To An Athlete Dying Old

When I was a little boy I wanted to be football player, as my grandson does now. A lot of little boys do. There's something about the rough and tumble of it that appeals to little boys. Add in the bright lights and the roar of the crowd, and it's a heady mixture for their imaginations. There is something too about a spiral in the crisp afternoon sky, the smack of it against your hands, cradling it to your chest. There's a magic in sending the football into the air and catching it from your father. For a moment you can fly like birds. For a moment everything is perfect. Your father is proud of you. Your heart soars with the football.

Many small boys dream of football and the glory that goes with it. The quarterback warms up confidently on the sidelines, his chinstrap unbuckled, his motion easy and sure, spirals zipping to the receiver opposite him, another receiver caddying for him at his side. His hands are so important to the success of the team that someone is assigned to catch footballs for him. This makes quite an impression. The camera focuses tightly on his strong jaw and gleaming white teeth. The light in his eyes seems to convey a perpetual wink of confidence. "Dad, were you a quarterback?" the son might ask. His father replies, "No son, I wasn't. But you can be if you work hard enough." The Quarterback.

I read the other day that Joe Willie Namath had turned 67. 67! A number assigned to fat offensive guards and muddy-jerseyed slovenly nose tackles. Broadway Joe, the hero of Super Bowl III, with the guarantee and one finger wagging in slow motion in the night lights of the most incredible, unlikely victory in Super Bowl history, Broadway Joe, who was famous for having said, "I can't wait until tomorrow, because I get better looking every day" and "I like my girls blond and my Johnny Walker Red."

In the end he grew old and became a parody of himself. His swagger became a stagger and his pickup lines grew pathetic. He made a slobbery pass at a sideline reporter on national tv. His nineteen year old daughter got arrested for underage drinking and possession with intent to sell. A series of unflattering articles were written, the where-are-they-now type, in Esquire and elsewhere. The writer from Esquire said Joe made a pass at her, and at a teenaged girl and her mother in the restaurant. That may be true or not, but it sadly fits. A carefully written book exposed the underside of his decline. He lives in Jupiter, Florida now, plays golf, acts occasionally, makes nostalgia tours and personal appearances. He's an icon at Alabama, where he led the Tide to a national championship. Bear Bryant called him the best athlete he ever coached. In high school he starred in three sports and dated the prettiest girls. Before his knees were wrecked he could dunk a basketball with either hand. Now it hurts to get out of a chair.

He still tries to muster the old charm in photographs, but now his nose is swollen and his suits are out of date. He's in the Hall of Fame. Now Tom Brady dates the super models, and soon it will be someone else. His memories are tarnished by misbehavior and regret. The quarterback every boy wanted to be is now the old man nobody wants to be, forgotten and alone and defeated.