Culture
New NFL kickoff rules could bring excitement … and chaos: 'It's going to be a s— show'
The NFL’s new kickoff rules are expected to revive one of the most exciting plays in the game while decreasing the risk of injury with fewer high-speed collisions. The plan is for the XFL-style setup to open up possibilities for return men.
Unless it doesn’t.
One factor that could limit what return teams do is the NFL allowing the coverage unit to begin its pursuit when the ball hits the ground or when the returner touches the ball (like in the XFL). The XFL had too many false starts and misjudgments of when the ball was possessed. The coverage team would try to time its start with when the returner picked up the ball, but it often jumped early, disrupting the game flow.
“The rules basically incentivize you to kick the … weirdest, s—tiest kicks you can kick,” one NFL special teams coach told The Athletic. “Any ball that can hit the ground is now artificial hangtime. And so the rules are incentivizing variations of squibs and wild kicks. And it’s going to be a s— show.”
GO DEEPER
Making sense of NFL’s new kickoff rule and what it means for next season
Part of the reason for the major changes in kickoffs was to make the play a spectacle again, but if teams can consistently get the ball on the ground and muck up the play, the league may consider adjusting this rule. In practice, teams have found that when the ball hits the ground, it’s nearly impossible to block anyone.
This is partially why the Kansas City Chiefs are experimenting with former rugby star Louis Rees-Zammit and safety Justin Reid as kickers. The kicks don’t have to be high quality, and a bad one that lands in the proper zone can create this artificial hangtime.
(Drew Jordan / The Athletic)
The other reason is that kickers are more involved in tackles. Longtime Chiefs special teams coordinator Dave Toub estimated that XFL kickers were involved in 25 to 40 percent of tackles on kickoffs — even if they weren’t making the tackles themselves, they had to do their part in making the returner change direction. Considering how valuable a good kicker is, special teams coaches may want to keep them out of harm’s way.
There was some creativity with return teams in the XFL, but a majority were vanilla and there weren’t a lot of big returns. Adding a second returner and having better-quality players to work with could open up the possibility for more creativity. But there’s a chance that once the new rules are being used, there won’t be much willingness to deviate from regular returns. Special teams coaches are conservative by nature because their units’ blunders are often magnified.
Despite the potential for the new rules to be a dud, there’s still plenty to be optimistic about because coaches used OTAs and will use training camp to find the best strategies. While some teams may want to play it safe, plenty will be trying to find advantages.
Teams know the new rules can open up a world of strategy. Special teams coaches will keep working on it into the season, but one thing is for sure: everyone is still learning. After OTAs, teams know more, but the experimenting and information-gathering process is ongoing.
“The team that figures it out kickoff-wise and kickoff return-wise is going to excel early,” Toub said in May. “We want to be that team.”
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The Chiefs embrace outside-the-box thinking under head coach Andy Reid, which is why it was interesting that they signed Rees-Zammit. Toub said they’ve tried Rees-Zammit out as both a kicker and returner.
The new kickoff format requires a different type of returner. Returners typically have been small, shifty and good in open space. Now, with every member of the coverage unit on one line, more running back body types will be returning the ball. New returners will have to be able to get upfield, break arm tackles and get through the first level, like they would when running through an offensive line. Also, since the NFL will allow two returners rather than one as the XFL did, the returner who doesn’t get the ball must be a good blocker.
The Rees-Zammit signing got me thinking about whether some rugby strategy can be applied to the new kickoff return. I reached out to some rugby coaches and an NFL special teams coordinator to see if some of these ideas are feasible. I spoke to Golden State Retrievers head coach Kelly Griffin, former U.S. national rugby team head coach Gary Gold and former English rugby star Mike Tindall.
The new kickoff format gives the returner more space because the kickoff team can’t start until the ball is caught or hits the ground. So there’s a buffer for some creative actions with the returners initially.
One interesting idea that came up was using what is called a switch.
😍 Not much better than when a classic switch play comes off!pic.twitter.com/8EtuOuuE8k
— Planet Rugby (@PlanetRugby) January 11, 2024
Griffin drew up a play in which the return team would leave one of the inside coverage team players unblocked, have the returner draw him in one direction and then execute the switch. It would resemble a hook-and-ladder play in football.
