‍Abstract

This essay weaves together personal narrative with affect theory to unveil the rhetorical structures of how and why athletes are compelled to play through physical and mental pain. Centered around my experience as a collegiate athlete, this hybrid essay analyzes the pressures and cultural standards that have been deeply ingrained in athletics in our current cultural-historical context. Drawing on personal moments of myself and teammates playing through injuries, I will use autotheory as a method to depict how an athlete’s decision to “play through pain” emerges from values placed on toughness, passion, and camaraderie.

Simultaneously, drawing on Teressa Brennan’s book The Transmission of Affect and Jenny Godley and Genevieve Jessiman-Perreault’s research on the term “the sports ethic”, I will demonstrate how affect theory illuminates a plethora of dimensions that can implicitly control athletes’ feelings and decision making. Emotions such as adrenaline in big moments, the shame associated with perceived weakness, and the desire to play for teammates operate rhetorically to motivate athletes to continue pushing through discomfort. Through this, I will not look at my experience playing through injuries as strictly negative, but rather reframe them as illustrative to educate athletes on the toxic, affective ecology of athletic culture. The combined angles accessible through the connection of autotheory and affect theory will disclose how a rugged athletic culture is maintained socially to be reproduced within individual athletes. This essay explores how, despite coaches’ frequent emphasis on players’ “knowing their limits,” many athletes continue to ignore such advice. And not because of bravery, but rather because of the fear of showing vulnerability and being seen as a failure in an environment that consistently characterizes success as a trait in athletes above all else. And despite success being essential for coaches, owners, fans, and anybody else associated with sports organizations and programs, this auto-theoretical approach examines how athletes draw from within to perform not just to win, but to prove a sense of self-worth to themselves.

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As I stepped off our team bus, fog filled the sky, and my eyes as our seven-hour bus ride finally came to an end. The grass was slick with dew. Puddles collected in the infield dirt. It was not a prototypical day to play baseball, but it was what I began to tolerate playing in the Northeast. I trudged over to the bullpen with wind whistling while I wished I had worn my long johns. First pitch was not for three hours, and yet my shoulder was already aching. It could be best described as a twinge, a feeling worsened by any overhand movement — most notably, throwing a pitch. I’m surrounded by fellow pitchers in the bullpen. Fellow athletes whose identities — like my own — are inseparable from the persona they exhibit beyond the chalky white foul line. I looked around and recalled prior conversations with my teammates in the days leading up, remembering I am not alone in my discomfort. Discussions of a sore elbow, a sprained shoulder, a splinted finger, all not deemed serious enough to consider the notion to rest, even if it is just for a game. Instead, we all labored through our pregame stretching and collectively consumed enough Advil to empty a small bottle. 

And then came first pitch. 

This cycle repeated until we reached the end of our season, and our bodies were mercifully allowed to rest. As an athlete, the capacity to play is interwoven with our images of self. In order to deserve to feel respect and worth, I have to play. No matter the pain. If my body allows me to perform, I will. 

In this essay, I draw from Teresa Brennan’s theory of the transmission of affect to reveal the thoroughly entrenched cultural standards within sports that pushes athletes to play through pain. I will focus on Brennan’s definition of affect transmittion amongst groups, while also tying in my personal relationship with affect. I argue that affect acts rhetorically to persuade athletes to place their well-being at risk in an attempt to maintain a self-image reliant on actively playing. Furthermore, I investigate the rhetorical ability of affect to reproduce a rugged athletic culture that prioritizes toughness; visible through conformity that has prevailed even as coaches and programs continue to devote more time and resources towards the health and well-being of their players. 

