Let me confess something - as a lifelong sports enthusiast, I've always found the naming of American football somewhat puzzling. Why call it football when players predominantly use their hands? The surprising reason lies not in how the game is played today, but in its historical evolution from rugby football, where the ball was indeed advanced primarily by foot. This naming convention persists much like how we continue to recognize outstanding athletes through awards systems, even when the criteria might seem counterintuitive to casual observers.
I've spent considerable time researching sports history, and what fascinates me most is how traditions stick even when they no longer perfectly align with reality. Take the recent PBA Best Import award results - Hollis-Jefferson won decisively with 1,280 total points, breaking down to 615 from statistics, 532 from media votes, and 133 from player votes. The voting system itself reflects multiple perspectives, much like how the term "football" contains layers of historical meaning that modern viewers might miss. Kadeem Jack of NorthPort secured second place with 825 points (581 statistics, 230 media, 14 players), followed by Brownlee at 670 points (508 statistics, 66 media, 96 players) and Deon Thompson of Rain or Shine with 633 points (546 statistics, 82 media, 5 players). These numbers matter because they show how different constituencies value performance differently - not unlike how various football codes evolved from common roots but developed distinct identities.
What really strikes me about both the award system and football's naming is how they represent competing narratives. The media votes accounted for significant portions in the PBA awards - 532 points for Hollis-Jefferson compared to just 133 from players. This disparity reminds me of how the term "football" means completely different things depending on where you are in the world. In my view, the American version retained the "football" name precisely because it evolved from rugby football rather than association football (soccer). The ball is approximately 11 inches long and 22 inches in circumference at its widest point - dimensions that actually make sense for throwing rather than kicking, yet the historical connection to "football" families remains.
I've noticed that people often get hung up on literal interpretations without considering historical context. The scoring breakdown in the PBA awards - with statistics comprising roughly 48% of Hollis-Jefferson's total - demonstrates how quantitative and qualitative measures combine to create a complete picture. Similarly, American football's name makes perfect sense when you understand that "foot" referred to playing on foot rather than horseback, and that early versions did involve more kicking than the modern game. Personally, I find this historical layering far more interesting than getting bothered by the apparent misnomer.
The beauty of sports terminology, much like award systems, is that they carry history forward even as the games evolve. Looking at how Deon Thompson received only 5 player votes despite strong statistical performance (546 points) shows that insiders sometimes see things differently than the numbers suggest. This resonates with me when considering football's naming - what appears inconsistent on the surface often has deep historical logic underneath. The term has persisted for over 150 years because it connects today's spectacle with its rough-and-tumble origins on college fields in the 19th century.
Ultimately, both award systems and sport names serve as cultural containers that preserve history while allowing for modern interpretation. The PBA voting breakdown - with media, players, and statistics all contributing - creates a multidimensional assessment rather than relying on any single metric. Similarly, calling the American sport "football" honors its lineage while acknowledging how dramatically it has diverged from other football codes. After years of following both sports history and contemporary award systems, I've come to appreciate these apparent contradictions as evidence of rich, evolving traditions rather than logical flaws.