Just Saying, Is All… | Michael Vick’s Darkest Secret

How much insight is too much insight?

Michael Vick is an infamous quarterback. He’s also a popular talking point. In the wake of Vick’s return with the Philadelphia Eagles, the blogosphere is brimming with polemics and apologies—which would be happier news if quantity were even loosely correlated to quality.

Curiosity means learning as much as you can.

Intelligence, on the other hand, means learning as much as you should.

I’m not suggesting that the Vick story is unimportant. We read because we care, and the demand for nonstop Vick coverage speaks volumes about our collective values. But more commentary isn’t necessarily better commentary. In a media market where the consumer is always right, there’s no critic who gets paid to tell us when we’ve all got it wrong.

Knowledge is power.

Discretion is virtue.

If you want the real scoop on Vick, you have to tune out every voice that promises to deliver it.

Sports fans thrive on opinion. From experts, from amateurs, from the guy sitting next to us at the bar—we collect viewpoints like trading cards, as if enlightenment were merely the sum of all sound bites. The catch, alas, is that no one else can teach you how to think. Google addicts will argue that the final revelation about Vick is out there waiting to be found. I’d counter that one more Web search is exceptionally unlikely to show us whatever it is we’re looking for.

It’s smart to get the facts.

It’s smarter to get the truth.

Vick may deserve scorn, sympathy, or every s-word in between, but the only sentiment worth sharing is the one you select for yourself.

The human mind is nature’s most potent content filter. To aggregate is the limit of machines; to scrutinize is the labor of mankind. Michael Vick’s darkest secret is for you to discover on your own, after the Yahoo! Buzz has subsided and the Digg voters have drifted away. Every student is enriched by the resources on his desk. The one with a high-speed modem should be careful not to invest too heavily in the data at his fingertips.

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T.S. Eliot never had a Twitter account, but he did glimpse the perils of free online publishing services:  

Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

Which are apt questions in this age of cheap and instant communication.

Because babble is the mother tongue of cyberspace, and anyone who professes boundless faith in a user-generated gospel is either preaching on the Open Source Sports Network or only just saying, is all…

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Just Saying, Is All… | Why the NFL Needs Terrell Owens

Pariahs make the world go ‘round.

Terrell Owens is a premier talent. He’s also a perennial troublemaker. Between now and the end of the season, the six-million-dollar Bill is a safe bet to perpetrate some species of outrage in Buffalo—which would be worse news if outrage weren’t so instrumental in his employer’s PR strategy.

Decorum means pleasing the customer.

Deviance, on the other hand, means making him appreciate how nice it is to be pleased.

I’m not writing in defense of Owens. The huddle’s no place for a runaway ego, and No. 81 is a certified prima donna. But sometimes prima donnas are the best teammates. In a league so desperately seeking positive role models, there has to be room for a guy who sets such a reliably bad example.

Day is day because it isn’t night.

Right is right because it isn’t wrong.

If Owens were more inclined to walk the line, his coworkers wouldn’t know where not to follow.

Football fans love to loathe their favorite villains. Owens, Pacman Jones, the Artist Formerly Known As Chad Johnson—they’re magnets for criticism, and lightning rods for scorn. The reason, I think, is that we affirm what we like by attacking what we don’t. Moralists will argue that Owens undermines traditional values in loving his neighbor less than himself. I’d counter that his lack of principles ultimately makes us more sure of our own.

It’s bad to be unscrupulous.

It’s worse to be uncertain.

Owens is a notorious bridge-burner, but one man’s bonfire is often another man’s beacon.

Identity is an exclusionary construct. What you are is dependent on what you’re for; what you’re for is defined by what you’re against. The NFL needs Terrell Owens because Terrell Owens is precisely what the NFL doesn’t want, and because desire is unintelligible in the absence of revulsion. Every self-absorbed hero is doomed to fall by his own hubris. The one with the reality show is at least considerate enough to be a cautionary spectacle on the way down.

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Warren Zevon never got flagged for an excessive end zone celebration, but he did know a thing or two about unsportsmanlike conduct:

Well, he went down to dinner in his Sunday best
Excitable boy, they all said
And he poured the popcorn all over his chest
Excitable boy, they all said
Well, he’s just an excitable boy

Which isn’t a sin until someone commits it.

Because the righteous are born to rail against the wicked, and anyone who preaches virtue without damning vice is either filming a United Way commercial or only just saying, is all…

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Just Saying, Is All… | Bill Belichick’s Dirty Secret

Sometimes it’s better to be hated than loved.

Bill Belichick is an established guru. He’s also, by some accounts, an Evil Genius. As the Patriots gear up for the 2009 season, their coach is suffering the typical slings and arrows from his critics in the blogosphere—which would be worse news if the barbs weren’t so integral to his master plan.