Every athlete is part of a group. Group dynamics can be seen traditionally in football and baseball, where large rosters compete simultaneously. But they are also visible in sports where individuals compete on an island but have a gaggle of players to push them in practice — as in tennis and golf. It’s even apparent in a sport like boxing – where individuals are surrounded by a team of coaches and trainers. Brennan simply describes a group as “two or more people” but complicates this definition by adding, “The theory of the transmission of affect is always and already, given this definition, a theory of the group. But it is also a theory of the group based on what is produced by the ‘group,’ as well as the individuals within it” (51). Brennan argues that groups create shared emotions, where such emotions can emerge from the group as a whole or individuals within the group. In other words, emotions and affects are relational, and are rarely, if ever, the sole “property” of an individual. In athletic groups, I argue the rhetorical power lies in the hands of a fierce culture, which suppresses emotion, asks you to eliminate discomfort, and value success and winning above all else: In our case, the mental and physical wellbring of players. Brennan continues, “the emotions of two are not the same as the emotions of one. If I emit one emotion and you emit another, we may both take onboard the effects of this new composite” (51). When two people engage rhetorically with one another, their emotions combine and become something altogether different than what the individual felt alone. For instance, if I feel pain and express my desire to rest to my teammate who is masking his discomfort, such conflicting emotional makeups will merge and create new emotions altogether. Perhaps I notice the reluctance of a teammate, and adopt his play through pain attitude. Or perhaps my teammate becomes more open to a dialogue regarding healthy pain management. However, in my experience the former is much likeler than the latter. 

Jenny Godley and Genevieve Jessiman-Perreault look at the term “the sports ethic” as a framework for their research on why athletes play through pain. “The sports ethic” was originally coined by Robert Hughes and Jay Coakley to “synthesize the core norms that participants use to identify themselves as members of sports culture,” (2). They identify four main elements of the sports ethic: “making sacrifices for the game; striving for distinction; accepting risks and playing through the pain; and refusing to accept limits in the pursuit of possibilities” (2). All four components powerfully influence decision-making, resulting in them being deeply rhetorical. And thus rendering themselves at the forefront of affect within athletic groups.

Now, competitive high-level sports have inherent safety risks. Resulting “pain and injuries are almost inevitable for serious athletes in highly competitive sports realms,” (Nixon 340). A 99-mph fastball to the back may cause lasting spinal damage, repeated head trauma in football can result in permanent brain damage, and a sprained ankle in basketball can linger for an entire career. Athletes implicitly and explicitly accept such risks when “the sports ethic” is rhetorically motivating them to continue playing despite the increased risk they are presenting to their physical and mental wellbeing.

Ronnie Lott — a hard-nosed safety known for his pivotal role in the San Francisco 49ers dynasty in the late 1980s and early 1990s and Pro Football Hall of Fame Inductee in 2000 — had his finger amputated in 1986 to avoid the recovery time that would have resulted from reconstructive surgery. The uppermost joint of his pinky is gone. According to Sports Illustrated, “The decision has since been simplified in pro football lore as heroic, the extreme act of a warrior — or maybe just a football lunatic.” This vigorous example reflects the rhetoric built into the reckless and somewhat dangerous culture behind football. All four aspects of “the sports ethic” were checked off by Lott when he decided to remove part of his pinky: sacrificing for his team, striving for greatness, playing through pain, and refusing limitations. Immediately after the surgery, Lott regretted his decision. After the rhetorical pull of group affect wore off post-operation, Lott thought “‘Oh man, I should have had the pin put in’ and went on to say “we are losing the compassionate side of sports” (Klemko). Lott, a hero to many, felt unheroic when the pressure to overcome pain resulted in his body becoming deformed. Although the amputation allowed him to stay on the field, his well-being was sidelined by the transmission of affect in football culture.

In Major League Baseball, a milder culture exists compared to football. However, professional athletes still commonly trudge through injury. Famously, Los Angeles Dodgers outfielder Kirk Gibson battled a strained left hamstring and swollen right knee when he came off the bench in game one of the 1988 World Series to hit a walk-off home run. Boston Red Sox starting pitcher Curt Schilling notably tore a tendon sheath in his right ankle and had it temporarily sutured to his skin, leading to his iconic bloody sock performance in the 2004 ALCS against the New York Yankees. Schilling led the Red Sox back from a 3-0 series deficit.

Renowned moments such as these expose how an athlete’s choices are never solely individual. And as Brennan argues, affect moves between us at all times. The emotional, winner-take-all atmosphere of professional sports almost compels athletes to normalize playing through pain to reach a standardized expectation: winning. And although Gibson and Schilling’s careers were not affected in the long term, their decisions disclose how the rhetorical pulls of adrenaline, expectation, hope, and desire to be the hero push them to sacrifice their own well-being for the larger group. 

