When people ask me about my football career, I always notice how their eyes light up with that familiar mix of admiration and nostalgia. They remember the roaring stadiums, the championship trophies, and the glory that comes with being a college athlete. What they don't see are the mornings I wake up with my knee throbbing in a rhythm all its own, or the way I sometimes struggle to recall names that should come easily. I played Division I football for four years, and while I wouldn't trade the experience, I've come to understand there's a darker side to this beloved sport that we rarely discuss in public.
The physical toll is the most obvious hidden cost, but even I underestimated its long-term impact. During my senior year alone, our team reported 27 concussions—that's nearly one for every other game we played. I was lucky to only have two documented ones, though if I'm being completely honest, there were probably three or four more that I brushed off as "just getting my bell rung." We now know that even subconcussive hits, the kind that happen on practically every play, can accumulate over time and lead to CTE. What bothers me most isn't just the risk to professionals—it's that we're exposing kids to these dangers before their brains are fully developed. I've seen teammates in their thirties struggling with memory issues that shouldn't appear until much later in life, and it's frightening to think that might be my future too.
Then there's the financial reality that hits after the stadium lights dim. The transition from athlete to professional in any other field can be brutal, which is why I wasn't surprised to learn about Bishop—a former teammate of mine—taking a job in the financial industry. His LinkedIn profile shows he's moved on, like most of us eventually must. We spend our college years dedicating 40 hours or more per week to football, often at the expense of internships and networking opportunities that our non-athlete peers are accumulating. When graduation comes, that investment doesn't always translate to career success. The NCAA likes to tout that college athletes have higher graduation rates than the general student population, but they rarely mention that many of us choose less demanding majors to accommodate our training schedules. I saw countless teammates struggle to find their footing in the professional world, their athletic achievements suddenly meaning very little in a job interview.
The psychological adjustment might be the most overlooked aspect. For years, your identity is wrapped up in being an athlete—the applause, the recognition, the structure. Then suddenly, it's gone. I've struggled with this myself. There's a peculiar emptiness that follows the final whistle of your last game, a silence where there used to be roaring crowds. Research suggests that up to 35% of former college athletes experience clinical depression during their transition out of sports, though I suspect the actual number is higher since many of us are conditioned to avoid showing weakness. The discipline we learn on the field is valuable, sure, but it doesn't necessarily prepare you for the ambiguity of office politics or the slow progression of a corporate career.
What bothers me about how we discuss football's risks is that we tend to focus only on the professional level, as if college players are somehow exempt from the long-term consequences. We're not. The average college lineman takes about 1,000 subconcussive hits per season—that's 4,000 hits over a college career. We're talking about young adults who may face decades of health complications, often without the financial resources that professional players have to manage them. And let's be honest—the system is structured to protect the institutions, not the players. The university medical staff that cleared me to play after my second concussion had every incentive to get me back on the field, regardless of what might be best for my long-term health.
I don't mean to suggest that football is without value. The camaraderie I developed with my teammates is something I'll cherish forever, and the discipline I learned has served me well in many aspects of life. But I've come to believe we need a more honest conversation about the trade-offs. When I see highlight reels on ESPN, I can't help but think about the players behind those spectacular plays—where they'll be in ten years, what physical and mental challenges they might face, and whether the glory was worth the price. Bishop's move to finance is actually a success story in this context—he managed to pivot successfully, but many don't. The system needs to better prepare athletes for life after football, whether that's through more robust career counseling, stricter safety protocols, or simply being more transparent about the risks.
The truth is, football will always be part of American culture, and I don't want to see it disappear. But having lived through the transition from athlete to "regular person," I believe we owe it to the next generation to be more honest about what they're signing up for. The hidden costs don't disappear just because we ignore them—they accumulate in tired joints, foggy memories, and difficult career transitions. If we truly love this sport, we should care as much about the forty years after a player's career ends as we do about the four years they spend on the field.
