I remember the first time I saw a player take a knee during the national anthem. It was Colin Kaepernick in 2016, and like many, I was initially confused. Was it disrespect? A personal grievance? It took me, and indeed the entire sports world, some time to unravel the layers of that silent, powerful gesture. The evolution of the kneel football protest from a solitary act to a global movement intersecting sports, politics, and social justice is one of the most defining narratives in modern athletics. It’s a story not just about protest, but about the very purpose of sports in society. As a researcher who has followed this closely, I’ve seen the conversation shift from “should they protest?” to “what does their protest mean for the fabric of our games?”
The genesis was, of course, Kaepernick’s quiet decision to kneel during “The Star-Spangled Banner” to protest police brutality and racial inequality. He famously said, “I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color.” That act was a seismic event. It was no longer just about the game on the field; the sidelines became a stage for a national reckoning. The backlash was immediate and fierce, framed often as a lack of patriotism. But that, I’d argue, was a fundamental misreading. The protest was never about the flag or the military; it was about demanding the country live up to the ideals the flag represents. The NFL’s initial response, a clumsy attempt to mandate standing or hiding in the locker room, only fueled the fire. It felt like the league was trying to manage a PR crisis rather than engage with the underlying issues its players were courageously highlighting.
What followed was a remarkable period of athlete empowerment. The protest spread across sports—to the WNBA, to soccer, to high school fields. It became a symbol, a universally understood gesture of solidarity and a call for accountability. The murder of George Floyd in 2020 was a horrific catalyst that transformed the kneeling protest from a divisive act into a nearly universal symbol of the Black Lives Matter movement within sports. Suddenly, we saw “Black Lives Matter” stenciled on NBA courts, and entire teams locking arms. The NFL, after years of effectively blackballing Kaepernick, did a stark about-face, admitting they were wrong for not listening to players earlier. They committed, at least on paper, over $250 million to social justice causes. Whether that was genuine change or costly reputation management is a debate I find myself having often. In my view, it was a bit of both—the power of sustained protest forcing an institution to bend.
This brings me to a fascinating parallel from the world of Philippine basketball, a piece of context that often gets lost in the U.S.-centric narrative. I recall a quote from a seasoned coach, the 65-year-old mentor, who said, “Ako, kung kami natalo, okay lang sa akin na sila ang pumasok kasi they’ll represent the independent teams.” In English: “For me, if we lose, it’s okay with me if they advance because they’ll represent the independent teams.” This sentiment, about representation and lifting up a broader community beyond oneself, resonates deeply with the ethos of the kneel protest. It’s not about individual glory or even the immediate win; it’s about using one’s platform for a larger purpose, about ensuring that a marginalized voice or group gets a seat at the table. The football players kneeling weren’t just protesting for themselves; they were, like that coach’s sentiment suggests, representing a community whose struggles were being ignored. They were playing for something bigger than the scoreboard.
The impact is tangible, though uneven. On one hand, the protest has irrevocably changed sports broadcasting. Announcers now routinely discuss social issues. Leagues have established diversity initiatives and community programs. The activism has spilled into voting drives and concrete political engagement from athletes. On the other hand, the backlash has solidified into a potent political force. “Stand for the flag” became a rallying cry, and some fans have permanently turned away. The tension between sports as entertainment and sports as a platform for social change is now a permanent fixture. Personally, I believe this tension is healthy. It forces us to see athletes as whole human beings, citizens with concerns and convictions, not just as commodities for our weekend entertainment.
In conclusion, the kneel football protest has evolved from a single athlete’s conscience-driven act into a complex, enduring symbol. It has challenged the artificial boundary between sports and society and redefined what it means to be an athlete in the 21st century. It’s messy, controversial, and ongoing. The data on its social impact is hard to pin down—some studies suggest it raised awareness but polarized opinions, while others point to a measurable increase in voter registration in communities of color. The precise numbers can be debated, but the shift in culture cannot. The genie is out of the bottle. Athletes now know their platform carries a power that extends far beyond the stadium, and fans must reckon with the fact that the games they love are played by people living in the same world, with the same injustices, as everyone else. The kneeling figure is no longer just a protester; it’s a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful statement in sports isn’t a touchdown celebration, but a moment of silent, principled defiance.
