I’m watching less professional football these days. I’m simply tired of the pink. I’ve always detested it, but now, after a few years, it has grown tiresome, too. When on the fence of whether to watch, I do something else.
Give your feel-goodism a rest, NFL. The pink is merely self-congratulatory braggadocio with a strain of queeridity thrown in.
If I sound cruel, please rest assured: If I thought it would cure a single woman of breast cancer, I’d wear a pink shirt every day of the month. But football pink obviously does no such thing. It smacks of an annoying and shallow public relations stunt cooked up between leading officers of two powerful organizations on the east coast.