Certain sounds in life are delectable. The sound of popping bubble wrap. The opening of a fresh can of Coca-Cola. Chewing Capt'n Crunch cereal. Bones slipping back into place at the chiropractor office. Roar of a muscle car. Skiing swishes.
And the NFL football tackle.
It just sounds like something the universe needs in order to keep the galaxies spinning and gravity pulling. It sounds fair. It sounds manly.
Two men, making millions of dollars, have agreed to sprint in opposing directions. They have understood the need to wear NASA-quality engineered impact protections for their skulls and vital organs and sensitive orthopedic zones. And now the ball is in play...
Glancing tackles and double-thigh take downs have their place, but they are only pale images of what is meant to occur by the sheer rules of the game.
Every once in awhile—not too often, for this would ruin the joy—the inevitable and oh-so satisfying occurs. The aluminum plated, archangel-sized wallop resonates over tens of thousands of eardrums as the live sonic-smack splits across the amphitheatre. Sensitive recording equipment picks up this delight and wires it to millions of living rooms, where the joy is spread and recorded for posterity.
As long as the involved parties both get up and are healthy, joy is had by all. Even by the receiving end of the spectacle.
In retrospect, I don't believe any gridiron warrior wants to have a highlight real devoid of their punishment. Their war wounds. Their street credibility. They play a man's sport to undergo manly treatment by other capable men.
That's the heart beat of NFL football!