Telling your son, ‘No, you can’t play football’

My son is crazy about sports. He's both a participant and an observer: He plays soccer yearround, and he recently took up a bat and glove for the first time. He can also recite for you the numbers corresponding to every sports channel we receive from our cable television provider.

As obsessions go, I approve of this one. I never have to tell this kid to get exercise. He loves his iPod, but he puts it down without complaint for a game, a practice or because he spies a ball in the yard — any kind of ball. Except for the sex-and-violence advertising and the periodic bad-athlete behavior I find myself needing to explain, I don't even mind the sports-viewing on television. He wants to watch his favorite baseball team? Nothing wrong with that.

But as I watched my son develop an interest in football as he approached adolescence, I grew uneasy. I want him to be able to explore his varied interests and to take chances as he grows up so he can figure out who he is. But I also want him to learn to evaluate risk and make smart decisions, and as I learned more about the long-term effects suffered by football players exposed to repeated helmet-to-helmet collisions, I realized that I couldn't say yes to the request I knew was coming. Sure enough, my son approached me shortly before he turned 11. "Mom," he asked, "can I play football next year?"

I inhaled deeply. (I don't know if he's figured it out yet, but when I take a deep breath before I answer a question, either something bad is coming or I'm about to discuss sex, drugs or difficult family matters.)

"No, honey. I'm sorry. Not football. I'll support you playing just about any other sport. But I can't in good conscience let you play football." "WHY NOT?" "Because I like your brain the way it is." With that sentence, my son and I launched into a back-andforth that lasted a year.

Over the course of the next 12 months, I explained to my son my concerns about the brain injuries now known to be commonly suf- fered in football. I talked to him about concussions and non-concussive head injuries, and about how even those NFL safety measures that have been implemented in recent years have yet to filter down to most youth football leagues.

I did research, and I read through dozens of articles until I found a few I thought would be clear and concise enough to hold the attention of a kid his age; then I handed those articles to him to read. I discussed the difference between the occasional broken bones or concussions he might sustain on any other athletic field and the still murky nature of chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) caused by the repeated blows to the head in football.

So that he would understand that my concerns weren't just overprotective hype, I talked with him — carefully — about the suicide of Junior Seau. I told him about the NFL lawsuit and answered his questions about the suit's settlement to the best of my ability. I distributed this information in small, occasional pieces suitable for tween digestion, making sure to leave ample opportunity for questions and rebuttal.

And rebut my son did. But he and I eventually reached a detente. I believe he understands my position, even if he still doesn't like it. I respect that he maintains an opinion which is different from mine, and, when he tried to show me an article that he thought supported his view and I shot it down before I read it, I went back to him and apologized for my dismissive behavior and read the article. I also respect that despite his disappointment, he was mature enough to recognize reality and move on to find another interest — baseball — and develop great enthusiasm for that sport, even as he continued to play soccer and watch more sports than I can tally. Did I make the right decision? I believe so. My son and I respect each other, and he's keeping his brain safe.

For now, that's good enough for me.