday, I took a stand that was not only for me or FSU football. Not even for athletes in general. It was for big George Floyd, Black people in general, for our oppression that we’ve been going through for over 400 years.”

While privileged members of society may implore athletes to “stick to sports,” Black college athletes recognize that they must deal with the social implications associated with racism in the United States. Sociology of sport research on Black college athletes and activism has found that athletes who are in positions of influence often feel a responsibility to speak up about social issues. We are seeing that play out in college athletics today, and there is a particular focus on activism through the experiences and meanings ascribed to being Black. For example, University of Texas football player Jordan Whittington tweeted, “Texas football player for a couple years, but Black forever.” Not only are many Black college athletes becoming more outspoken, but their actions have also followed suit, as seen in the example of Ohio State basketball player Seth Towns who was detained after engaging in a peaceful protest following the George Floyd killing.

Black athletes are tired of being reminded of the historical subjugation of Black people through indignities, exemplified by Mississippi State running back Kylin Hill’s statement about not playing unless the state of Mississippi removed confederate symbols from its flag. Black college athletes are tired of their coaches lacking cultural awareness and supporting entities that degrade and devalue movements aimed at providing social reform. Such was the case as Oklahoma State’s star running back Chuba Hubbard called out head coach Mike Gundy for wearing a One America News shirt and vowed not to play “until things changed.” Black athletes at the University of Texas, meanwhile, threatened to abstain from participating in recruiting efforts or donor events unless their demands were met, as they were tired of having classes in buildings named after men who would not value their lives because of their racial identity and being forced to sing songs with racist undertones.

When athletes’ Black identity supersedes their athletic identity, college athletic departments and institutions of higher education will be forced to not only listen to their concerns and demands but also implement meaningful change. Black athletes, as a collective, are becoming less tolerant of their institutions turning a blind eye to coaches perpetuating racism and stereotypes, demonstrated by the firing of strength coach Chris Doyle at Iowa after numerous players spoke of bias and abusive behavior in the football program. In the process of addressing athletes’ concerns, athletic departments will be forced to weigh the value they place on their Black athletes’ perspectives versus the value they place in a gift from a donor who may disagree with their position. As ESPN writer David Hale noted, “too often, athletic departments chose to appease offended donors and fans rather than support the athletes who spoke out.” However, the new wave of athlete activism is forcing athletic administrators and institutions to take the demands of their Black students seriously.

Athletic departments and institutions are not the only stakeholders impacted by the current wave of activism among Black athletes. Fans and alumni will also be forced to make critical decisions. For example, they will have to decide whether a school’s “history and traditions” are more significant than creating a socially just and hospitable environment for Black athletes. Are they going to support Black male college athletes embracing their racial identities and fighting for social justice, or will they deem them unembraceable?

A continued focus on racial identity can lead to critical change within college athletics and society. Black athletes have the leverage to ignite some of this change, which has been evident in previous events, such as with Missouri in 2015, where the football team threatened to abstain from football-related activities until the university president resigned. Current evidence regarding the power of Black college athletes can be seen with the sweeping changes at the University of Texas in a move toward racial equity, as well as pushing athletic administrators to lobby for the removal of the confederate flag in Mississippi. These athletes increasingly realize the power they have, while also understanding that sport is not always the most important aspect of their lives. When Black college athletes place their identity of being Black at the forefront, change will happen.

Jonathan Howe is a doctoral candidate at The Ohio State University. His research focuses on Black male student-athlete identity and racial diversity in college athletics. You can follow Jonathan on Twitter: @mr_howe25

Stories of sexual abuse and assault continually emerge from the world of college athletics. Heinous acts committed by people in positions of authority, such as Larry Nasser, Jerry Sandusky, and Richard Strauss, have come to light in recent years. In the news, we see countless examples of sexual assault by individual athletes at schools across the country. The consequences for offenders vary greatly because of cover-ups, lax investigations, and special treatment for athletes. Part of the problem is that the people who have a responsibility to report allegations of sexual assault, such as coaches, often fail to do so. Unfortunately, a forthcoming policy change is likely to make the situation worse.

