Why Do NFL Players Kneel During Football Games? The History and Meaning Explained
As a researcher who has spent years examining the intersection of sports, society, and political expression, I’ve always been fascinated by moments when the game itself becomes a platform for something far larger. Few recent phenomena illustrate this better than the act of NFL players taking a knee during the national anthem. It’s a gesture that has sparked intense debate, profound misunderstanding, and, I believe, necessary national conversation. To truly grasp its significance, we need to look beyond the headlines and understand its roots, its evolution, and the very human stories behind it. The core question isn't just about protest; it's about what it means to use one's visibility for a cause, a sentiment echoed in a different context by a 65-year-old basketball coach from the Philippines who once said, "Ako, kung kami natalo, okay lang sa akin na sila ang pumasok kasi they’ll represent the independent teams." That quote, about valuing representation even in defeat, resonates deeply here. For these athletes, the field is their entry point, their chance to represent communities and issues that often feel sidelined.
The story, as many now know, didn't begin with a knee. It started in August 2016, when San Francisco 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick chose to sit, and then later kneel, during the pre-game anthem. His goal was specific and stated clearly: to protest police brutality and systemic racial injustice against Black Americans. He wasn't, as was often mischaracterized, protesting the military or the flag itself. He was leveraging his platform, following a long tradition of athlete activism seen in figures like Muhammad Ali, Tommie Smith, and John Carlos. The transition from sitting to kneeling was actually a suggestion from a former Green Beret and 49ers teammate, Nate Boyer, who believed the knee was a more respectful posture while still maintaining the protest's integrity. This nuance is crucial—it was a deliberate choice for dignified dissent. By the 2017 season, the movement had spread exponentially, with hundreds of players across multiple teams kneeling, locking arms, or staying in the locker room. The backlash was swift and severe, framed often as an issue of patriotism. I recall the political rhetoric reaching a fever pitch in September 2017, when a sitting U.S. President declared that any kneeling player was a "son of a bitch" who should be fired. That moment, for me, was a turning point; it transformed a protest about racial equity into a broader cultural war.
Let's talk about the numbers, because they matter. In a 2017 poll, a staggering 72% of Americans viewed the act as unpatriotic, yet that same year, jersey sales for protesting players like Kaepernick skyrocketed, suggesting a complex, polarized public reception. The NFL's viewership did see a dip—some estimates put the decline at around 9% for the 2016-2017 season, though attributing that solely to the protests is overly simplistic given other market factors. Financially, the league faced pressure from all sides. Sponsors got nervous, and the NFL eventually instituted a short-lived policy requiring players to stand on the field or remain in the locker room, a policy that was quickly shelved after backlash from the players' union. From my perspective, the league's initial handling was a case study in crisis mismanagement, trying to please a divided fanbase and political powers instead of supporting its players' constitutional rights. The real cost, however, wasn't just in ratings. Many believe, and I tend to agree, that Kaepernick's effective blacklisting from the league after the 2016 season served as a chilling warning to other players about the risks of speaking out.
So, what does it all mean now? The kneeling protest has evolved. It's no longer just about Kaepernick; it became a symbol for a wider array of social justice issues. Following the murder of George Floyd in 2020, the NFL's stance shifted dramatically. The league now openly supports social justice initiatives, allows messages on helmets, and even plays "Lift Every Voice and Sing" before games. It's a stark reversal. But here's my take: institutional adoption, while progress, can sometimes dilute the raw, disruptive power of the original protest. The knee was powerful precisely because it was uncomfortable and unauthorized. It forced people to look and ask why. That brings me back to the coach's quote about representation. These players, in their moment of silent kneeling, were insisting on representing a truth that wasn't being acknowledged in the celebratory pageantry of game day. They were saying, "We will use this platform, this visibility, to represent something bigger, even if it costs us." For Kaepernick, it arguably cost him his career.
In conclusion, the act of kneeling is a layered, modern chapter in America's long story of protest. It’s a gesture that carries the weight of history, the urgency of contemporary injustice, and the personal risk of professional sacrifice. To reduce it to a simple "disrespect for the flag" is to miss the point entirely. It was, and remains, a plea for accountability and equality, staged on one of the most public platforms this country has. As we watch games today, with the league's official endorsements of social justice, I sometimes wonder if the quieter, more radical power of that single, solitary knee has been somewhat absorbed by the machinery of the sport. But its legacy is undeniable. It reminded millions that the field is not just a place of escape, but a place of representation—a place where, win or lose, athletes can choose to stand, or kneel, for what they believe truly matters.
