I should preface this commentary by admitting that while I may not be the biggest Green Bay Packers fan, I’ve got to be in the top ten. And no, this isn’t my usual anti-Chicago Bears rant—though heaven knows, they make it tempting.
But there are things regularly happening in the National Football League that truly grind my gears. As my trips around the sun accumulate, I seem to get grouchier about such things. At the risk of alienating half my readership, I’ll try to use reason. If you agree, let me know. If you don’t, feel free to send me a threatening letter—but keep the profanity to a minimum, please. My mother reads this too.
Let’s start at home: Packers head coach Matt LaFleur. Good coach, no question. But his play-calling feels stuck in the Eisenhower administration. He coaches not to lose instead of coaching to win. The Packers play to the level of their competition, and that’s on him.
But LaFleur isn’t my only target. The whole NFL has gone soft, silly, and shamelessly commercial.
I was fortunate enough to watch Walter Payton in his prime. When he scored a touchdown, he simply handed the ball to the referee and jogged back to the sideline. Pure class. He acted as if he’d been there before.
Now? Touchdown celebrations look like Broadway rehearsals. We’ve got choreographed end-zone dances, camera poses, and synchronized routines. They’re paid millions to score; that’s literally their job. Does a waitress sprint through the dining room high-fiving customers after delivering soup? Truck drivers don’t spike their steering wheels after unloading freight. The showboating is classless, and the league should stop it.
And it’s not just touchdowns anymore. Catch a ball? It makes their pants want to get up and dance. Make a tackle? Dance. Get a first down? Point dramatically toward the end zone. Unprofessional.
Then there’s the media circus. Every game has endless podcasts, talk shows, and YouTube breakdowns. The Packers—smallest market in pro sports—have 18 podcasts. The Bears have 19. Every team has an army of commentators. That doesn’t even count pregame and postgame shows, or the fantasy football “experts” predicting which millionaire will try hardest that day.
And what’s with all the eye candy on these broadcasts? Half the anchors are attractive women who’ve never played the game and lob generic questions to ex-players. Others interview athletes who sound like they’re reading from a fifth-grade vocabulary list.
Some shows have stooped to full-on gimmicks—hosts in costumes, goofy props, and over-the-top stunts. Do we really need to see Steve Mariucci dressed as a pilgrim? I like Mooch, but not when he’s cosplaying on the air. I tune in for football, not a variety show.
Speaking of the games, let’s talk about NFL Ticket. When it first came out, I paid about $90. Now it’s $480 for the privilege of watching my team play once a week. Outrageous.
And can we stop sending teams overseas? The players hate it. It’s unfair to the home fans who can’t hop a flight to Brazil or London. Teams that travel internationally win only about 40% of their next games. The Packers lost Jordan Love for several weeks because of a sloppy overseas field. Stop it!
On average there are 22 penalties per NFL game—over five per quarter. It feels like every ref wants his face on camera. Then there’s pass interference—a 30-yard penalty for a “maybe.” How is that fair? Make it 15 yards, call it a day, and stop deciding games on what could have been. Or better yet, bench the guilty player for ten plays—the penalty parade would stop overnight.
And what about the two-feet rule? A receiver makes a stunning sideline catch, and we sit through five minutes of slow-motion angles to confirm both toes touched grass. Let’s simplify: one foot, one catch, move on.
Don’t even get me started on the “alternate uniforms.” The home team used to wear dark jerseys; the visitors wore white. Now every game looks like a fashion show for colorblind designers. Did you hear me, Nike? And those Steelers bumblebee throwbacks? Burn them.
In the end, it all comes down to money—a few billionaires employing millionaires, squeezing every dollar they can out of us. So no, the NFL doesn’t stand for the National Football League anymore. It stands for the National Fat-Cats League—and we’re the ones financing the spectacle.
I have more to complain about, but I need to wrap this up. The Packers game on NFL Ticket is about to start.
Editorial comments expressed in this column are the sole opinion of the writer.
Alan N. Webber
Author of Whipping Post & Roll Me Away
Cave Creek AZ & Bourbonnais IL
