Think for a moment about all those soccer matches, football games, tennis lessons, footraces, and gym classes that were part of our rearing. Recall the friends you made while playing, the post-game gatherings of local families, the silent aspirations to make the high school team as you took batting practice in the basement of the school gym. Remember the rituals of half-time oranges and the superstitious shoe-tying before taking the field. Just for a minute, bring to the forefront of your mind the images—cheering for your siblings from the sidelines, hearing advice from your dad about how to perfect your throw, and reacquaint yourself with the inner adolescent arrogance telling you that going pro might be possible.
Was that...religion?!!
Were the coaches priests? Were the pre-game pep-talks sermons? Was the playbook a holy text? Were we participating in the athleticist religion?
Wouldn't an alien comparing our rituals to those of an African tribe see our strange athletic formations, our chants and cheers, our body paints and uniforms, our hierarchies of honor and strict social conventions, and have to stall for a moment before making a qualitative distinction between what we call sports and religion?
Has athleticism, and I include dance, the Outing Club, weightlifting, sailing, skiing, and aerobics here, replaced religion for some Bowdoin students? Some might be inclined to argue yes, it is getting to the point where athletic rites of passage—hitting a home run, biking without training wheels—occupy a similar place in the human heart and imagination as sacred religious rituals and practices.
It is no secret that traditional religion suffered some serious blows to its prestige when our parents' were coming of age in the 60s and 70s. Many of them retained their ancient faith, but because of decreased confidence in religion, these traditions were transmitted to many Bowdoin students in a diluted form. That inherited religion found itself unable to respond to a few higher human needs for which a more robust religiosity had previously provided. There is no strict either-or here, but it is my argument that the astonishing spike in athletic participation over the past 25 years reveals a slight rechanneling of the religious urge. American culture has a proud tradition of giving birth to fine athletes. What's new is the procreation of athleticists—those whose primary source of psychic comfort, community, and structure in their lives is sports. Let me clarify.
When existential and psychic distress arising from conflicting desires, hard decisions, the death of loved ones, and the gap between aspiration and achievement could no longer find solace in the predictability and transcendence of liturgical experience, an intense workout could release the tension that built up during the day.
When the desire for community no longer found its gratification in Church ice-cream socials, religious retreats, or studying talmud, the weekends were instead occupied by team bonfires, travel soccer matches, and attending professional sporting events.
When the need for structure no longer found its haven in devout davening, salat, or mass, it intensified the athleticist's religious dedication to the rigid regimentation of competitive sports.
Growing up in our athletocentric culture, it is hard to appreciate the novelty of these transformations. Yet, when looking at our time in perspective, anthropologists, historians, theologians, and sociologists might call our time, "the age of athleticism." We should remember—the NBA was not founded until 1946, Super Bowl I was not until 1967, Women's Title IX did not come until 1972, and, in America, lacrosse and soccer have only recently enjoyed bursts of popularity. The rise of professional sports, decline of religiosity in certain parts of society, the increasing importance of athletics in college admissions, and a turn towards athletic victory as the goal unifying some of our cultures, schools, and communities have all contributed to what I call the triumph of athleticist religion.
Shall we welcome of resist or welcome this development? It does seem to have some advantages—perhaps the spread of this athletic religion could usher in an age of peace where people could discharge an 'urge to dominate' through sports instead of international war.
Also, the sports we've come to love are cultural creations that provide that Durkheimian 'collective effervescence' —those Bowdoin-Colby games promote a campus unity missing throughout the rest of the week.
Finally, with the disturbing and incomparable obesity epidemic in America, it would be hard to protest any kind of physical activity, wouldn't it? This school, with its athleticist vestiges, is absolutely unrepresentative of a country where supposedly 65 percent of people are overweight.
If you look around you will see unusually healthy, vibrant, and muscular men and women. The more I think about it, the more shocked I am at how fit and trim the students are here. Students here are not merely lean—they are physically strong, fast, and tough.
Yet—the disadvantages loom large. The legacy of our favorite sports heroes cannot quite match up to the lore of biblical narratives. Weekly sporting matches lack the sacredness and mystical intrigue of a genuine Sabbath. Pre-game speeches don't have the theological and historical insight of a High Holiday sermon. The exhilarations of a midnight workout with an iPod do not provide the perennial thrills of engaging the great mystery of religious inquiry. Growing up near Chicago in the '90s, I can say that those who deified Michael Jordan never had the same depth and gravitas as those enraptured by God.
There is no doubt that the new scientific atheism, the belief that religious extremism is responsible for much violence, and the emergence of an anti-religious postmodern literary canon has removed religion from our Bowdoin public square for the time being. It makes sense to look for cultural goal that can give a fragmented, specialized, and glued-to-the-screen college environment some coherence.
Athletics are here to stay, but athleticist religion won't work—it does not call forth the full range of artistic prodigy, spirituality, intellectuality, and civic engagement that have always been the source of Bowdoin's greatness.
Perhaps someday, a new Constantine will call for our conversion or a new Judean revolt will challenge our authority , but for now, it is 100 CE and Bowdoin remains a Rome of athleticist prowess searching for a goal that can summon forth the kind of genius that will allow us to compete with the cultural excellence and unity of the Greeks.
I think we can genuinely celebrate the dedication, focus, and discipline cultivated by athleticist religion while working to direct those very virtues towards the noblest endeavors that can strengthen our community.
During a high school cross-country practice, on a dog day in early September, when teammates were huffing, sweating, wheezing, cringing, or even vomiting after mile five of the dreaded "mile-repeats," my coach would often repeat a somewhat corny quote from Prefontaine's coach at Oregon and Nike forerunner, Bill Bowerman:
"Running, one might say, is basically an absurd pastime upon which to be exhausting ourselves. But if you can find meaning in the type of running you need to do to stay on this team, chances are you'll be able to find meaning in that other absurd pastime...life."
For the sake of Bowdoin, I hope he's right.
Ross Jacobs is a member of the Class of 2010.