(Drew Jordan / The Athletic)
The first XFL touchdown return was essentially a switch, but if you leave one coverage player unblocked like in Griffin’s design, you can get a double team at the point of attack or a blocker on the kicker. Also, this could be easier to execute with a second returner because he would be closer to the returner catching the ball and might even be able to get in position for an option-style pitch.
An NFL special teams coach I talked to thought throwbacks would be much more prevalent.
“I like throwbacks because they’re very low-risk,” he said. “So I feel like you’ll see more throwbacks this year than the last 20 years combined.”
It’s time for the 𝕎𝕖𝕖𝕜 𝟙𝟚 ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕪 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕖𝕖𝕜.
We give you @UMichFootball‘s @mikebarrett_MB1-to-@AJHenning3 trick play kick return TD. 💥
📍 @OldTrapper pic.twitter.com/91rqNCfqgm
— Big Ten Network (@BigTenNetwork) November 21, 2021
There will be more distance for the returners to recover if there is a botched execution on a throwback, but the blockers up front will have more chaotic jobs because once the coverage team starts, there are only about 5 yards between them. There isn’t much time to pass off twists and switch releases.
“Every time we practice, we learn something new,” Toub said. “I draw up a play and it looks great on paper — and you can’t do it. You can’t get to certain blocks you think you can get to, so you throw it out. And it’s (on to) the next thing.”
One coach compared trying to block the coverage team to trying to cover receivers in the low red zone where teams play a lot of man and have to have techniques or systems to pass off switch releases.
The blocking up front will be key to whether teams can get creative on the back end. Still, the idea of leaving one man free for a potential lateral or option pitch is interesting if the returners can get in position and everyone else can be reasonably blocked.
A positive is that teams have gotten a good number of repetitions in practice because of the low impact and shorter distance players now have to run on kickoffs. The special teams staffs that come up with the most effective ways to kick the ball, cover, block and return will have big advantages over teams that lag behind. The learning process will surely extend throughout the season as well.
(Top illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; photos: Dan Mullan / The RFU Collection and Justin Tafoya / Getty Images)
Now that we’ve memorized the first half of our poem, let’s learn a little more about the man who wrote it. (Haven’t memorized anything yet? Click here to start at the beginning.)
For most of his life, Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-73) was a star. He was widely read, quoted, argued over and gossiped about, achieving a level of fame that few writers now — and not many then — could contemplate. His New York Times obituary did not hesitate to call him “the foremost poet of his generation.”
Celebrity of that kind is ephemeral, but Auden’s words have continued to circulate in the half century since his death. Maybe you’ve heard some of them before. In the 1994 film “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” his poem “Funeral Blues” is recited by Matthew (John Hannah) over the casket of his lover, Gareth (Simon Callow).
In the Gen-X touchstone “Before Sunrise” (1995), Jesse (Ethan Hawke) regales Celine (Julie Delpy) with an impression of Dylan Thomas reading Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening.”
In both these scenes, the characters use Auden’s poetry to give voice to a longing for which they otherwise might not have words. Auden’s poetry is often useful in that way. It speaks to recognizable human occasions, and it isn’t always all about him.
“The More Loving One” might not be something you’d quote at a funeral or on a date, but it is almost effortlessly quotable — the perfect expression of a thought you never knew you had:
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Ken Burns, filmmaker
The word “I” occurs five times in this stanza, but we don’t know much about the person speaking. His personality is camouflaged and revealed by craft.
Auden, born in the northern English cathedral city of York, began practicing that craft as a schoolboy, and honed it at Oxford. Not long after graduating in 1928, he was anointed by critics and readers as the great hope of modern English poetry. A charismatic, divisive figure, he gathered acolytes, imitators and haters.
He swam in the intellectual and ideological crosscurrents of the 1930s, drawing Marxism, psychoanalysis and mystical nationalism into his writing. Assimilating a daunting array of literary influences — Old English and Ancient Greek, French chansons and Icelandic sagas — he forged a poetic personality that was bold, confiding and seductive.
His love poems of that era were candid, discreet dispatches from a calendar of feverish entanglements, wrenching breakups and one-night stands, usually with other men. He also wrote about the feverish politics of the time — class conflict; the rise of fascism; the Spanish Civil War — in ringing rhetoric he later disavowed.
In 1939 Auden moved to America, acquiring U.S. citizenship after World War II. In New York he fell in love with Chester Kallman, a young American writer who became his life partner.