Popularity means appealing earnestly to the crowd.

Power, on the other hand, means answering exclusively to yourself.

I won’t pretend to harbor any fondness for Belichick. The surly press conferences speak volumes, and there’s something distasteful about a grown man in a hooded sweatshirt. But maybe distastefulness is precisely the point. On a stage where every hero is a slave to his audience, the most liberated actor is the one who embraces the role of the villain.

A tyrant rules by his own authority.

A pariah lives for his own applause.

If Belichick were more inclined to seek our approval, he wouldn’t be the high-achieving sociopath we’ve come to despise.

Success breeds contempt in the sports world. Belichick, Kobe Bryant, whoever’s pitching for the Yankees—we fans tend to lash out at habitual winners, especially when we find ourselves on the wrong side of the scoreboard. The irony, of course, is that those figures most worthy of our ire are generally the most indifferent to it. Psychologists will argue that Belichick’s icy persona is symptomatic of an obsessively singular focus. I’d counter that the mightiest champions are those for whom warmth is just another unhealthy distraction.

Boos are bad.

Losses are worse.

Belichick won’t make many friends between now and January, but the all-time greats aren’t concerned with anything so trivial as friendship.

The lead dog always walks alone. To be the best is to beat the world; to beat the world is to invite its scorn. Bill Belichick’s dirty secret is that he likes being the bad guy, because bad guys don’t have to give a damn about public opinion. Every conqueror claims to want the affection of his subjects. The shrewd one knows that all he really needs is the loyalty of his troops.

Bob Dylan never got busted for stealing signals, but he did learn a thing or two about the sting of popular rebuke:

Well, they’ll stone you when you walk all alone.
They’ll stone you when you are walking home.
They’ll stone you and then say you are brave.
They’ll stone you when you are set down in your grave.
But I would not feel so all alone,
Everybody must get stoned.

Which suggests at the very least that Wild Bill is in good company.

Because the road to the top is lined with rock-throwers, and anyone who boasts about making the trip unbruised is either as gorgeous as Tom Brady or only just saying, is all…

The Road Ahead for Tom Brady

Growing up is hard to do.

Tom Brady is a grizzled veteran. He was also, not so long ago, a glittering golden boy. After 12 months of setbacks and false starts, Brady is finally set to return from reconstructive knee surgery—which would be better news if he were still the invincible kid of yesteryear.

Youth means believing you have nowhere to go but up.

Adulthood, on the other hand, means knowing you have nowhere to arrive but down.

It’s not that I doubt Brady’s resilience. His resumé is beyond reproach, and he has a knack for beating the odds. But let’s be clear about the scope of the challenge here. In a league where physical health is the coin of the realm, it’s hard to bet on a quarterback who owes his leg to modern science.

You can’t unpop a bubble.

You can’t uncut a scar.

If Brady wants to run the show exactly like he used to, he’ll have to limit himself to pushing the Play button on the highlight reel.

Sports fans always root for immortality. Heroes and Legends, Idols and Gods—we speak of jocks in a timeless language, as if the seconds weren’t ticking ever away between the lines. The truth, of course, is that even the mightiest champion is subject to sudden death. Bookies will argue that Brady’s uncertain status makes the Patriots a risky pick for victory. I’d counter that the only safe gamblers are those who put their money on the inevitability of defeat.

It’s bad to be hurt.

It’s worse to be human.

Brady may win a few more Super Bowls before he’s through, but the rings will only prove that he had the guts to go down swinging.

You can’t measure a man until his back’s against the wall. To win and repeat is a matter of talent; to lose and rebound is the mark of greatness. The road ahead for Tom Brady is that which we all travel eventually, when life stops being a given and becomes something we have to fight for. Every old pro longs for the grace of his first season. The mature one makes peace with the rigor of his last.

Bruce Springsteen never tore an ACL, but he does know a thing or two about tenuous recoveries:

Well now everything dies baby that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back

Which is no less a threat than a promise.

Because every game ultimately amounts to a roll of the dice, and he who speaks lightly of good fortune is either married to a supermodel or only just saying, is all…

Just Saying, Is All… | The Road Ahead for Tom Brady

Growing up is hard to do.

Tom Brady is a grizzled veteran. He was also, not so long ago, a glittering golden boy. After 12 months of setbacks and false starts, Brady is finally set to return from reconstructive knee surgery—which would be better news if he were still the invincible kid of yesteryear.

Youth means believing you have nowhere to go but up.

Adulthood, on the other hand, means knowing you have nowhere to arrive but down.

It’s not that I doubt Brady’s resilience. His resumé is beyond reproach, and he has a knack for beating the odds. But let’s be clear about the scope of the challenge here. In a league where physical health is the coin of the realm, it’s hard to bet on a quarterback who owes his leg to modern science.

