Greg Hardy and the NFL’s troubles with governance

At this point, Greg Hardy isn’t really a football player anymore. He’s become a caricature.

Now, there’s no denying that Hardy is, himself, largely responsible for this, with a trail of behavior that has ranged from ill-advised to downright reprehensible. An arrest, back in May of 2014, for assault and communicating threats against his former girlfriend, Nicole Holder. A conviction, in July of that year, on those charges, after a trial that included sworn testimony in which Holder described being dragged by her hair from room to room, thrown onto a futon covered with rifles, and threatened with death while Hardy had his hands around her throat. Hardy appealed this conviction, requesting a jury trial, and in February of this year, prosecutors dismissed the charges after being unable to locate Holder for the appeal trial.

And then, in early October, Hardy resumed his NFL career with Dallas and any notion that he might be apologetic, or chastened, or in any way conscious of public perception, was thrown out the window after a media availability in which he said he hoped to come out “guns blazing,” and mentioned that he hoped to see Brady’s wife, fashion model Gisele Bundchen, and her sister, at the game. He followed that up with an angry outburst directed at teammates and special teams coach Rich Bisaccia, which predictably touched off the usual debate about whether Hardy was showing a troubling lack of anger management, or an abundance of passion for his team. A changing twitter bio and an exchange with the Tampa Bay fans did nothing to quell the controversy.

And, that, in a nutshell, is how you get Greg Hardy, national supervillain. The past few months have seen no end to the condemnation thrown his way. There was Fox Sports’ Katie Nolan’s righteous call for someone, anyone, to hold Hardy to some sort of standard upon his return. There was ESPN’s Tom Jackson noting that he would not want to share a roster with “a guy that I have to be in fear of.” There was Sports Illustrated reporter Jenny Vrentas’ viral reaction to Jones’ talk of “leadership,” and the thoughtful column that followed.

Greg Hardy has become the very easiest of targets. That doesn’t, in any way, detract from all of the well-considered, and well-deserved criticism he’s received. But the reality is that at this point, Hardy is low hanging fruit, a magnet for outrage and ire, an almost cartoonish villain. And it’s understandable why we cringe every time he appears on the field each Sunday.

But then, the game Hardy plays is hardly draped in virtue at the moment.

The NFL is not a moral authority.

There is a hesitancy, a general reluctance, to say those words out loud. Perhaps it’s because we’re afraid that by removing any pretense of high-minded valor from the sport, we’re excusing the league from any responsibility to society. Nothing could be further from the truth. Of course the NFL should hold its players accountable for their actions, take care of them during and after their playing career, and make the most of its influence, its prominence, its financial largesse.

But it’s time to recognize that such things will not come about simply through the benevolence of a business that pays human beings to crash into each other at high speed. The NFL is not a pillar of American values, it’s is a sporting concern. And anyone who still needs further evidence of this fundamental truth simply hasn’t been paying attention. This is a league that obstructed and denied critical research about brain injuries in the interest of protecting the viability of its sport. It’s a sport that will always make room for those who can perform, regardless of their misdeeds, because ability on the gridiron is such a rare skill indeed. And the NFL is a company that will stand with you against cancer and domestic violence, provided of course that your stand is in full compliance with the league’s rigid rules. Just don’t get too creative with the message on your eye black, the color of your cleats, or the duration of your statement, lest the league decide to garnish your wages for not being a part of the program.

As noted by Samer Kalaf at Deadspin, these are the most universal, the most uncontroversial, the most unimpeachable of causes. And yet, the league persists in exercising its ironclad hold on every aspect of how its games, and its players, are packaged, presented, and positioned. And maybe it’s time to stop being so shocked.The NFL, like any massive corporation, is always pragmatic, concerned with its perception, its well-being, its bottom-line, above all else. Sure, it wants to “do good” to the extent that it will “look good” and benefit from a healthy sheen of positive publicity. But at the core, this is simply a game, a lucrative, violent, often exciting game, but one that offers no intrinsic ethical compass of its own.

So please, no more talk of the National Football League as some sort of indispensable American institution. No more self-righteous proclamations about setting an example for the country as a whole. No more essays, like this one from John Harbaugh, about football as “a metaphor for life.”