It was a complicated relationship, starting as a passionate affair and enduring through decades of domestic companionship and creative collaboration. Kallman’s refusal to be sexually exclusive wounded Auden, a dynamic that poignantly shades this poem’s most memorable couplet:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Yiyun Li, writer
In America, Auden distanced himself from the radical politics of his earlier career and embraced Anglican Christianity. His intellectual preoccupations shifted toward religion and existentialism — to the kinds of big questions we think about late at night, or when we look to the sky.
Making the leap from wunderkind to grand old man without seeming to stop in middle age, he became a mentor for several generations of younger poets. He was a prolific and punctual contributor of reviews and essays to various publications, including this one, for which he wrote a rave of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Fellowship of the Ring” in 1954.
Through it all, Auden devoted fanatical attention to the finer points of poetic technique. His notebooks are full of numbers, word lists and markings that show just how deep this commitment went. He counted every syllable, measured every stress.
He gathered rhymes and other words with a lexicographer’s zeal and a crossword puzzler’s precision.
The third stanza of “The More Loving One” is a miniature showcase of Auden’s skill. Of the four epigrams arrayed before us, it may be the most technically perfect.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
W.H. Auden, poet
The rhythm is flawless, without an extra syllable or an accent out of place. The grammar is also fastidious. Here is a single sentence, springloaded with equivocation, beginning with one idea and sliding toward its opposite.
This quatrain is the poem’s ideal formal representation of itself, a kind of proof of concept: four lines of impeccable iambic tetrameter in an AABB rhyme scheme. The by-the-book regularity of this stanza should give you a leg up in memorizing it, and you can test yourself below!
But the rest of the poem is an argument against perfection, just as it is a celebration of uncertainty and humility — as we’ll see tomorrow.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Your first task: Learn the first two lines!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
PERMANENCE, by Sophie Mackintosh
Sophie Mackintosh’s novels are always speculative in some way, with either the author or her characters forging a world governed by its own logic and rules. In their boldness and their ability to convey the violence of patriarchy, they recall the work of Jacqueline Harpman — not only the cherished “I Who Have Never Known Men,” but also “Orlanda,” her wild riff on Virginia Woolf’s “Orlando.”
Like Harpman, Mackintosh has a spare and confident hand. Her work is sometimes described as dreamlike; certainly, its contours are sketched with rapidity and confidence and relatively little detail. Her prose operates according to the same principle, at once lyrical and precise, like this from her second novel, “Blue Ticket”: “On the ground was a dead rabbit, disemboweled. Still fresh, the dark loops of its insides glistening like jam.”
When Mackintosh writes about masculine power, she does so in a way that articulates both its seductions and its terrors. Her newest novel, “Permanence,” is less explicitly concerned with the structure of patriarchy, but it has the same erotic charge as her earlier work, the same preoccupation with social prohibitions and the thrill that comes from breaking them.
Like “Blue Ticket,” “Permanence” turns on a highly pronounced binary. In “Blue Ticket,” adolescent girls are issued either a blue or white ticket on the day of their first period. A white ticket denotes a future of marriage and children, a blue ticket one of work — even, it seems, a career. The divide is stark and self-evidently faulty, its coarseness an expression of the brutalizing regime the characters are trapped in.
“Permanence” features a similar opposition, neatly delineated. Clara and Francis are conducting an illicit affair. One morning, they wake up in an alternate reality where they are openly living together. The novel shuttles between these two worlds, one ordinary and familiar, the other a curdled paradise for adulterers.
The thinness of this “city of impermanence” — “fluid, cohesive and yet disparate” — emerges at once. The sky is “uncannily blue,” the newspaper bears no date, the edge of the city is marked by “a slick ring of water, as far as the eye could see.”
Still, a boundary cannot keep the other world from seeping in. Initially, elegantly, this is a problem in the structure of desire. Having been provided the life they dreamed of, in which their longing for each other is fully met, Clara and Francis begin to experience, to their uneasy surprise, boredom and discontent.
Without absence, the intensity of their desire for each other wanes. They even begin, or at least Francis does, to long for the relief of their ordinary life: “Another day ahead of them of petting, giggling, lying around. It seemed insubstantial suddenly, though only the day before he had felt he could do it forever.”
Soon enough, it becomes clear that the problem between Francis and Clara doesn’t lie in the outside impediments of the world they live in, but in their relationship itself. Francis remains troublingly himself — a married father of a small child, reluctant to leave his family, however much he is in love with Clara: “He did love her, and he did want to be with her. … But he already had reality elsewhere, reality which he sometimes felt trapped by, he would admit, but which he could not truly imagine cutting loose.”