You can’t unpop a bubble.

You can’t uncut a scar.

If Brady wants to run the show exactly like he used to, he’ll have to limit himself to pushing the Play button on the highlight reel.

Sports fans always root for immortality. Heroes and Legends, Idols and Gods—we speak of jocks in a timeless language, as if the seconds weren’t ticking ever away between the lines. The truth, of course, is that even the mightiest champion is subject to sudden death. Bookies will argue that Brady’s uncertain status makes the Patriots a risky pick for victory. I’d counter that the only safe gamblers are those who put their money on the inevitability of defeat.

It’s bad to be hurt.

It’s worse to be human.

Brady may win a few more Super Bowls before he’s through, but the rings will only prove that he had the guts to go down swinging.

You can’t measure a man until his back’s against the wall. To win and repeat is a matter of talent; to lose and rebound is the mark of greatness. The road ahead for Tom Brady is that which we all travel eventually, when life stops being a given and becomes something we have to fight for. Every old pro longs for the grace of his first season. The mature one makes peace with the rigor of his last.

Bruce Springsteen never tore an ACL, but he does know a thing or two about tenuous recoveries:

Well now everything dies baby that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back

Which is no less a threat than a promise.

Because every game ultimately amounts to a roll of the dice, and he who speaks lightly of good fortune is either married to a supermodel or only just saying, is all…

Just Saying, Is All… | The Best Reason To Root for Vince Young

Failure is endearing.

Vince Young is easy to criticize. He was also, once, impossible to love. In three NFL seasons, the Titans quarterback has yet to fulfill his collegiate promise—which would be worse news if his flaws didn’t make him so much more deserving of our empathy.

Potential is a curse before it arrives.

Disappointment, on the other hand, is a blessing after the fact.

I don’t mean to sugarcoat Young’s shortcomings. The numbers speak for themselves, and the off-field theatrics haven’t helped. But let’s not miss the sunny side of the story. In a league where victory is so often confused with virtue, it’s edifying to remember that defeat can happen to the best of us.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

Every bust has a golden moral.

If Young had starred in Tennessee the way he did at Texas, we wouldn’t ever have had cause to question the guts beneath the glitter.

Sports fans tend to get bogged down in data. Touchdowns, interceptions, completion percentage—we score our idols on the basis of output, as if productivity were the root of all value. The catch, of course, is that you can’t hug a statistic. Fantasy football junkies will argue that Young’s passer rating is a liability. I’d counter that the most precious assets are those which show us ourselves as we really are.

It’s great to be great.

It’s better to be genuine.

Young may never live up to his billing, but the most authentic things in life are rarely as good as advertised.

There’s no shame in being mediocre. To succeed is to rise above your peers; to stumble is to land among your people. The best reason to root for Vince Young is his colossal fallibility, because colossal fallibility is the common fate of humankind. Every burnout is haunted by visions of the flame he used to be. The bright one is smart enough to find solace in man’s ill-lit brotherhood of ash.

Walt Whitman never got benched in favor of a has-been, but he could still sympathize with folks whose lot it is to ride the pine:

Vivas to those who have fail’d!
And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!
And to those themselves who sank in the sea!
And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes!
And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!

Which is a fitting dirge for a Fallen race.

Because no Son of Adam gets it right all the time, and any mortal who claims to be perfect is either playing in the Rose Bowl or only just saying, is all…

Just Saying, Is All… | What Might Have Been for Brett Favre

Graceful exits are overrated.

Brett Favre can’t quit. He also can’t help it. Once upon a time, the ex-Packer might have ridden peacefully into a Green and Golden sunset—which would have been a happy ending for everyone but the ender himself.

Passion means doing what your heart suggests.

Pathology, on the other hand, means doing what your brain demands.

It’s not that I’m rooting for another comeback. There’s a fine line between a soap opera and a train wreck, and Favre’s legacy was in much better shape 16 months ago. But let’s not delude ourselves with wishful retrospection. In a league where every quarterback is limited by his playbook, it would have been silly to expect anything less than a go-for-broke audible from No. 4.

Faith is hope beyond logic.

Love is need beyond reason.

If Favre were able to make a clean break, he wouldn’t be the idol we’ve come to believe in.

Zealous champions always have trouble saying goodbye. Willie Mays, Michael Jordan, Jerry Rice—they were guilty of irrational ardor, of clinging to joy in defiance of common sense. The problem, of course, is that old dogs can’t unlearn their most meaningful tricks. Conventional wisdomites will argue that Favre should have known when to leave well enough alone. I’d counter that the all-time greats are ignorant of every truth except the only one that really matters.

Dignity is good.

Desire is better.

A lesser legend would have settled for pride, but Brett is Brett because he wants what he wants.

