No need to sanitize it. What the NFL claims the Saints did, was wrong. And dumb. And should be punished. And will be.

The NFL report claiming the Saints had an institutional, management-sanctioned "bounty" program—paying players fees to target opponents for injury—is damaging to the integrity of the New Orleans franchise and the league. This is not excessive celebration in the end zone. It's a serious, unfunny problem.

At field level, football is a profession not just of collisions but also pain. Associated Press

But it's not shocking. No way. Not in the slightest. Being surprised by these bounties is like being surprised that a cheeseburger doesn't come from a magical cheeseburger tree.

There's been scattered indignation, but the reaction of some current and former NFL players has been telling. It's essentially ranged from Captain Renault's response to gambling at Rick's Cafe in "Casablanca"—"I'm shocked, shocked"—to cold-hearted nonchalance. "It's football, bounty or not," the wide receiver Chad Ochocinco wrote on Twitter, adding: "Keep head on a swivel." Retired offensive lineman Damien Woody tweeted: "This 'bounty' program happens all around the league…not surprising." Fading defensive hellion Shawne Merriman, claiming a bounty left him with severe knee injuries, asked, "Why is this a big deal now?"

But unperturbed players cannot diminish this story. This scandal is a big deal because it drives right to the heart of a subject tormenting the biggest, most successful and beloved sports brand in the country. After years of sluggish action, the NFL has awoken to the matter of long-term player safety, particularly around head injuries, and finds itself struggling to balance player protection against the inherent brutality of the sport.

What the Saints allegedly did—maintaining a cash pool, and offering payments of up to $1,500 for knocking players out of the game—is clearly repellent and against NFL rules. But it also provides a portal into the culture of a sport that often seeks to steam-press its unsavory edges for public consumption. At field level, football is a profession not just of collisions but also pain, where players seek to inflict maximum damage, within the rules, right up against the rules, and sometimes beyond. This objective is not restricted to the men with numbers on their jerseys—it can be extolled by the men who guide them. A realist might say the Saints were only incentivizing a mentality that was already present. An existentialist might argue they're already all being paid to beat each other up.

None of this excuses the Saints—who won a Super Bowl in 2009, when the bounty program was in place—or their former defensive coordinator Gregg Williams, who has since moved on to St. Louis. According to The Washington Post, the bounty scandal could also envelop the Washington Redskins, where Williams was a coordinator prior to joining New Orleans. Saints owner Tom Benson said the team is fully cooperating with the NFL's investigation, while Williams has apologized for "a terrible mistake" in a statement released Friday. The Redskins have not commented.

But one only needs to spend a Sunday afternoon in the NFL's company—live or on television—to know that aggression and hard contact is an ingrained part of the sport. It's something that gets celebrated and marketed; dissected on highlight shows and pumped in advertising campaigns. Players who do it well are rewarded, not with thousand-dollar stipends but with eight-figure guarantees. Fans are on-board, too. It takes a certain amount of willful ignorance to not recognize that the helmeted bodies flying around the field at high speed can lead to serious injury, but we have all oooh'd and aaah'd at crunching hits and blind sacks with little regard for the human repercussions. It doesn't help that the whole subject of injuries is cloaked by maddening obfuscation: Players hide injuries from their teams; teams shield injuries from opponents; coaches are loath to divulge specifics. It's often not until players leave the game for good that we learn the extent of the damage done.

Football used to mask the suffering with denial and macho-talk (part of the game, this ain't tennis, etc). But with a flurry of lawsuits from former players and new medical awareness of the long-term impact of concussions, the game cannot look away. The hard part is determining how safe football can be. New rules have been installed, but players complain that they're being asked to unlearn techniques they've used for years. Hopefully later generations can develop better techniques, but no adjustment will ever drop the injury rate to zero. Is a certain amount of recklessness unavoidable? As much as we'd all love football featuring clean, hard contact without dirty plays, that sounds a little like the magical cheeseburger tree.

As of Sunday evening, the NFL had yet to hand out punishments to the Saints, but they are expected to be harsh, given the current climate. Will the impact stretch beyond individual suspensions and fines? What about the game itself? Despite a lockout last summer and the continued questions about player safety, the NFL is rolling through a record era of prosperity and ratings. Can anything slow the momentum?

This is a visit to the seamy side of the business, but it also feels like the clear light of truth. That's what weary players seem to be saying in the aftermath: Welcome to football, everybody. We've been living here for years.