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Once again, the question of the NFL's pre-eminence — even existence — has been raised with the retirement of Chris Borland, a very good player, who has walked away from the game and millions of dollars at the age of 24 in order to preserve his health, or more specifically, his brain.

As always in these well-publicized anti-football cases, observers pop up to note that the other mainstream sport identified with brain damage — boxing — has dramatically declined in popularity, and therefore is an antecedent to predict football's downfall.

This common analysis is simple, but facile, because while individual sports and team sports are both athletics, they are as different, as, say, comedy club stand-ups are from huge Hollywood studios in the entertainment world.

Besides boxing, all sorts of individual sports have seen their popularity wane, even die out. Been to a six-day bicycle race lately? Even those individual sports that continue to thrive, like tennis and golf, are faddish, vulnerable to the whims of a public that becomes interested because of one big celebrity star, then turns away to another amusement when the fashionable hero of the moment fades.

But team sports are founded on lasting commitment. Fans show a life-long allegiance to their old school, their college, their hometown professional team — entities that are also well-established financial firms, bound into leagues. Popular professional team sports, once established, have been immune to the sort of capricious popularity that individual sports fall prey to. Individual sports are our buddies, team sports are our family.

Of course, yes, football is brutal, and probably even morally indefensible, but football is not only an American passion, it can be an extremely rewarding financial endeavor for those who're willing to play. All over the world, boxing has always drawn its gladiators from the poorer economic classes, who have been willing to gamble health for wealth. Now in America, football more and more fills that risky wish.

Borland is atypical. He grew up middle class, he earned his history degree in four years and plans to attend grad school. But there are plenty of other young men from lesser circumstances with lesser opportunities willing to pick up his fallen battle flag and play on a team before those dedicated life-long fans.

The Borland Effect, if we may call it that, will most surely have no impact whatsoever on the NFL. It will, however, cause more parents who are aware of the risks, and more boys who have other options, to steer clear of football. As such, what the Borland Effect is, is an influence upon our social class system, not upon the NFL player dream pool.

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The Supreme Court hears a challenge Wednesday to Obama Administration rules aimed at limiting the amount of mercury and other hazardous pollutants emitted from coal and oil-fired utility plants. The regulations are being challenged by major industry groups like the National Mining Association, and more than 20 states.

The regulations have been in the works for nearly two decades. Work on them began in the Clinton Administration, got derailed in the George W. Bush Administration, and then revived and adopted in the Obama Administration.

The regulations were subsequently upheld by a federal appeals court in Washington, D.C., last year.

They stem from 1990 amendments to the Clean Air Act, which ordered the Environmental Protection Agency, EPA, to expedite limits on power plant emissions of mercury and 188 other dangerous air pollutants.

Mercury is considered one of the most toxic pollutants because studies show when it falls from the atmosphere, it readily passes from fish and other sources to a pregnant woman's unborn fetus and fetal brain, causing neurological abnormalities and delays in children. The EPA estimated that seven percent of American women of childbearing age — millions of women — were being exposed to the pollutant in dangerous amounts.

The process for establishing limits, however, is multi-stage. First, the EPA must complete studies to determine whether regulation of these plant emissions is "appropriate and necessary." And only after that does the agency set limits on the pollutant amounts that can be emitted.

Both sides in Wednesday's case agree that cost should be considered in setting pollutant limits. The question is when and how much of a factor cost should be.

At the first stage — deciding whether regulation should be considered at all — the government contends that costs cannot be considered under the law, and it notes that costs are not considered in other similar threshold determinations.

Industry counters that these power plants were meant to be treated differently. It notes that under the regulations issued in the second stage, the estimated price tag is $9.6 billion a year — so it's reasonable for the EPA to balance costs and benefits right from the start.

Industry also maintains that there should be a far more aggressive consideration of costs than the Administration subsequently used in setting the actual limits at the second stage.

Coal-fired utility plants, and to a lesser extent oil-fired plants, are by far the largest source of mercury and other listed air pollutants in the country.

Most utility plants already have pollution controls that comply with the EPA regulations, according to the U.S. Energy Information Administration. But an estimated 20 percent of existing plants would face the choice of upgrading or shutting down.

Environmental Protection Agency

Kraft Foods is going through a rough patch.

This week, Kraft recalled nearly 2.5 million boxes of macaroni and cheese that were potentially contaminated with metal pieces.

Also, Kraft Singles, a pre-sliced processed cheese product, earned a nutritional seal from the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics. The seal prompted outrage from nutritionists.

"I am really shocked that this would be the first thing that the academy would choose to endorse," children's nutrition advocate Casey Hinds told the New York Times.

The academy said the seal is not an endorsement, but recognition that Kraft supports its Kids Eat Right program. Kraft declined to comment.

Kraft is one of a number of processed food companies that are facing challenges from many directions.

The company specializes in cheeses, salad dressings and Oscar Mayer meats — things that are typically used to make sit-down meals. But sit-down meals are not what consumers are buying, says Jared Koerten, senior food analyst with market-research firm Euromonitor.