Human nature abhors a vacuum. To exist is to drift ever into darkness; to thrive is to rage against the retiring of the light. What might have been for Brett Favre is beside the point, because all that’s left is that which has to be. Every mortal is fated to lose his fight with eternity. The crazy one is at least sane enough to go down swinging.

Ernest Hemingway wasn’t shy about letting go, but he could still sympathize with folks more inclined to hang on:

“Oh Cheeseheads,” Brett said, “We could have had such a damned good time together.”

“Yes,” the Cheeseheads said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Which is as crisp a coda as any flawed hero could hope to write.

Because closing on a good note means having the balls to walk away, and those who claim to be unafraid of conclusions are either buried in Ketchum or only just saying, is all…

Why Michael Vick Can’t Have a Second Chance

Evil is a cultural construct.

Michael Vick is a callous thug. He was also, once, a sensitive kid. Between then and now, Vick grew up on the wrong side of Newport News, VA—which ought to give Roger Goodell reason for pause as he ponders the fate of the former Falcon.

Free will means being the master of your future.

Determinism, on the other hand, means being a slave to your past.

I’m not suggesting that Vick’s actions weren’t heinous. Pit bulls are people too, and all violence is deplorable violence. But deplorability doesn’t necessarily imply guilt. In a league where success so often starts with the coach, it’s hard to fault a quarterback for the failings of his playbook.

A puppy can be trained to fight.

A child can be taught to hate.

If Commissioner Goodell really wants to be fair, he should remember that aggression is invariably a product of breeding.

Sports fans cherish the myth of individual responsibility. Winners and Losers, Heroes and Goats—we assign labels according to outcomes, on the assumption that every jock controls his own destiny. The catch, alas, is that culpability is rarely so clear-cut outside the lines. Behaviorists will argue that Vick is defined by his crimes. I’d counter that a mens rea is better understood as the symptom of a malnourished brain.

Animal cruelty is bad.

Human misery is worse.

There’s no justification for what happened at Bad Newz Kennels, but let’s not forget how the project got its name.

We are all our fathers’ sons. To be bad you’ve got to know good; to know good you’ve got to be raised well. Michael Vick can’t have a second chance for no more or less a reason than that he never had a first chance, at least not by any conventional standard of opportunity. Modern science shows that the adult mind is shaped in the crucible of adolescence. What that means for modern morality is a question dog lovers and defense lawyers will have to answer on their own.

The Judeo-Christian tradition is big on personal accountability, but even Moses understood that wickedness tends to be a family affair:

For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.

Which proves that the Ancients knew a thing or two about developmental psychology.

Because every man bears the mark of his birth, and anyone who ever claimed immunity to Original Sin was either formed from the dust of the ground or only just saying, is all…

Just Saying, Is All… | The Right Sentence for Donte’ Stallworth

Conscience never needs an accomplice.

Donte’ Stallworth is a free man. He’s also a bound prisoner. Although his arraignment on DUI manslaughter charges was postponed last week, the Browns receiver is still preparing for an uphill legal battle—which is itself only the opening salvo in a war he’s fated to lose.

Retribution means paying for your sins.

Remorse, on the other hand, means accounting for the debt.

This isn’t a plea for clemency. Stallworth killed a man, and he deserves whatever destiny due process assigns to him. But let’s not confuse social and personal sanction. In a justice system built on Western values, there’s no executioner more merciless than a mind forced to contemplate its own guilt.

Intent is the essence of crime.

Memory is the substance of punishment.

When he’s done serving time in the public spotlight, Stallworth will still be exposed to the eyes in the mirror.

Professional athletes live in a parallel universe. Fame, fortune, freaky-fast cars—it’s an intoxicating mix, an implicit grant of license. The catch, of course, is that a world without consequences is an awfully lonely place. Moralists will argue that Stallworth should suffer for his misdeeds. I’d counter that the evidence on file makes anguish a foregone conclusion.

Penance is hard.

Impunity is harder.

Stallworth may escape the arm of the law, but he’ll never outrun the cops in his head.

Some convictions can’t be overturned. To stop a heart is to face the void; to face the void is to surrender all liberty. The right sentence for Donte’ Stallworth is the one he’s living with, and the one he’ll continue to live with for as long as he has life to give. If Stallworth is meaningfully human, his case is already closed. If he isn’t, no court on Earth could ever possibly make his burden any more onerous.

Critics claim that sports stars believe themselves to be above the law, but any Dostoyevsky fan knows how that story ends:

And if only fate would have sent him repentance—burning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime.

Which if nothing else suggests that official opprobrium is utterly beside the point.

Because a mens rea is always its own worst enemy, and every external verdict under heaven only amounts to some judge’s toothless just saying, is all…

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