On May 6, Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos released a new set of regulations regarding sexual assault under Title IX, the law governing gender discrimination at federally-funded institutions. The revised guidelines are set to go into effect August 14. As a scholar who has been writing about Title IX for over a decade, I explain how the proposed changes regarding mandatory reporting are likely to affect the culture of college sports and campus communities more broadly. This analysis is based on what we know from past incidents of and research on sexual assault and harassment committed by coaches, student-athletes, and other athletic department personnel.

Under Title IX guidelines, school employees with a duty to report allegations of sexual assault, domestic violence, and similar crimes are known as “responsible employees,” a concept similar to that of a mandatory reporter of child abuse and negligence. Current regulations designate nearly all university employees, with the exception of counseling professionals and ministry, responsible employees. The new regulations, however, will allow schools to significantly reduce the number of mandatory reporters on campus by excluding coaches, athletics directors, and other athletics personnel, as well as faculty and some staff. This change is dangerous and philosophically inconsistent with the concept of a mandatory reporter. Rather than narrowing the scope of those responsible, regulations should expand the circle of people around a victim who are able to recognize or report abuse. Additionally, these changes contradict student services and conduct policies which aim to reinforce the message that all community members play a role in supporting victims of sexual assault and building safer campuses.

First, the obvious issue with the new guidelines is that having fewer “responsible employees” will likely lead to fewer reports. Student are already wary of reporting sexual assaults, as they are typically underreported on and off campuses. Given that many athletics personnel, who are currently deemed responsible employees, have failed to report sexual assault allegations in the past, it is unlikely the situation will improve under the new guidelines.

We have ample evidence of the horrific consequences that occur when coaches do not report abuse. For example, countless victims could have been spared the abuse of Larry Nasser if the coaches who were first told about his assaults on athletes at Michigan State had actually reported it. A similar case exists with Richard Strauss at Ohio State, which recently announced an initial settlement with 350 former members of the OSU community because of his abuse.

Collecting data about campus sexual assault is notoriously difficult. However, a substantial portion of sexual assault currently goes unreported. This is important, because campus rapists can be repeat offenders. An early study found that 60 percent of campus rapists committed more than one rape, while a 2015 study reported a more modest 25 percent. Regardless, cases of sexual assault could have been prevented if responsible employees had done their duty by reporting sexual assault allegations. For example, consider the case of Erica Kinsman, who found out during her ordeal that she was not Jameis Winston’s only victim at Florida State. Or consider any number of the women suing Baylor University where, it has been revealed, covering up assault committed by football players was systemic.

Given the above examples, in which perpetrators often went years without being punished, or were never punished at all, an observer may wonder why the new, less-strict Title IX reporting changes really matter. First, in order to create a climate of shared responsibility toward maintaining student health and safety on campus, it is symbolically important to include athletics personnel in the list of employees responsible for reporting abuse. Second, these changes are being implemented at a time when schools are finally—nearly 10 years after the 2011 Dear Colleague Letter that clarified schools’ responsibilities regarding sexual assault—settling into best practices, including rolling out training to all personnel. At this point, we have not had time to see the effects of better, more concerted institutional efforts at addressing campus sexual violence. Finally, we have not effectively assessed the deterring effect of lawsuits with large payouts or settlements. Although individuals such as Winston and Head Coach Jimbo Fisher were not personally held responsible, Florida State as an institution was—in addition to millions of dollars to fight the lawsuit brought by Kinsman, the school eventually paid out nearly a million dollars in a settlement to her and her lawyers. In other cases, such as at Baylor, individuals have experienced some level of accountability, as the head football coach, Art Briles, was fired (although with a healthy severance package) and has yet to coach again at the college level. At the very least, lawsuits have led to public reviews and revisions of Title IX policies and procedures on campuses, which results in more protections for victims.

The proposed changes to sexual assault reporting responsibilities reinforces an unfortunate norm that absolves coaches from responsibility to the university at large. Instead of viewing coaches as contributing members of an educational community, the new policy changes further position them as people hired to recruit athletes and get wins.

Exempting more people from reporting sexual assault is not the way to make campuses safer. Studies and investigations show that athletes commit sexual violence at a greater rate than their non-athlete peers. Coaches (including assistant coaches and other team personnel) are likely to be the people who hear about these crimes. With the forthcoming policy changes, the Department of Education is giving coaches latitude to handle sexual assault reports however they choose, rather than reporting them to the proper authorities. The people protected by these rule changes are those who are not going to be held responsible for sexual assault and those that can now legally ignore those crimes.

