It’s time to throw the penalty flag on 2020.
“Personal Foul. Unsportsmanlike Conduct. Grabbing The Heartstrings. Excessive Force. Wanton Disrespect. Marked Indifference. Go Back To 2019.”
Welcome to the world of sports, a year when so much more appeared to be taken away than added. The Dodgers and the Lakers may have won it all. Patrick Mahomes now may be able to buy Missouri if he wants. Cardboard cutouts in the stands provided comic diversion as we searched for Aunt Martha behind home plate, and damn, who’s that blonde behind her?
We’d trade it all in, wouldn’t we, for Kobe Bryant to still walk among us, for Joe Morgan to still toss out that infectious smile, for Kevin Greene to still give us that hair-on-fire enthusiasm? A total of 45 -- yes FORTY-FIVE -- athletes and coaches died in 2020. These were just the 45 who were Hall of Famers in their sport, judged either by the league of their participation or the college that launched them into the national consciousness.
Those 45 included everyone from every segment of American sports except -- and this is a personal judgment -- not one Poker All-Star was on the list. Had to do more than sit in a chair.
Well-known names kept popping up, their careers, their personalities, their missteps as well as their giant steps. Seemed like a parade of all-stars, it was, but, this is the tough part, they weren’t there to take their bows and hear our applause.
The exits happened so often and sometimes so suddenly -- basketball coach Lute Olson had a stroke -- the inevitable response seemed unavoidable.
Enough already. The details have worn me out. Don’t want the details. Don’t need the details. The relatives and friends of Lou Brock, Bobby Mitchell and Herb Adderley did just that. They performed a public service. They did us a favor.
No cause of death was given.
We were told these three men just passed away. As if they just vanished. Took the last train out of town and went away. Quietly. No fuss. No muss. Our imagination needn’t grind.
Athletes are our action heroes. They are our real-time Spider-Man and it doesn’t take a Stanford psychologist to know the answer to this question: Who would you rather watch, Lou Brock stealing a base or the Green Hornet?
The elite athlete is the ballet dancer that we gawk at and study and left to gasp “So this is what a human body can do!“
So when I found out Brock, he of 938 stolen bases, lost a leg in 2017 to diabetes, I immediately regretted it. I didn’t need to know that. That just gets in the way.
The year 2020 got in the way. Our action figures were mortal. Of course, we knew they were. We all are. But our memories of them are of what they were, not of the way they are now. So being informed that Bob Gibson died of pancreatic cancer created an image I could do without.
I have a good friend, Mike, who died of pancreatic cancer. It was awful, terrible. Suffering difficult to comprehend. So I don’t want to imagine Gibson suffering like that, not the tough nut, full-of-fire that he was on the mound.
I don’t want to imagine Gibson like that anymore than learning Whitey Ford died of Alzheimer’s. I don’t want to think of Whitey confused about things, having difficulty speaking, having a short attention span.
It began with Kobe last Jan. 26. The helicopter, the crash, the pictures of that hillside, his daughter, that coach, our imagination gave shape to all those people and their last moments. Didn’t help he was but 41. Didn’t help Kobe was determined to do more for people after retirement than when he played for the Lakers.
Not sure if we ever got over Jan. 26. A collective grief developed. Barely had enough time to process Kobe before Gale Sayers, Don Shula, Fred Dean, Diego Maradona, Paul Hornung and ... it doesn’t matter the order. Or the cause of death.
But we have to know. Right? They just can’t leave by “passing away?” It’s called a parasocial interaction in some circles, the connection we make with celebrities. They don’t know us from a box of apples, but we feel we know them. We even call them by their first name. Whitey.
Some call such association foolish. I call it inspiring, maybe even necessary. Wonder helps shape the fabric of life. Helps to shake up the daily repetition. Changes the pace and does it with style -- just catch a video of Gale Sayers in the open field.
It’s been 49 years since Sayers made his last cut-back run, the last time a defensive back fell to the ground, grabbing at air. Can’t recall the last time Sayers was seen in public.
It doesn’t matter.
It’s been 45 years since Bob Gibson threw his last pitch, 41 years since Brock stole his last base. I can’t recall Tom Seaver’s career record or how many Cy Youngs he won. Only two players sacked the quarterback more often Kevin Greene, but I can’t even remember his sack total or even one sack.
All that doesn’t matter.
One day I’ll forget Sayers died of complications resulting from Alzheimer’s and dementia. I’ll simply say Gale Sayers passed away in 2020. I’ll summarize his end in one sentence. I’ll then spend an hour speaking on how he saw the field as chess pieces he was moving.
One day it’ll be the same simple sentence for Tom Seaver, Paul Hornung, Don Shula, Lute Olson, Henri Richard, Dick Allen. Followed by “you should have seen ...”
Tom Seaver was fundamental perfection when he delivered the baseball. The soccer ball submitted its will to Diego Maradona. Should have seen someone trying to get in the face of John Thompson. Little teeny, tiny Joe Morgan defied the laws of physics.
One day we’ll remember 2020 was a great year for sports because it made us recall those who made the impossible possible, who gave rise to an imagination we never knew was there.
Everyone dies. Not everyone lives.
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