I have an unhealthy obsession with tragic athletes. Left to my own devices, I would probably serve up hard-luck and self-destructive athlete stories here every single week. I’m supposed to be working on a book about them; then I got a concussion of my own, again, and suddenly didn’t feel like thinking about Pete Reiser for a minute. At least I know better than to go all method on this one.
One thing I’ve noticed, though, is what a strong role morality plays in this realm of sports. For one, there are the recurring themes of martyrdom, or injustice. It’s hard to not grant certain players sainthood for their suffering or privation, no matter what kind of person they are (or were). On top of that, it almost doesn’t matter what kept dude out of the game. There are plenty of drug casualties who end up sympathetic figures, even if—and I say this in the most plain terms possible—they fucked themselves.
The one unforgivable offense, however, is just totally shitting on the fans. When an athlete not only scuttles his own career, but does so when a city badly needs him to inspire instead, he’s gone way past the pale. As soon as place enters the picture, we are in scapegoat territory, where coming up short is failure, and fan sentiment, for years afterward, is reserved for righteous indignation. That’s especially true for teams that could really use a hug, or a war cry. I wonder, though: Couldn’t pressure, and the burden of playing local savior, help bring a man down? It’s right there in the wording; all that’s missing is a direct, downward vector.