In a final point, it is important to note that schools will not necessarily be required to remove coaches from the list of mandatory reporters, and pending lawsuits against DeVos and the DOE means that the rules themselves, along with the date of enactment, are uncertain. In other words, schools can (and should) continue to designate coaches and other athletics staff as mandatory reporters. Ultimately, doing so can serve as an important step in creating an environment in which everyone on campus has a stake in ensuring not just that sexual assault offenders are punished, but that sexual assaults are prevented in the first place.

Kristine Newhall is an assistant professor of Kinesiology at SUNY Cortland where she teaches courses in sports ethics and sport and sexuality. Her research interests focus broadly on the intersections of race, sexuality, and gender in contemporary and 20th century sports and fitness cultures. Current projects include athletes’ coming out narratives; the history of women’s sports spaces; applications of Title IX; sexual violence and intercollegiate athletes; and trans policies and representations.

In March 2020, COVID-19 abruptly halted sport as we know it across almost all ages, levels, and communities in North America and much of the world. In a matter of days we went from sport to no sport—from sport everywhere to nowhere. So what does this mean for sports fans and for society in general? What are the implications of a society without sport?

Sociologists of sport have documented the ways in which sport serves as one of society’s most important tools of socialization. As human beings, we are inextricably and inherently social. In this context, sport often serves as one of the most entertaining, effective, and memorable ways for many people to feel connected, to get to know one another, and to cultivate a sense of community. In many ways, sport is a form of escapism from our busy, social-media-saturated, often energy-depleting lives. It is a highly commercialized and commodified sector used to entertain and distract. From a youth development standpoint, sport participation can serve as a positive activity in building character, teaching life skills, and developing mental, emotional, social, and physical wellbeing.  Moreover, it has the ability to engender and facilitate connections with other people – it is, fundamentally, a form of human competition that is built, guided, and glued together by human social relations. Of course, sport is not without faults and flaws, having frequently been a site of sexism, racism, classism, ableism, transphobia, homophobia, animal abuse, and environmental degradation.

While we should not overlook such problems, sport often functions as a way to feel human, helping many people across ages, abilities, levels, races, and sexes feel a certain sense of belonging, community, and identity that isn’t found to the same extent in other cultural practices. Through sport, we are able to be around people who like the same teams we like and cheer with us as “our” team scores a touchdown. Such practices can build bonds, individually and collectively. Sport is often associated with large social gatherings, and these kinds of gatherings are loaded with cultural meaning. More to the point, these gatherings are in many ways the cultural frontrunners in identity-forming, friend-making, and community-building.

So what happens when sport is abruptly halted, when socialization through the physical medium of sport (that is, when the act of playing and watching) is no longer a thing to be enjoyed or entertained by? The answer, perhaps, lies in the evident importance and impact of sport through its absence. The United Nations, for example, identified the disruptions to sport as a concern, while urging sport organizations to find new ways to engage with fans and mitigate the negative effects of COVID-19 on well-being and social development. People are certainly still interested in sport, as conversations about sport on social media increased during the initial lockdown period. If anything, the absence of sport has galvanized its sociocultural significance in terms of social relations, particularly in the age of social media and online engagement.

In a recent study conducted by the Global Sport Institute at Arizona State University, 46% of participants said that the stoppage of sport had made them depressed, 52% said they feel lonely and isolated, and 30% said they wanted to seek a mental health professional. As social beings, what does “social distancing” really mean for us, and how will this impact how we socialize within/through sport in the future? Sport can be seen as an integral part of our society with respect to connection, community, and social development. Accordingly, having sport as we know it disrupted can indeed inhibit human interaction/socialization, in turn engendering a decline in mental health. Because sport is one of the most celebrated, popular, treasured, income-generating, policy-making, and nation-and-character-building sectors in North America, sport is important. Many sporting competitions and activities could be postponed until well into 2021. So, it may be that perhaps the lack of sport and the anxieties felt with this reality will provide a kind of shared nostalgia, a collective apprehension woven by the love and wanting of it.

