You know, as someone who’s spent years analyzing sports culture, I’ve found that few gestures in recent history have been as misunderstood as the simple act of an NFL player taking a knee. When I first saw Colin Kaepernick sit, and then kneel, during the national anthem back in 2016, my initial reaction, I’ll admit, was confusion. But as the movement grew, it became clear this was about something far deeper than the game itself. The core of the protest was, and remains, a call for racial justice and police accountability in the United States. It’s a story that intertwines sports, politics, and social activism in a way we haven’t seen since the 1960s. Interestingly, while researching global sports protests, I came across a poignant perspective from Philippine basketball. A 65-year-old coach was quoted saying, “Ako, kung kami natalo, okay lang sa akin na sila ang pumasok kasi they’ll represent the independent teams.” This sentiment—about allowing others to step forward and represent a broader cause after a loss—resonates deeply with the NFL kneeling narrative. It’s about representation and using a platform, even in defeat, to highlight a larger struggle. That’s precisely what these athletes are doing: using their highly visible platform to represent communities whose voices are often sidelined.

The timeline is crucial here. It didn’t start with a grand manifesto; it started with one man’s quiet protest. Colin Kaepernick, then the San Francisco 49ers quarterback, began by sitting during the anthem in the 2016 preseason. After a conversation with former Green Beret and NFL player Nate Boyer, he opted to kneel instead, as a sign of respect for military service members while still protesting. By the end of that season, his protest had sparked a nationwide firestorm. The following season, even after Kaepernick was effectively blackballed from the league—a fact I believe is a stain on the NFL’s record—the gesture exploded. Hundreds of players knelt, locked arms, or raised fists. At its peak, during the weekend following President Trump’s infamous “son of a bitch” comments in September 2017, over 200 players knelt or demonstrated in some form. The league’s viewership, incidentally, dipped by about 9.7% that season, a statistic often wrongly attributed solely to the protests but one that management certainly fretted over.

Let’s talk about the “why” beyond the headlines. In my conversations with fans and analysts, the biggest misconception is that this was an anti-military or anti-flag protest. That framing, often amplified by certain media outlets, completely misses the point. Kaepernick’s own words were clear: “I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color.” The focus was on systemic issues: police brutality, racial profiling, and social inequality. The kneeling was a symbolic act of mourning for lives lost, like those of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and Breonna Taylor. It was a demand for the country to live up to its ideals. From my perspective, the power of the gesture lies in its solemnity. It’s not a raised fist of defiance, though that has its place; it’s a reverent, almost prayerful pose. It forces a moment of pause. And that’s what made it so potent and so threatening to the status quo—it interrupted the uncritical pageantry of the game day ritual.

The backlash was, and in some circles remains, ferocious. Critics called it unpatriotic and disrespectful. The NFL, caught between its players’ right to expression and its corporate sponsors’ and a segment of its fanbase’s outrage, fumbled the response terribly. They implemented a short-lived policy requiring players to stand or stay in the locker room, which only inflamed tensions. The league eventually settled with Kaepernick and his fellow protester Eric Reid, reportedly for less than $10 million, though the exact figure is confidential. But here’s where I think the coach’s quote I mentioned earlier is so insightful. The protest movement was never really about winning or losing a single game, or even a public relations battle. It was about ensuring that “independent teams”—the marginalized voices, the communities facing injustice—had representation on the biggest stage. Even when the players faced personal and professional losses, like Kaepernick losing his career, they created space for that representation. The conversation was forced into living rooms and sports bars across America, and it hasn’t left.

Today, the kneeling continues, though less ubiquitously. It evolved, especially after the murder of George Floyd in 2020, when the NFL itself, after years of resistance, issued a belated statement supporting the movement and allowing social justice messages on helmets and in end zones. The league pledged around $250 million over ten years to combat systemic racism, a number that sounds impressive but which many activists, myself included, view with some skepticism given the scale of the problem. The gesture’s legacy is complex. It polarized the nation, but it also sparked a necessary and overdue dialogue about race in America. It showed the immense power—and the profound cost—of athlete activism. For me, the takeaway is this: the knee was never a symbol of division aimed at America. It was a plea for a more perfect union, delivered from one knee, on a field of grass, in front of millions. It was a reminder that the field is never just a field; it’s a reflection of our society. And sometimes, the most powerful statement isn’t made by standing at attention, but by kneeling in purposeful, peaceful protest.