It makes some people so angry to see us taking a stand (or taking a knee). I get that they watch football to escape, and they view us as entertainers, here to give them a break from the so-called real world. But we aren’t machines. We are human beings, and we aren’t paid to stand for an anthem. We are paid to play football—this is our “real world.” Maybe some people figure that being a professional athlete somehow graduates us from racism. They think we’re not “that Black.” We’re in another category. But if I’m someplace where people don’t know me as Michael Bennett, I am a Black man, judged by the color of my skin. I lived through this last August in Las Vegas, where I was put on the ground, a weapon placed against the back of my head, and a police officer said he was going to “blow [my] fucking head off.” (I’ll be talking more about that night later, because, in this case, what happened in Vegas isn’t staying in Vegas.)
We have the right to protest, and we, like anyone else, can try to be heard. They also tell us to stick to sports when we speak out on issues. But they don’t seem to have a problem when we’re making commercials, selling their kids sneakers they can’t afford or fast food that will give them colon cancer. I don’t see how that is sticking to sports, but somehow that is considered okay. This cartoon by my brother Martellus nails it:
The reaction to all of this went off the charts when
Donald Trump gave a speech at a rally in Alabama that attacked us for protesting and went after the NFL for not firing us. He also described any player who took a knee as a “son of a bitch.” Well, all right then. No confusing how he feels. He took the flame that Colin had lit and poured gasoline all over it. But Donald Trump never played football and does not understand our brotherhood. I’ll go into that later—what the NFL brotherhood is and what it means—but I knew that our brotherhood would come into play. That’s why, as soon as I heard what he said—and my phone started blowing up and the fury of my friends was making my ears bleed—I felt really calm, almost like a big, bearded Buddha.
Even though he singled out those of us who protested, I felt like he was taking on the whole NFL, so I never really felt alone. Instead, and I know this might sound twisted, I felt an incredible sense of positivity. I just thought, “Hey, he’s entitled to his opinion. I’m not about to go back and forth with him because that’s not what this is about. I don’t know who that helps.” A lot of players were tweeting and talking volumes of anger. NBA player Chris Paul even dared Trump to say it to our faces (he hasn’t). My only public response was that he shouldn’t be saying “son of a bitch,” no matter what he thinks about us, because, president or not, you don’t talk about people’s mothers. In a tweet, I wrote, “My mom is a beautiful lady and she has never been a bitch.”
But I was also proud. Wow. We got under the skin of the president of the United States. I was grateful. Even though he disagreed with us, he turned it into a worldwide conversation. Maybe he wasn’t willing to have a discussion with us about what we were protesting and why it mattered. No beer summit for us. But his comments did allow for us to go global with the problems of racial inequality in this country. He also brought the NFL family together, activating the brotherhood, as if his comments were some kind of NFL bat signal.
His mistake was taking on the whole NFL. Owners don’t like it when you tell them who to hire and fire, and you don’t talk about people’s moms. He also crossed a line—he is a habitual line stepper—when he said that the game has become “too soft.” Everyone in the NFL, from owners to players, knows the toll this game takes on our bodies, and nobody who sees us after games or in the training room would dare say such a thing. In that moment I saw the part of the man that makes me feel pity: he has no ability to walk in other people’s shoes, to see the world from another perspective, from Puerto Rico to the NFL. He doesn’t care about Dave Duerson, Junior Seau, Kenny Stabler, or anyone who passed away before his time. He doesn’t know what it’s like to wrench your neck because someone faster and stronger than anyone who played even twenty years ago hits you like a truck. Yes, the rules have changed, but that’s because players are so big and fast now. There wouldn’t be any of us left if the head-hunting days were still in effect. I heard that part of his speech and just said, “He don’t really know.