Emma Calow is a second year PhD student in the American Culture Studies program at Bowling Green State University. Her program track is ethnicity, gender, and social identity, with a concentration in sport studies. Her research interests lie in sport and society as they intersect with race, gender, American nationalism, and athlete activism. You can find her on LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/emma-calow-she-her-hers-71489ba5/

On a sunny Sunday afternoon in June 2020, Black Lives Matter protesters in Bristol, England pulled down a statue of Edward Colston from its pedestal, dragged it through the city’s streets and dumped it into the harbour. Colston, who some revered for his philanthropic donations to schools and hospitals, was a 17th century slave trader. He made his fortune through his involvement in the Royal African Company, a mercantile corporation that oversaw the forced removal, transportation and annihilation of hundreds of thousands of Black Africans. The dismantling of his statue – which had stood for 125 years – was an iconic event in the demonstrations across the United Kingdom, adding new momentum to campaigns to remove or replace public monuments, and to rename buildings that have racist, colonial connections.

Hours after Colston’s statue fell, as reports cascaded across social media, Liam Rosenior, a professional soccer coach for Derby County, tweeted his reaction. He informed his followers that Rosenior is a slave name and that when he was a child growing up in Bristol he had attended a school named after Colston. His tweet ended: “Pardon me for enjoying this moment of irony.” Just a couple days earlier, Rosenior, a keen scholar of Black history and whose daughters are American citizens, had written an open letter to Donald Trump in The Guardian newspaper, condemning the US President’s “open hatred, indifference and disregard towards a people subjugated by physical, economic, mental and emotional abuse for more than 400 years.”

Rosenior’s words echoed those of another Black British former soccer player, Howard Gayle. In 2016, Gayle publically rejected the award of an MBE (Member of the Order of the British Empire), part of an array of honours conferred annually by Queen Elizabeth II, because of its associations with British colonialism. Both players trace parts of their family histories to Sierra Leone. Already a major location in the transatlantic slave trade, Britain’s principal role in the industry and decimation of the population there commenced in the early 1600s. Later on, at the end of the 18th century, Sierra Leone was selected by British abolitionists and philanthropists as the site for the repatriation of London’s “Black Poor,” including freed slaves and African Americans who had fought for the British Army in the American Revolution. “When you look at what the empire did to my family and our ancestors, it just doesn’t bear credence,” Gayle stated. “I would always have felt uncomfortable writing those letters [MBE] after my name.”

English soccer responds to Black Lives Matter

Ten days after the toppling of Colston’s statue, soccer in England’s top men’s division (the Premier League) returned after its Covid-19 enforced intermission. During this break in play, the extent and outcomes of a different pandemic were brought to global public attention: systemic anti-Black racism. Following the killing of African Americans including David McAtee, George Floyd, Tony McDade and Breonna Taylor by police officers or members of the US National Guard, anti-racist protests took place in a variety of cultural settings across the world. For the first round of resumed English soccer matches, “Black Lives Matter” replaced players’ names on the backs of their jerseys. Players and officials all took a knee immediately before kick-off in every remaining game to show their solidarity and collective opposition to racism.

“Sport participation and stardom do not provide reprieve from larger societal, racist violence” writes anthropologist Stanley Thangaraj. In a hitherto unprecedented contribution to the public conversation on race in the UK, several Black elite soccer players – men and women – spoke out powerfully against global racial injustice. Watford’s Andre Gray, whose back is tattooed with a montage of historic US, South African and Jamaican political and cultural leaders, stated, “So the marches over here are not just for the police brutality in America – it’s for England, as well. And Paris and all over the world. It’s because of the systematic racism that is everywhere.”

Both Nedum Onuoha, a British player for Real Salt Lake in the MLS, and the US international DeAndre Yedlin, who plays for Newcastle United, described how they felt unsafe and fearful as young Black men in the United States, especially during interactions with police officers. Aston Villa’s Anita Asante and Liverpool’s Rinsola Babajide drew attention to common state practices of anti-Blackness and police brutality in the US and the UK. Jess Carter of Chelsea and Ebony Salmon of Bristol City, meanwhile, emphasised the contemporary significance of the global anti-racist protests, plus their own capacity to be role models for young Black women. Aston Villa’s Tyrone Mings attended a Black Lives Matter protest in Birmingham, England with “Won’t Be Silenced” written on his facemask, and he posted afterwards on Instagram that the “energy and power” of the demonstration was “like nothing I’ve felt before.”

