Chasing the Sunset

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It's bad enough that most career athletes (and many military personnel) are ill-prepared for life beyond the game. It's bad enough they both leave their theaters of operation with physical maladies ranging from bad knees to no knees. And it's bad enough that it may take years or even decades for them to realize that the game on which they had a firm grip has now let them go with barely a parade wave.

How is it then, that at the first sign of any chink in the armor, we retire in our minds those we  made heroes in our hearts? Like eating dessert, we know it's wrong, but we can't help ourselves. It might somehow be explained in theory or pay stubs, but still fails to engage our empathy. We want our heroes to act mythologically: to slay the dragon, to save the world, to show just enough imperfection to allow us to relate. But after a few dropped passes, a missed shot, the age number 30, we just wish they'd disappear with the turn of the page. Go be a former, a footnote. Open a restaurant with your name on the door. Make room.

When athletes begin to expose their human frailties and vulnerabilities, they remind us of our own earthly imperfections. Their job is to inspire and perform otherworldly feats. Fans don't pay sky-high ticket prices to see the ball go wide. The implied contract between player and fan – you will thrill me, I will idolize you – has been broken. The narrative projection goes awry. And now the fans must reassert their right to reset the natural order.

And so if the player won't leave on his own accord, various pressures are brought to bear. To see your hero fail is to preview your own death. Not enough thrill of victory. Too much agony.

But is this fair? Shouldn't the great ones who've earned tenure while retaining a kind of dignity and integrity be allowed to play as long as they damn well please? Shouldn't the Messiers and Clemens and Ryans and Jordans be allowed to play until they can no longer lift a stick or saunter down the white line? Don't we owe them that? These men, and others who've dwelt in that rarified air of athletic aristocracy, carry a certain regal quality simply for having showed us the human potential. They've earned something not in one game or one season, but in a lifetime. If it's not our vote then it must certainly be our respect.