“Permanence” might seem like an outlier in the current array of articles and books about open marriages and polyamory, and at first glance the line of distinction between the two worlds, much like the division between blue and white tickets, seems almost old-fashioned. But as Mackintosh persuasively illustrates, the familiar emotions of jealousy, infatuation and eventually indifference — these persist and can flourish in any relationship, however free of prohibition.
“You want this,” Clara tells herself, and then, “You no longer want this,” as it occurs to her that “maybe it was in absence that they loved each other best, and most honestly.”
In her work, Mackintosh devises scenarios that are bold and almost aggressively simplified. But her terrain is complexity and contradiction, and in her hands these oppositions twist and turn in on themselves.
It’s hardly a surprise when the central character in “Blue Ticket” decides to eschew her designation and have a child, declaring, “True and false were no longer opposing binaries. My body was speaking to me in a language I had not heard before.” Nor is it especially startling when discontent chases Clara and Francis from one world to the other, unraveling their relationship.
What is more disquieting is the surreptitious ease with which Mackintosh’s speculative worlds start to align with our own, allowing the reader to see how so many of the old prohibitions and conventions — around choice, around marriage — remain, somehow, firmly in place.
That moment of recognition, in a landscape that is startlingly alien, is the source of Mackintosh’s power as a writer.
PERMANENCE | By Sophie Mackintosh | Avid Reader Press | 240 pp. | $28
Maybe you woke up this morning haunted by the first four lines of W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — or tickled by its tongue-in-cheek handling of existential dread. (Not ringing any bells? Click here to begin the Poetry Challenge).
This is a love poem. Perhaps that seems like an obvious thing to say about a poem with “Loving” in its title, but there isn’t much romance in the opening stanza.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Ada Limón, poet
Nonetheless, the poem soon makes clear that love is very much on its mind.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
David Sedaris, writer
The polished informality gives the impression of a decidedly cerebral speaker — someone who’s looking at love philosophically, thinking about how it works and what it means.
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts, poet
Musing this way — arguing in this fashion — he stands in a long line of playful, thoughtful poetic lovers going back at least to the 16th century. He sounds a bit like Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Auden’s poem, like Marlowe’s, is written in four-beat lines:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Josh Radnor, actor
And it features strong end rhymes:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Samantha Harvey, writer
These tetrameter couplets represent a long-established poetic love language. Not too serious or sappy, but with room for both earnestness and whimsy. And even for professions of the opposite of love, as in this nursery rhyme, adapted from a 17th-century epigram:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
There is some of this anti-love spirit in Auden’s poem too, but it mainly follows a general rule of love poetry: The person speaking is usually the more loving one.
This makes sense. To write a poem requires effort, art, inspiration. To speak in verse is to tease, to cajole, to seduce, all actions that suggest an excess of desire. That’s why it’s conventional to refer to the “I” in a poem like this as the Lover and the “you” as the Beloved. The line “Let the more loving one be me” could summarize a lot of the love poetry of the last few thousand years.
But who, in this case, is the beloved? This isn’t a poem to the stars, but about them. Or maybe a poem that uses the stars as a conceit and our complicated feelings about them as a screen for other difficult emotions.
What the stars have to do with love is a tricky question. The answer may just be that the poem assumes a relationship and then plays with the implications of its assumption.
This kind of play also has a long history. Since love is both abstract and susceptible to cliché, poets are eager to liken it to everything else under the sun: birds, bees, planets, stars, the movement of the tides and the cycle of the seasons. Andrew Marvell’s “Definition of Love,” from the 1600s, wraps its ardor in math:
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
The literary term for this is wit. The formidable 18th-century English wordsmith Samuel Johnson defined a type of wit as “a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” “The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together,” he wrote; that kind of conceptual discord defines “The More Loving One.”
The second stanza is, when you think about it, a perfect non sequitur. A hypothetical, general question is asked:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Mary Roach, writer
The answer is a personal declaration that is moving because it doesn’t seem to apply only or primarily to stars:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tim Egan, writer
Does this disjunction make it easier or harder to remember? Either way, these couplets start to reveal just how curious this poem is. We might find ourselves curious about who wrote them, and whom he might have loved. Tomorrow we’ll get to know Auden and his work a little better.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the second stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
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