"When you look sort of at the broader U.S. food landscape, you're seeing a big shift toward snack foods," Koerten says. "Some people have called it the 'snackification of U.S. food.' "

Another challenge: a younger generation that prefers artisanal brands with a healthier image.

Koerten says the trend toward healthier foods is a challenge for all packaged products, which may still dominate supermarket shelves, but which are losing ground when it comes to social-media marketing. Some, like Campbell's Soup, are trying to adapt their brands toward more organic or healthy options, says Barry Weinstein a food-manufacturing consultant based in Fullerton, Calif.

"They're taking the Campbell's line, that's a brand that's been around for a long time, and they're just trying to update it and make it appeal to evolving consumer tastes," Weinstein says.

Weinstein helps independent food startups manufacture in small batches, and says his business has increased 30 or 40 percent since 2008. He says the big players are also buying into the new markets.

"I think Kraft and other larger firms are addressing this through acquisition," he says.

General Mills, for example, bought organic mac and cheese brand Annie's last year. Coca-Cola acquired Honest Tea four years ago.

But, Weinstein says, mainstream brands are still king, and although consumers are clearly more skeptical about processed foods, given the volume, he says the vast majority are safe to eat.

"You're talking about a situation where the lines are running [and] producing anywhere from 250 to 1,000 units per minute," he says.

He says the U.S. still has the safest food manufacturing in the world, and the fact that Kraft identified and recalled all that mac and cheese means the system worked.

After the sun sets on Havana on weekends, G Street turns into a kind of runway.

Blocks of the promenade — which is very colonial with its big, beautiful statues and impeccable topiaries — swell with crowds of young Cubans. For the most part, they just walk up and down, greeting each other with kisses.

It's a spectacle: Everyone, it seems, is here to impress. They're perfectly coiffed, perfectly matched; they're splayed on benches, arms wrapped around each other.

We stop to talk to Tatiana, 17, and her group of friends. We ask her what she hopes will come of a new relationship with the U.S.

"We're going to be able to travel. We're going to have Internet," she says, growing excited. "Unlimited Internet. Finally."

What you quickly find out here in Cuba is that the Internet has become an object of desire: something as rare and valuable as strawberries that everybody wants.

By any measure, Cuba's Internet penetration rate is dismal. The government says that about 25 percent of Cubans have access to the Internet. But Freedom House, a watchdog that promotes freedom globally, says that number refers to Cubans who have access to a government-run intranet. According to Freedom House's experts, only about 5 percent of Cubans have access to the open Internet.

That's why Facebook and the World Wide Web have become a kind of promised land.

As we walk through G Street, we notice that many of the kids clutch smartphones. Out here, they're essentially useless, because the only real way to get on a Wi-Fi network is to pay $5 an hour at a tourist hotel.

We ask the group why they think Cuba doesn't have widely available Internet — and if they accept the government explanation that the lack of infrastructure is the result of the U.S. embargo.

They laugh. Christian, an 18-year-old drummer, answers. He looks like a typical teenage skater with long hair, baggy pants and Vans shoes.

"Cuba does not want us to know the things that happen in other countries," he says.

Daniel, 18, interjects: "Only they," he says, making epaulets on his shoulder with his fingers, "can have Internet." Then he tugs at an imaginary beard, Cuba's universal symbol for Fidel.

"Only Fifo can have Internet access," he says.

We point out that what's going on here on G Street is actually kind of nice: a bunch of kids talking to one another, without having their heads buried in a screen. If indeed there is new openness in Cuba and the island is flooded with foreign investment, and with it Internet connectivity, this scene would probably cease to exist.

The moment they hear that, they erupt with giddy laughter, imagining a future in which they would lie on their beds and still be able to connect with friends and the world.

"I'm already an expert texter," Tatiana says.

A Limited Internet

For years, Cuba accessed the Internet using satellites. It meant that the connection was slow and sluggish and had severe limitations on the amount of data that moved in and out of the island.

At the beginning of 2013, Doug Madory, of Dyn, an Internet performance company, noticed that the Internet speed on the island had become significantly better. He figured out that Cuba had turned on a huge underwater fiber optic cable that Venezuela had run from its shores to the eastern end of Cuba. Madory says the cable — called the ALBA-1 — has the capacity to move a huge amount of data to and from Cuba.

He says that right now, Cuba's lack of Internet has little if nothing to do with the embargo.

"We've been making the case that if Cubans really want to do this, they have a good model in Myanmar," Madory says.

Myanmar, also known as Burma, turned its ruling military junta into a nominally civilian government in 2011. That's given rise to a more open society and an improved relationship with the United States.

Madory says that shortly thereafter international telecoms lined up to provide Myanmar with the infrastructure to access the Internet. Because of the advancement in mobile Internet, the deployment has happened rapidly.

Madory says Cuba could follow suit even if the U.S. embargo against it continues.

Non-American "telecoms would be lining up around the block to work in Cuba if they were allowed," Madory says. "Not only that but they would be willing to pay hundreds of millions of dollars for that right and Cuba could probably use that money."