“I believe there’s practically no other place where a young man is held to a higher standard,” wrote Harbaugh in April of this year, “Football is hard. It’s tough. It demands discipline. It teaches obedience. It builds character.”

This is nonsense, of course, and always has been. The last few years have provided countless examples of how quickly football will drop its “high standards” to make room for those with an exceptional ability to perform on the field. But then, is the fault really with the game itself, or with those who assigned it such gravitas in the first place? The NFL, like any institution, is filled with heroes and cads, saints and sinners, the virtuous, the opportunistic, and everything in between. And if it can’t get out of its own way when it comes to something as obvious and undeniably decent as letting its own members celebrate their departed loved ones without garnishing their wages, then maybe it’s time to give up the moral high ground.

Thanks to the dogged and outstanding reporting of Diana Moskovitz and Deadspin, the past few weeks have provided fresh reminders of why watching Greg Hardy take the field each Sunday feels so problematic. While court transcripts had already spelled out much of what transpired a year and a half ago in Charlotte, photos and testimony from that night provoke an undeniably visceral reaction, forcing everyone to confront the reality of the situation in all of its hideousness.

A follow-up report, in which the site published details from Hardy’s reinstatement hearing before NFL officials, provided still more evidence of just how ill equipped the league was, and is, to serve as its own “shadow justice system.” The proceedings of the hearing, in which Hardy’s lawyers attacked Holder’s honesty, insinuated financial motivation, and questioned her character, all without any significant pushback, serve as perfect evidence of why a victim of domestic violence might be hesitant to tell her story to authorities in the first place.

If there were any lingering doubts about the league’s fitness, and capacity, to fairly adjudicate serious misconduct, this transcript should serve to put them to rest. The National Football League is qualified to judge one thing only: Football ability. Which is why Ray Rice, an in-decline player at an expendable position, continues to sit outside the league, while Greg Hardy, still capable of rushing the quarterback at a high level, is in the running for a contract extension. It’s a league that will always have room for someone, so long as their on-field contribution outweighs their public relations cost, in a very specific, and cynical calculus. “This is what happens when you ask for moral guidance from a bunch of billionaires,” wrote Moskovitz, weeks before publishing the disturbing details of the Hardy case, “They laugh in your face, then get back to counting their money and trying to win at whatever game they’re playing.”

But within that same piece, Moskovitz reminds us that even Hardy, despite the serious violence he’s been accused of, despite his total lack of contrition, is still not completely without humanity. She recounts the words of DeAngelo Williams, a former teammate of Hardy with the Panthers, who was hurt by the organization’s lack of support following the loss of his mother Sandra Hill to breast cancer. “One player came,” said Williams, “Greg Hardy. All the players around the league, all the players in the locker room, they texted and called. But Greg Hardy showed up.”

There is a lesson here, if we care to hear it. It’s about how compassion, and empathy, and support in a time of need come from individuals, not institutions. The Carolina Panthers, the National Football League, the game of football itself, these are just brands, just things, and they feel nothing for DeAngelo Williams, for his mother, for any of the thousands of people who have contributed to make them what they are today. If you want real loyalty, real values, a real connection of any kind, it must come from a person, not a profession.

One of the most eloquent dialogues on the subject of Greg Hardy, came from Jets wide receiver Brandon Marshall, a man with a long history of transgressions, including domestic violence. Marshall, who was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder in 2011, has made it his mission to bring attention to mental health issues, and his commentary on Hardy’s situation was thoughtful, introspective, and humane.

“When I look at Greg and how he’s handled himself on the field and in the locker room, I see a guy that is not aware,” said Marshall on Showtime’s Inside The NFL. “He doesn’t understand the magnitude of what happened last year, what he did and the atmosphere surrounding the NFL. I don’t think that he gets it. I don’t think that he learned his lesson. And he really needs to look himself in the mirror and ask himself, ‘What type of person do I want to be?'”

That ultimately, is the question that needs to be asked. And not simply by Hardy, but by every reporter who covers him, every teammate who takes the field with him, every employee, who works for the team, or the league, where he makes his living. Because it’s the people who are going to determine what happens next. Not the logos, the ad campaigns, the ratings, or the dollars that are all at stake. Sweep that all aside, because in the end it’s always about people and the choices they make. Football can not, will not, and should not be expected to fix itself.

And the sooner we recognize that, the easier it’ll be to make it better.