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And even if we take the stance that athletes are entertainers, who, when they can no longer entertain, well, exit stage left, we cannot deny that our society has lost the folkloric definition of a hero (those who place themselves in harm's way to enable others in need). In the absence of great military or political leaders, even captains of industry, we have made these young men and women into gods simply because they can jump as high as a thousand credit cards, hit the long ball or fly a motorcycle over a Las Vegas fountain. Most of them never asked for the responsibility that comes with the job. They only wanted to play as hard as they could for as long as they could. They didn't read the fine print. To them, it was a game. A game, yes, but for mortal stakes. To paraphrase Shelley, "It is our creator but we are not its master." Most professional athletes had figured out that doing TV commentary or playing golf with CEOs would never replace what we gave them. They know that selling used cars is professional sports' perfect murder. So, as long as the athletes are doing their aged-best, contributing to their peers, the cause and the game, then why wouldn't we let them see it through on their own terms? Not that of an increasingly impatient and impertinent public. I never saw a hobbled George Blanda limping onto the field or a slowing Ricky Henderson taking a young kid's spot in the lineup. I believed that Mark Messier would skate until he was 60 and Martina Navratilova should be allowed to play Wimbledon from a wheel chair. I was sad when Joe Namath was depressed and when Elway's family imploded soon after he retired. I can't see Roger Clemens' fastball slowing down, nor did I notice Andre Agassi's receding hairline. How could I appreciate the past, let alone enjoy the present, if I'm always mortgaged in the future? What I see in men who play it out until its rightful end is not the gray-haired-pony-tailed set refusing to grow up, but tenacity and tradition. I see men trying to bend time through will and weight training, yoga and yogurt shakes. And I see living history in a world that's awfully darn short of remembering. The ones who should be embarrassed are the ones who scream at their TVs. You see, there are no VFW clubs for old jocks. Soon enough they'll be as lonely as the rest of us. Scott Tinley is an author, lecturer, two-time Ironman World Champion and member of the Ironman Hall of Fame. You can contact him at
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