Long Waits To Get Online

One of the ways to get online in Havana is to visit the offices of the state-owned telecom monopoly, ETECSA.

We find an office, painted blue and white, in a leafy neighborhood called Miramar. Two priests from the Ecumenical Catholic Church of Christ, Monsignor Stefanos and Father Fanurios, are sitting on the porch.

This is their second time in line. Earlier in the day, they had traveled 45 minutes to the office and then waited outside for another 45 minutes, only to be told finally that the connection was down.

Stefanos says that he comes to ETECSA to check his email every few days. That's the only way he can keep in touch with his leadership in Central America.

Cubans wait in line to use four computers connected to the Internet at the offices of Cuba's state-owned telecom monopoly. Eyder Peralta/NPR hide caption

itoggle caption Eyder Peralta/NPR

So, they sit patiently as people are called by the police officers to walk inside the air-conditioned building and use one of the four computers connected to the Internet.

At the end of the day, the clerics will have accomplished one thing: checking their email.

"We're Cuban," says Fanurios, resigned. "We're Cuban and with needs."

A Special Case

Without a doubt, the Internet in Cuba is tough. But there is an oasis in the midst of this digital desert.

It's in a poor neighborhood in Havana called El Romerillo. That's where the artist Kcho (pronounced "CAH-cho") built his studio.

Kcho is a bear of a man, bearded and wearing a Rolex watch. As he walked through his vast complex, which also houses a cafe, a library and a gallery, a group of young girls followed, giggling as he expounded on being a son of the Cuban revolution.

He's a superstar; his paintings and sculptures, often made with pieces of boats, have been exhibited worldwide — in Spain, in Italy and even at the Marlborough Gallery in New York City.

The prominent artist Kcho provides free Internet at his studio in Havana. Eyder Peralta/NPR hide caption

itoggle caption Eyder Peralta/NPR

Because he's an artist, the Culture Ministry allowed him to have an Internet connection. He told us that when he first moved into this space, a 2-megabit Internet connection was too broad just for him to use. So, in 2013, he connected a few computers to the Internet and made them public, and in January, he installed wireless routers to share the connection more widely.

"The Internet was invented for it to be used," he says. "There's this big kerfuffle here in Havana that Kcho has Internet at his place. There's nothing to it. It's just me, who is willing to pay the cost and give it to the people. It's about sharing something with people, the same way my country does. I've always worried that people have what they need, just like the revolution did, and so I'm trying to give people a place to grow spiritually. A library, an art studio — all those things are important."

Kcho says that bringing Internet to the masses is not the responsibility of the government. It is, he says, an "entrepreneurial responsibility."

"And if it's so important for young people to have Internet, my dream is to bring more of it to them and to have a space here where they can travel the world without spending a dime, a place where they can travel from India to Burundi, to Antarctica, to the Library of Congress," he says.

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Miracle, a work by Kcho that hangs in his studio, shows Jesus crucified on a cross made of oars. Eyder Peralta/NPR hide caption

itoggle caption Eyder Peralta/NPR

Miracle, a work by Kcho that hangs in his studio, shows Jesus crucified on a cross made of oars.

Eyder Peralta/NPR

When asked if the Internet could be detrimental to the revolution, he says that a shift away from socialism is simply not on the table.

"But it's also not an option for me to renounce what I'm doing," he says. "It's not an option for me to take back what I've already given to Cubans."

The Internet at Kcho's place is Cuba's first free hot spot, and it's on 24 hours a day.

That means that the place is a hive of activity: There are people leaning on the outside walls, staring at their smartphones. In the library, people get on a waiting list to watch funny videos on Yahoo.

Yoan Istameyer, 29, is sitting along a concrete retaining wall. He is with his friend Yendy Rodriguez, 20, but they aren't talking. They're glued to a screen.

Istameyer says he has been there since the night before.

Yoan Istameyer, 29, in the black shirt, and Yendy Rodriguez, 20, wearing orange, spend hours at Kcho's studio, which is connected to the Internet. Istameyer says that when his girlfriend asked him to choose between her and his Wi-Fi connection, he chose the Internet. Eyder Peralta/NPR hide caption

itoggle caption Eyder Peralta/NPR

"I never leave," he says. The Web and especially Facebook keep him hooked.

He says that there are only two places in Havana with free Internet: Kcho's place and the U.S. Interests Section along the Malecon. He'd gone to the Interests Section twice before, he says, but he decided to stop because of the political baggage that comes with stepping foot inside a U.S. installation.

Rodriguez says that he had just heard of this place and is thrilled. We ask him if the Internet had changed his life in any way. Rodriguez shakes his head: not really.

Then Istameyer cuts in. He's young. He's brash. He'll hand you his email address as soon as he can.

"I even left my girlfriend for Wi-Fi," he says, eliciting laughter from his friend.

The Internet — and the social connections across the world that it gave him the freedom to make — had drawn Istameyer in so much that his girlfriend gave him an ultimatum: Wi-Fi, which Cubans pronounce "wee-fee," or me.

Istameyer chose the Internet.

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