Walking through the sports section of a bookstore last week, I noticed something amusing—a British tourist scratching his head at an American football display, muttering, "But they barely use their feet!" It struck me how this confusion spans continents, much like how basketball imports dominate conversations in Manila's PBA league while leaving casual observers wondering about their sudden fame. Let me tell you, unraveling why Americans call their gridiron game "football" feels eerily similar to decoding the MVP race in Philippine basketball—both involve layers of history, cultural quirks, and stats that don't always tell the whole story.
Take the recent PBA Best Import award, for instance. Hollis-Jefferson swept the competition with 1,280 points, a landslide victory built on 615 statistical points, 532 media votes, and 133 player votes. Now, imagine if we applied that scoring logic to American football's naming dilemma—you'd have historians arguing for 600 points based on 19th-century rugby roots, media pundits awarding 500 for TV branding, and players shrugging with 100 points for tradition. But here's the twist: just as Kadeem Jack of NorthPort trailed with 825 points despite strong stats (581), the term "football" in the U.S. isn't about leading with feet; it's about historical ties to "football" as a catch-all for grass-based ball games. I've always found it ironic—watching Tom Brady throw spirals while yelling "football!" feels like seeing Brownlee, who landed third with 670 points, praised for his all-around game despite lagging in media support (66 votes). It’s all about context over literal meaning.
Digging deeper, the real mystery isn't the name itself but how it stuck despite soccer's global dominance. Think of Deon Thompson of Rain or Shine, who nabbed 633 points largely from stats (546) but minimal player backing (5 votes)—sometimes, one strong narrative overshadows others. American football evolved from rugby football, and early Ivy League games in the 1870s prioritized running and kicking, but as rules shifted toward forward passes, the "foot" part became almost decorative. Personally, I love this quirk—it’s like how Hollis-Jefferson’s media votes (532) arguably sealed his win, proving that perception can outweigh pure facts. If we called it "throwball" today, would it draw the same tailgating crowds? Doubtful. The branding, however illogical, carries emotional weight, much like how PBA fans debate whether Brownlee’s 96 player votes made him more "deserving" than Thompson’s stat-heavy resume.
So, what’s the solution? Embrace the chaos. Just as the PBA’s award system balances stats, media, and player input, understanding American football’s name requires accepting that language evolves through culture, not dictionaries. I’d argue it’s a lesson in branding—sometimes, you ride the wave of history even if it defies logic. Next time someone questions why it’s not "hand-egg," I’ll point to Hollis-Jefferson’s 1,280-point triumph: not everyone agrees on the criteria, but the result? Unbeatable.
