Baseball used to be the sport of standing around. On offense, players spend most of their time waiting for their turn to bat. And even batting is mostly standing around (accentuated, of course, with the ritual of adjusting one’s batting glove). The defense mostly stands about, too, with their movement mainly a matter of changing where they stand, a decision made for the players by the quants.
But football has of late eclipsed hardball as the sport with the most torpid loitering. And I don’t mean the huddle or even the notorious TV timeout. No, it is the replay that is to blame, that time when the game becomes the ref show, and everyone else is left powerless and slack-jawed for the duration.
Football is decidedly American, what with its combination of hyperviolence and litigiousness. The rule book could be a county penal code, with its chapters and sections and articles and caveats and codicils and riders and addenda. But the more rules there are, the more infractions for the zebras to ponder and the more possible violations to check for on the replay video.
Consider the article dealing with the definition of the action designated a “MUFF”: “the touching of a loose ball by a player in an unsuccessful attempt to obtain possession of it.” So far, so simple. But not for long. Closely following that is a modifying note: “Any ball intentionally muffed forward is a bat and may be a foul.” It seems that there has been doubt in the past as to what amounts to a touch. Thus the rule book pronounces that “touching the Ball refers to any contact with the ball.” Emphasis on the “any” sort of contact: “There is no distinction between a player touching the ball with his hands, or with any other part of his body, including his hair.”
In the rule book, the phrase “including his hair” is written in red, which suggests the league really wants to discourage the Twisted Sister look.
“A decision must be made within 60 seconds from when video is shared with the Referee on the field.” That rule is meant to keep the process from stretching out, but it is in tension with the rather elastic part of the rule that follows: “Once a review is initiated, all reviewable aspects of a play … may be examined and are subject to change, even if not the specific reason for the challenge.” Who is going to be able to conclude a credible review in 60 seconds when every aspect of the play is up for grabs? Pity the poor replay officials who have to establish video evidence of whose hair muffed the ball and do so while the clock is ticking.
My complaint is not really with the amount of time taken for reviews but rather that reviews interfere with the organic excitement of the game. One’s instinct, when the home team QB threads an impossible throw through a wall of defenders for a game-winning touchdown, is to cheer. But our cheering is reliably cut short as the lawyers step in for a meticulous assessment of the video for evidence of offenses against the rules and regulations. In other words, the thrill of watching football is supplanted with the tedium of watching the officials look at television screens. The players stand around and wait. We sit around and wait. Most of the officials stand and wait, unless they are called into a conference to decide on one of the game’s rules that turn on mens rea, such as whether a muffer “intentionally” batted the ball with his flowing mane.
When the ruling comes in, one is either satisfied or disappointed. But what one is not is jumping up-and-down excited. And that’s the problem. The game is meant to be an entertainment, but what sort of spectacle is it that comes to a halt every time something of significance happens?
Imagine the denouement of the gloomy Dane done with replay review. Hamlet scores what seems to be the first touch in his fencing match with Laertes.
“One,” calls out the prince.
“No,” objects Ophelia’s brother.
“Judgment,” demands Hamlet, and Osric disappears under the replay hood for a minute or two, during which time, standing around, everyone, not having anything else to do, drinks from the poisoned chalice. The end.
Eric Felten is the James Beard Award-winning author of How’s Your Drink?
