A Wall Comes Tumbling Down

FOURTH WALL
The imaginary wall of a box set through which the audience see the stage.
from theatrecrafts.com, a glossary of theater terms

Television and mass media create a false intimacy. We watch celebrities, actors and athletes, and we feel as if we know them. We see their appearances on talk shows and read their sanitized, prepackaged stories in People magazine, see their shining smiles on the red carpets and award ceremonies, and without even thinking we buy into their image. Tiger Woods, golf prodigy, on the Mike Douglas show at age 2. The Chosen One. The boy genius. Born to be a champion. Learning his perfect swing watching his father from his high chair. Now a grown man and the greatest golfer ever, with a withering glare of determination and an indomitable will to win, the fierce focus of perfect concentration, willing the ball into the hole, hoisting the trophy into the air, his pretty devoted wife proudly at his side. Go Tiger! the gallery shouts, as if his victory was their own.

When an athlete falls from grace, he breaks through that fourth wall of the human drama of athletic competition. Disturbing reports of his real life intrude upon the storied image we've bought of him, the grace and courage we assigned to him. There are several glaring examples. O.J. Simpson, Heisman trophy winner, NFL record holder and hall of famer, once one of the most popular athletes in the world, became a brand name in the seventies, doing Hertz commercials with everyone's likable grandfather, Arnold Palmer. Go Juice! Go Arnie! He made madcap silly movies with Leslie Nielsen. How grimly ironic it is to think of O.J. Simpson in a funny chase scene or running through an airport, now revealed as a nutcase and a savage beast.

In sports the examples are endless. We've witnessed the semi-tragic collapses of Mike Tyson and Michael Vick, brought down by their own crude appetites. Vaunted baseball sluggers, Barry and Big Mac, A-Rod and Slamming Sammy, were all found to be cheaters fueled by illegal juice. Kobe Bryant made a sleazy conquest of a hotel maid. A NBA referee fixed games, and star point guard Allen Iverson staggered through whole seasons in one long drinking binge. More recently, former Super Bowl hero Ben Roethlisberger revealed himself to be a crude trolling thug, raping a drunken college girl in the bathroom of a bar. She had to hospitalized after their sordid liason. Naturally he denies it all. "She hit her head," was his blithe explanation. No, Ben, no. Say it isn't so. I'm afraid it is, kid: Shoeless Joe Jackson legendarily said on the steps of the courthouse, in the illegitimate father of all sports scandals, when the Black Sox fixed the Series. By now the story is nearly a hundred years old but the story remains the same. I'm afraid it is, kid.

Yesterday at the University of Oregon two of our heroes have been found guilty. On Friday star Quarterback Jeremiah Masoli pled guilty to burglary, a second degree felony, and freshman sensation LaMichael James, who rushed for more than 1500 yards last season, pled down to fourth degree harassment to avoid a trial for domestic violence. Coach Chip Kelly suspended Masoli for all of next season, and James for one game.

The shock is, we thought they were such good kids. But why did we think that? Because they play for our team? Because they say the right things in interviews, or politely hand the ball to the referee after scoring a touchdown? I don't know these young men. I never did. I only thought I did, because I read about them and watched their games. I was prepared to like them because they wore the green jerseys instead of the black, and gave them more attention than my own children.

Both young men are fools for messing up their careers in such a shameful and public way. And I am a fool too, for investing myself so fervently in their scores and highlights. It's clear they never cared about any of us. Our investment in their lives and outcomes was full of false hope and a willingness to be fooled.

I remember Russell Crowe in "Gladiator," sword and shield thrust out, demanding of the crowd, "Are you not entertained?" He'd given them what they wanted, the blood of Legions on his swordpoint. Wasn't it enough? But the crowd wanted more. They wanted a reason to love him and believe he was noble and sympathetic. He hadn't given them that. When he broke through his fourth wall, demanding their approval, they fell uncomfortably silent, shocked to find their gladiator had been cynical about them all along. Maximus cared nothing for their love or approval, and to see him show that so openly on the arena floor, brought the whole arena to stunned silence. Bread is scarce. We want to be distracted from our woes. We want to believe in a champion.

And when the champion shows himself to be low and grasping, we are indignant and outraged. Stay behind the wall, heroes. We want the image and not the man. We are already intimately acquainted with human failings, because we live with our own every day.