Footballer Burgess Owens is in over his head in Congress 

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Let’s face it, as much as Americans love football and use game days as an opportunity for social merriment, tailgate parties and boozing, it’s a really brutal game.

The jarring collisions that punctuate virtually every play cause lasting damage to bone, joints and connective tissue, and there’s probably no collegiate or professional player that won’t continue to feel the effects of playing, long after the cheerleaders have moved to rest homes, marching band lips have shrunk too thin to buzz their mouthpieces and the cheering fans are doddering along with their walkers, recounting the moments of glory when their team triumphed, in a last-moment, double-overtime, balls-to-the-wall effort.

For millions of other Americans—and now, an entire world—the lure of football has endured for generations. Between the brassy tones of the marching bands, the pom-poms flying in the electrified air, the snappy cool of winter’s advance guard and the bone-crunching action, I’ve loved the game, especially when it’s my own alma mater on the gridiron.

But football is more than a game. Like the wars and jousting that inspired it, it is, after all is said and done, a battle—one in which the victor takes the spoils and must worry about the potential dethroning in a future rematch. Back in the “old days,” there was little concern that there would be any lasting consequences of the battle scenes before us.

Sure—a few players did get seriously hurt. But so do ballerinas and gymnasts. Injuries are a calculated risk.

That said, it wasn’t the few, serious injuries that haunted the games, but the insidious, often-unnoticed, sub-acute damage that happened with virtually every gridiron impact.

Sadly, long after the players have been forced to retire—too old, too damaged, too dead—they must look for something to occupy their time until the final end-run.

Burgess Owens, Utah’s own ex-NFL retiree, followed the same formula that so many had followed before him. After the hero worship of his 10 years of pro football—and a Super Bowl championship ring to boot—he left the game with a hefty pension and a net worth, reportedly, of around $35 million. But the bad part is that, despite being paid fabulously well for his service to the fans, his traveling bag contained the unfortunate curses of those years of wild cheering and glory.

Along with other NFL players, he was party in a class-action lawsuit seeking damages for the brain injuries and associated maladies that have followed NFL careers. He claimed that he had suffered “repeated and chronic” blows to the head and that he, in fact, had suffered from the “symptoms of brain injury,” sustained during games and practices.

The lawsuit, settled in 2013 for $765 billion, was divided between the plaintiffs.

So, what does an ex-football star do for an encore? Exactly what famous clowns, comedians, movie stars, sports heroes and TV personalities do—use their celebrity status to win an election for something they’re simply not qualified to do. Along with the glut of other woefully unprepared celebrities, Owens won the congressional seat for Utah’s 4th Congressional District, and has been making a fool of himself ever since.

Struggling to navigate the perplexities of legislation, he has now spent almost three years as Utah’s own village idiot. His QAnon alignment, his support of the “Big Lie,” his diminishing of the seriousness of Jan. 6 and his claims that the Bible has been banned in America for the past 60 years elevate him well above the dumbest members of congress.

Of course, the creation and election of unqualified celebrity candidates is nothing exclusive to Americans. It’s been a pattern worldwide, and the effects of giving such responsibilities to the utterly unprepared have not been good. This wave of unqualified used-to-be’s has been going on even before Ronald Reagan became president.

Right now, the world is full of politicians who are inept and incompetent. Jumping from the public spotlight into yet another highly visible occupation is, in effect, a kind of carpet-bagging that should be a no-no to voters. These people were good at what they did, but let’s not stretch it; leadership is far more sacred than a football game.

Of course, we’ve seen some great political successes that crossed over the divide between stardom and public service. But for the most part, they’ve been miserable failures. Burgess Owens has been one of the worst, creating a categorical imperative for his constituency to end his congressional duties.

Sure, we can chalk it up to his concussions as an NFL player. But it’s an established fact that Owens is on a very unequal playing field, struggling with his comprehension of the most important issues, taking indefensible stands in his utterance of myriad, mindless statements, embracing the dangerous silliness of conspiracy theories, supporting the BS of Donald Trump’s “big lie” about his election defeat and failing in his ability to string a few meaningful words together.

That should spell the end for Burgess Owens’ career in politics, and it’s time for him to take his Super Bowl ring and his carpet bag and invade some other occupation, in which he might be a bit more competent.

Whether he wins or loses in his 2024 bid for reelection will be a clear statement to his constituency—whether or not they, too, are brain damaged and out of touch from the sober realities and most pressing issues of our state.

The author is a retired businessman, novelist, columnist and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and the beloved ashes of their mongrel dog. comments@cityweekly.net