Thinking, acting and resisting across space and time

The involvement and leadership of Black soccer players (as well as support from a number of white allies) was a well-noted feature of the popular anti-racist uprisings of summer 2020 in the UK. Yet scholarly and journalistic commentaries on these developments tend to restrict the influence and impact of key sportspeople to particular spaces and times. They do not acknowledge that the orientations and perspectives underpinning the players’ activism are, in fact, both transnational (extending beyond individual countries) and transhistorical (spanning different eras) in scope. This viewpoint disconnects the players’ actions from other people, places and periods. It deters any consideration of how the principles, purpose and power of what they say and do are informed and nourished by transnational networks and interactions; and it inhibits recognition of how they often draw on happenings and movements from the (sometimes distant) past as well as the present.

As the examples above illustrate, Black soccer players are familiar with manifestations of anti-Blackness and white supremacy in other places and from varied points in history. Connecting them to the issues and problems of modern English soccer and British society allows these athletes to contextualise and comprehend their own experiences and struggles. Moreover, drawing on the techniques and tactics of global anti-racism enables them to align in critical mass against racism and other social injustices on both local and worldwide scales. They protest against global inequality and oppression, as well as the difficulties they face in their own careers. They speak outside their sport, beyond their nation and past their own lifetimes. Yet, at the same time, they refuse to displace racism as something that is external to the UK. Instead, they draw attention to its presence, not least in sport and the police, forming part of what sociologist Gargi Bhattacharyya labels “a globally integrated machinery of state racisms.”

The scholar-activist Urooj Shahzadi states that, “if we do not organize our collective strength we risk losing deeply important histories and collective solutions.” Black Lives Matter has shown that an expansive, cross-cultural and transnational politics and practice of anti-racism is fundamental to challenging anti-Blackness and white racial violence as a global phenomenon. Black soccer players (and sportspeople more widely) have outlined and enacted a compelling approach to striving for racial justice in sport and society. As professional soccer institutions face up to their own need for deep self-reflection, structural reform and more radical anti-racist policies, they could do far worse than follow the players’ lead.

Daniel Burdsey is a Reader in the Centre for Spatial, Environmental and Cultural Politics at the University of Brighton, UK; and an Associate Professor (status only) at the University of Toronto, Canada. His new book Racism and English Football: For Club and Country will be published by Routledge in fall 2020.

Follow the University of Brighton Sport and Leisure Cultures research group on Twitter: @sport_research

Since COVID-19 has shut down sporting events in North America and many parts of the world, sports fans are desperately trying to find anything to watch. In North America, the National Basketball Association and National Hockey League had to suspend their seasons indefinitely, NCAA March Madness was cancelled, and Major League Baseball, which was set to start the season at the end of March, has not yet decided on a potential date to open the 2020 season despite creative contingent plans being floated around by league officials. With no baseball games on the schedule in North America, baseball enthusiasts can turn to Taiwan, where its professional baseball league started the season on April 11. To abide by social distancing policies of Taiwan, no fans are allowed in stadiums, but robot spectators fill the bleachers in lieu of actual people.

How can baseball be played in Taiwan under a global health crisis when almost every other league in the world has cancelled or postponed their seasons? Thanks to early and effective governmental measures to combat and contain the virus, along with an affordable and quality centralized health care system, Taiwan has received international praise for its success in mitigating the spread of the virus. Taiwan has managed to do this despite its exclusion from the World Health Organization (WHO) as well as its proximity to mainland China, where the virus originated. As of April 24, more than three months after Taiwan’s first reported COVID-19 case, there were only 428 total confirmed cases and 6 deaths in Taiwan. Everyday life has been minimally disrupted in Taiwan without large-scale closures or shutdowns. Restaurants and most businesses remain open. Social distancing policies were implemented by the government in early April, but with the level of risk lower than most other countries, baseball has returned to action.

