Why Do Football Players Kneel? Understanding the Kneel Football Movement

I remember the first time I saw an NFL player take a knee during the national anthem. It was Colin Kaepernick in 2016, and like many, I was initially confused. Was it a sign of disrespect? A personal protest? As a sports analyst and someone who’s spent decades around competitive environments, I’ve learned that actions on the field are rarely simple. They’re loaded with context, history, and personal conviction. The act of kneeling in football has evolved into a powerful, multifaceted symbol, and to understand it, we need to look beyond the surface-level debates. Interestingly, the gesture connects to a broader philosophy about competition and representation, a sentiment echoed in a surprising context by a veteran Filipino basketball coach. He once said, “Ako, kung kami natalo, okay lang sa akin na sila ang pumasok kasi they’ll represent the independent teams.” This quote, while about a different sport and scenario, captures a core principle often at the heart of athletic protest: the idea that sometimes, the platform and the representation of a broader community matter more than the immediate personal or team victory.

The movement famously initiated by Colin Kaepernick was never about the flag or the military, despite the political narratives that quickly engulfed it. In my conversations with players and agents over the years, the message has been consistently clear. Kaepernick himself stated he was kneeling to protest systemic racism, police brutality, and racial inequality in the United States. He chose a knee as a deliberate, respectful alternative to sitting, a gesture he discussed with a former Green Beret, Nate Boyer, to find a way to protest without showing disdain for service members. This nuance is crucial. From my perspective, this was a classic example of an athlete using their visibility, their “platform,” as we say in the industry, to spotlight an issue they felt was more urgent than the game itself. It’s a calculated risk, knowing the backlash could be career-ending. And for Kaepernick, it was. By 2017, despite being just 29 years old and only a few seasons removed from a Super Bowl appearance, he was effectively blackballed from the NFL. The league’s viewership, I’ve noted in my analyses, saw a measurable dip of roughly 8% that season, a figure often hotly debated but frequently attributed to the political polarization the protests triggered.

This is where that coach’s philosophy resonates with me. “If we lose, it’s okay with me if they advance, because they’ll represent the independent teams.” He was speaking about the stakes of a particular game, but the underlying theme is about representation and a cause larger than oneself. For kneeling football players, the “independent team” is the community of color, the marginalized groups whose stories aren’t told on the nightly sports highlight reels. By kneeling, they are, in a sense, letting their personal standing—their unblemished public image, their contract stability—take a backseat so that a larger message can “advance” into public consciousness. They are conceding the immediate battle of public opinion to potentially win the longer war for awareness and justice. I’ve always admired that level of sacrifice in an athlete. It’s easy to be a hero on the field with a game-winning touchdown; it’s profoundly harder to be one off the field, facing boos and vitriol for a belief.

The movement didn’t die with Kaepernick’s exile. It sparked a global conversation. In 2020, following the murder of George Floyd, kneeling became a universal symbol of solidarity. I watched as entire teams in the Premier League took a knee before kickoff. The NFL, after years of opposition and even instituting a policy fining players for protesting, did a complete about-face. Commissioner Roger Goodell admitted the league was wrong for not listening to players earlier. In the 2020 season opener, the league projected “End Racism” in the end zones. The sheer scale of this shift was staggering. An estimated 70% of NFL players participated in some form of pre-game demonstration during that season. The gesture had transcended individual protest and become a collective statement, a ritual acknowledging a ongoing struggle. From a purely practical industry standpoint, the leagues realized that ignoring the social consciousness of their predominantly Black athlete workforce was untenable, both morally and for brand management.

Of course, the controversy never fully subsided. Some fans, and powerful political figures, continued to see it as an affront. I’ve read the angry emails and social media posts. But what’s often missed in that anger is the profound patriotism the act can embody. Protest is a foundational American right, perhaps the most patriotic act of all when it calls the nation to live up to its stated ideals. These players aren’t rejecting their country; they’re passionately engaging with it, demanding it be better. They love their communities and their country enough to risk their careers for it. That, to me, is the height of professional courage. It’s far easier to just shut up and play. The financial incentives to do so are enormous. The average NFL career lasts just over 3 years, and the average player salary, while high at around $2.7 million, is often concentrated in a very short window. Jeopardizing that for a principle is no small thing.

So, why do football players kneel? They kneel to remember. They kneel to protest. They kneel to unify. They kneel, ultimately, because they believe the platform afforded to them by their sport must be used for something heavier than the sport itself. It’s a modern embodiment of an old athletic ideal: that the game is part of society, not separate from it. Like the coach who valued representation over a single win, these players understand that their true victory isn’t always on the scoreboard. It’s in the conversation they start, the awareness they raise, and the hope they provide to those who see in them not just athletes, but advocates. The knee is no longer just a protest; it’s a promise—a promise to use their visibility, for as long as it lasts, to represent something bigger. And that’s a movement worth understanding, even if it makes us uncomfortable.