The stories of Gibson and Schilling and their post-season performance are unfortunately not universal for other athletes being influenced by their groups and environments to play through pain. The first pitch I threw my junior year of high school, I knew something was wrong. I had taken the summer off and consequently had not kept up with any throwing or ramp-up program. Nevertheless, I persuaded our coach to let me throw day one because I felt “good” – a complete fallacy. After my first pitch, I felt my elbow pop – a sudden shock I can best compare to a rubber band snapping when it’s just stretched too far. Yet this was my first opportunity to perform in front of a new group: the varsity team and the accompanying first-year head coach. I shielded my emotions from the group. I did not say anything. I kept pitching. I wanted to be the hero, even in a scrimmage – a setting where stats were not being kept, and wins and losses were not tracked. Personal pride and group pressure pushed me to continue competing through immense pain. In contrast to Gibson and Schilling, I severely underperformed. My velocity was down. Every other pitch, my neck whipped around to track a ball landing in the gap. I was not a hero; even worse, I felt like a failure. Later that week, I discovered my UCL was partially torn. I missed my entire junior year. 

For Gibson, Schilling, myself, and all athletes who have risked major strain for the thrill of victory, I argue that winning is not the primary motivator. Personally, the possibility of appearing vulnerable and weak to teammates, coaches, and fans propelled me to play. This was done out of fear, where bravery and winning served as masquerades to the paramount rhetorical factor. 

Brennan believes “the individual is ‘no longer himself, but has become an automaton who has ceased to be guided by his will’” in group environments (54). The emotions and desires of the group outweigh the agency of the individual. In other environments, resting until the body is at full health is encouraged. A doctor would not perform surgery weeks after having their elbow surgically reconstructed, an engineer would not continue their career-long project a day after being diagnosed with a concussion, and a student who is under the weather is encouraged to miss class until they feel healthy. But within athletics, what is common knowledge in many other fields is considered a way out. Sitting out is seen as a way to escape responsibility while you crumble at the sight of adversity, while athletes who play through pain emerge as heroes. There is no middle ground: be a hero or be weak. But attempting to be a hero can backfire, as I have seen firsthand. You can play poorly and even risk your career. There is no healthy medium compared to other groups in their respective fields. 

Brennan, thinking on the control of affect, explains, “we know today that by various processes an individual may be brought into such a condition that, having entirely lost his conscious personality, he obeys all suggestions of the operator who has deprived him of it, and commits acts in utter contradiction with his character and habits” (54). Moments like this occur all the time in athletic group settings. For example, off the mound I am very relaxed, am low-tempered, and would rather laugh off a problem than confront it. But on the mound, one move from a batter that I deem “disrespectful” turns me into a maniac I didn’t even know existed: a frantic persona I could never perform outside of the diamond. Examples like this appear across the board in athletics. Athletes conduct themselves in polar opposite manners. Brennan’s theory of affect helps identify why such a shift occurs. The athlete does not transform in isolation, but in a competitive environment furthered by their group. The affect overpowers the original sense of self, allowing the game to reinvent the individual for a moment. The same logic can be applied to analyze how affect persuades athletes to play through pain. They become only a minute manifestation of themselves away from their athletic group. The rhetorical pulls of competing, maintaining a brave image, and a powerful desire to not seem weak, invoke a new agency within athletes outside of their own consciousness; therefore demonstrating the power of

affect. 

In recent years, there has been a trend within athletics for coaches to prioritize a healthy culture — with football potentially withstanding. My current coach reminds us at the start of every week to alert him if we are feeling any pain or discomfort —no matter how small — so we can actively handle the problem. And despite that, my teammates and I continue to play through our various injuries. Just this past year, my teammate fought through elbow pain the second half of the season, only to realize in the off-season that he needed Tommy John surgery — total reconstructive surgery of the elbow that requires a 10-12-month recovery timeline. Another teammate battled through discomfort in our spring season and through summer ball, only to be diagnosed with bicep tendonitis and miss the entire fall. Although coaches directly tell us not to play through pain, we do. The power of the unsaid overshadows what is said.