Taiwan’s professional baseball league, the Chinese Professional Baseball League (CPBL), has typically received little attention outside of Taiwan. Established in 1989, the CPBL currently includes four teams (CTBC Brothers, Uni-President Lions, Fubon Guardians, and Rakuten Monkeys) with a fifth team (Wei Chuan Dragons) expected to officially join the league in 2021. During the first weeks of the 2020 season, the international attention and media coverage were unprecedented in the league’s history. In response to the unexpected attention from the English-speaking world, the league soon arranged for English-language broadcasts alongside traditional broadcasts in Mandarin Chinese, and most games are streamed online for free. Such conditions provide a gateway for baseball fans around the world to be introduced to the island-nation’s rich and robust baseball culture.

Baseball was introduced to Taiwan by Japanese colonizers in the late 19th century, and the sport continued to thrive after the Japanese left. Since its introduction, baseball has been intertwined with the island’s geopolitical context as well as the national identities of Taiwanese people. Perhaps Taiwan’s most discussed success in sports was its domination of Little League Baseball from the 1970s through early 1990s, which was directly linked to strong governmental involvement by the Chinese Nationalist Party (or Kuomintang, KMT) which fled to Taiwan after losing the Chinese Civil War to the Chinese Communist Party in 1949. For the “Republic of China,” the KMT-controlled government in Taiwan, youth baseball had become an important venue for promoting Chinese nationalism in Taiwan and abroad. In the 1970s, the KMT government continued to claim that it was the only legitimate regime in mainland China, despite losing most of its support from the international community. Thus, Little League Baseball became one of the few arenas where the authoritarian regime could “win” its political and ideological battle.

After Taiwan went through a process of democratization in the 1990s, the cultural meaning of baseball also changed. The KMT was no longer the only powerful political party, and the ideology of Chinese nationalism gradually gave way to increased Taiwanese nationalism. Before the 1990s, people in Taiwan largely identified themselves as Chinese or both Chinese and Taiwanese, but citizens have increasingly started to embrace an exclusive Taiwanese national identity since the turn of the century when the KMT lost the presidential election in 2000. To put it simply, an important element of Taiwanese nationalism is an emphasis on the differentiation between being Chinese and Taiwanese. Politically, Taiwan has not been recognized as an independent country because of the constant political pressure from mainland China, but Taiwanese people argue that the distinction between China and Taiwan is obvious and significant in terms of history, culture, and political system. Under this context, baseball started to become an important cultural symbol because it was uniquely Taiwanese—it was very popular in Taiwan, but it had a marginal presence in mainland China.

During the COVID-19 crisis, baseball and Taiwanese nationalism have once again converged—Taiwan’s effective governmental measures have helped successfully prevent a widespread outbreak, which has allowed for the operation of professional baseball. Taiwan’s President Tsai Ing-wen sent several tweets during the league’s opening week, introducing this league to an international audience. Baseball players, fans, and league officials also took advantage of the surprising spotlight, and more and more information about the league was quickly made available in English. All of these efforts could be understood within the geopolitical context of Taiwan in which there has been a persistent desire to be recognized by the world, especially when actual military threats and political attacks from China remain constant.

Yet, there is a problem—the name of the league. After all, the league is called the “Chinese” Professional Baseball League, a fact that has already caused confusion among new followers from the English-speaking world. In fact, many new CPBL followers assumed that the games took place not in Taiwan but China, which could significantly undermine the essential message Taiwanese people wanted to send to the world: Taiwan is different from China. It remains to be seen how long the CPBL can enjoy this level of international attention when baseball elsewhere returns to action (the KBO, South Korea’s professional baseball, began its season in early May), but the 2020 CPBL season has already provided an example that sports can be heavily intertwined with the ongoing process of nation-making. The history of Taiwan, its complicated relationship with mainland China, and the changing and fluid national identities of Taiwanese people have made baseball more than just a cultural signifier of a nation. While it used to be a significant part of promoting a specific version of Chinese nationalism in the 1970s, baseball is now a symbol of Taiwanese nationalism which accompanies a proud effort to fight COVID-19.

Daniel Yu-Kuei Sun is a lecturer in Sport Management at Towson University. His research interests include 20th century American sport history, sport in Asian America, and sport in contemporary Taiwan.

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).