 I believe this stems from decades of coaches and medical professionals feeding into the affective beast by furthering the need for athletes to fight through discomfort at the risk of seeming weak — which, for many years, especially in football, they would have been. In the 2011 NBA Playoffs, Boston Celtics point guard Rajon Rondo dislocated his left shoulder in the third quarter and had it popped back into place to play in the fourth quarter despite barely using his left hand. After the game, Celtics chief medical officer Brian P. Mckeon said, “Part of what makes an athlete an athlete is the ability to play through pain” (Brogan, 2012). Such examples have left an implicit and explicit trickle-down effect on athletes who consume professional media. Growing up, I was consistently told to “rub some dirt on it” and play through smaller injuries. When I was fourteen and about to enter high school, I had been dealing with pain in my left foot for over six months. Applying the “rub some dirt on it” logic, I never missed a game. It was only a little discomfort; I couldn’t sit out for that. I wanted to continue playing with my teammates who never showed their painful emotions. I wanted to appear brave. I wanted to show I could rub a little dirt on it and keep going. As I continued to play, the pain worsened. After one game, I could not take my cleats off. Later, I found out my foot was fractured. My sesamoid bone split in half. I was out for eight months. The notion to keep playing, mixed with anecdotes from professional athletes, profoundly impacted my desire to play through pain as I developed my sense of self as an athlete. Even now, despite medical professionals and coaches prioritizing athletes' health over teams’ success, athletes are continually influenced to put their bodies – both physically and mentally – at risk.

For athletes playing through pain, power lies in what is unsaid. An unsaid silence, forcing you to react more powerfully than words ever could. The power of affect in athletes; formulating an atmosphere and environment where the unspoken rules the spoken. Where rhetoric persuasively moves by acting on athletes' insecurities to inspire a false sense of bravery. A bravery that is driven by a fear of vulnerability, which cannot emerge even as a sliver of light,

but has to remain a dark, stagnant force. Athletes should not feel influenced by their groups to make a decision based out of fear. Their decision to play through pain should be rooted in confidence, and bolstered by affects rhetorical ability to empower adrenaline and seek out success in a healthy, competitive atmosphere. 

In the future, I implore athletes not to let the rhetorical prowess of groups, crowds, and modern media influence their decisions to play. I urge them to look inward and do what is best for themselves. Athletes are the only ones with the power to make everlasting change; it starts with not letting fear of seeming weak or vulnerable control them. Instead, athletes must bravely traverse into the future with their best interests in mind. Knowing that no matter how they perform, or whether or not they play, they are worthy and valuable. 

Micah Rodriguez is a junior at Oberlin College majoring in Anthropology and Communication Studies with Integrative Concentrations in Journalism and Business. His desire to understand the force of affect on athletes stems from his lifelong experience with baseball; he is currently a member of the varsity baseball team. He enjoys building Legos, watching Lord of the Rings, and believing this is finally the Yankees’ year.

Works Cited

Brennan, Teresa. The Transmission of Affect Teresa Brennan. Cornell University Press, 2015.

Brogan, Jan. “Athletes Play through Pain at Their Own Peril.” The Boston Globe, 1 Oct. 2012, https://www.bostonglobe.com/lifestyle/health-wellness/2012/09/30/playing- through-pain/64tamog9T1KqLbopctWL8J/story.html.  

Jessiman-Perreault, Geneviève, and Godley, Jenny. “Playing through the Pain: A University-Based Study of Sports Injury.” Advances in Physical Education, vol. 6, no. 3, 2016, pp. 178-194, http://dx.doi.org/10.4236/ape.2016.63020.

Harrison, Elliot. “Playing through the Pain.” NFL.com, 20 Sept. 2011, www.nfl.com/photos/playing-through-the-pain-09000d5d8226c082. 

Klemko, Robert. “Ronnie Lott’s Amputated Pinkie Finger.” Sports Illustrated, 17 June 2014, www.si.com/nfl/2014/06/17/nfl-history-in-95-objects-ronnie-lott-amputated-pinkie-finger.

Nixon, Howard L. “Social Pressure, Social Support, and Help Seeking for Pain and Injuries in College Sports Networks.” Journal of Sport and Social Issues,vol. 18, no. 4, pp. 340-355, http://dx.doi.org/10.1177/019372394018004004.