Reggie White died Sunday. White was a football player, a defensive lineman to be exact.
What that means is for most of his life he lined up on all fours across from a 300 pound man whose only job was to knock Reggie on his ass as hard as possible. Sometimes there were two men tasked with that job.
On the offensive line was a center; the man who has the football. When a signal was given, the center hikes the football to the quarterback. The quarterback's job is to throw the ball or give the ball to someone else, who runs with it.
Sometimes Reggie's job was to stop the man with the ball. Sometimes Reggie's job was to occupy the attention of one or more lineman so one of his teammates could get the man with the ball. They worked as a team.
Reggie never knew when the attacks would come. The quarterback had a secret signal, known only to him and his teammates. Reggie would wait, on all fours, as the quarterback barked out fake signals; to try and fool him.
This was his life on the field.
When the ball is snapped, the offense knows where the play is going. They move immediately to their task. You have less than a second to react. While your first instinct is to protect yourself; but your job is to protect the line of scrimmage. That imaginary mark where the football starts out at each play. What you are... your body... are secondary concerns.
When the ball is snapped there are several seconds of furious hand-to-hand combat. Forearms and hands and heads and punches and grabs: all manner of physical abuse. Knees are crippled, shoulders wrenched, fingers broken, toes stepped on, bruises inflicted. The sound of bodies hitting and the crack of plastic as your pads collide drown out the sound of cheering crowds. Drown out the sound of million dollar contracts. You drown in a sea of plastic and sweat and the thought of what must be done.
Then a whistle blows and you have to stop. Immediately.
Then you line up, and do it again. Now your chest hurts, maybe from being punched, maybe from the hot air youre desperately trying to suck into your lungs so you can breathe again. Your hands hurt from getting caught in between shoulder pads; or maybe someone just grabbed them and twisted. Your knees hurt from being hit from the side... maybe a 280 pound man rolled up the back of your legs as you were falling last play. Maybe your nose is bleeding and its hard to get air. Maybe your neck feels like the tendons are about to snap and its hard to turn your head. You might have been poked in the eye, but it doesnt matter because you can still see fairly clearly for about five feet in front of you, and thats all that matters. Because thats your entire world.
And you line up. And do it again. And again.
Football uses war-like terms. The area in-between the lines are called trenches. John Madden might say "The battle in the trenches" when describing the course of a football game. White' own autobiography was called In The Trenches.
Trench warfare was created by Confederate General James Longstreet (Robert E. Lee's second in command) near the end of the Civil War. During World War I it was the sight of some of the most horrific combat ever. Its not as far off an analog as it might sound.
Actual war uses guns and to fail is to be killed. To fail in football is not to die, dont get me wrong. It cant compare on that level. To fail in football is to give up a first down. A touchdown. To lose a game. Perhaps to be cut. Fired, they would say in the real world. But, football uses bare hands, in a much smaller space. In that way, it is the purest form of combat. If countries were forced to fight war as closely and with as much passion as men play football, less wars would be fought.
While your average accountant could have a career lasting 40 years, the average professional football player plays just under 4. Reggie played 15. When you retire, its hard to walk. Its hard to pick things up with your broken up hands and maybe your lower back hurts so much you cant stand up straight or hold your children. Theres no whistle to stops pent up rages you might feel. No penalty for losing your temper. In a sport with an abnormally high number of wife abusers, drug users, and criminals; Reggie White was a minister. Reggie White worked with inner city kids during the off season. He established Christian groups for athletes and counseled young players coming into the league. Reggie White had a beautiful, devoted wife, whom he did not sleep around on, and kids that he didnt abuse.
On this site and in my general life, most of my artistic friends are much harder on athletes than athletes are on them. My artistic friends, to be frank, come across as jealous ... that athletes make too much money or get too much attention for just playing football.
There is incredible art in football, incredible beauty and incredible sacrifice. Their tools are their bodies. Reggies canvas was a 4 foot wide piece of field that he sacrificed his body to perform on. Reggie ended his career as one of the best at his position and at the game. In his chosen art, he was the guy others aspire to. The guy kids grow up wanting to be and the guy they imitate... the sincerest form of flattery.
Reggie White said some dumb things near the end of his career. If youd like to focus on that, you can. Cynicism is the new black. If you want to continue to rant about how football players make too much money or get too much attention, you can do that, too. Try to figure out if your distain goes just to athletes, or to anyone that makes too much money or gets too much attention. Try to explain it to me if you want... but unless youve been both, good luck.
Because, me, see, Ive been both. Ive painted and written and toiled away for days with ink and pen... seen work in print. And, me, right now... Im typing with both hands, even though both my pinky fingers look like theyve been bent over sideways (because they have.) My knees crack when I walk and my head doesnt go all the way over to the left. Sometimes I can't sleep because I'm worried about how a drawing will turn out and sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night because my legs wont let me sleep.
Ive felt the sweat and bled the blood.
Me... Im going to mourn the loss of one of my favorite artists. The same way I would if I was alive when Kustav Klimt or Alphonse Mucha died. A man who I copied on the field the same way I copied Art Nouveau and the Vienna Succession when Im in front of a piece of bristol. I ma not ever be as "good" in the craft as any of those three men; but their world is familiar to me.
So, Im going to mourn a man, a husband and father and artist, who passed away at the fucking ridiculous young age of 43, though no fault of his own. And, like everyone else thats seen his work... marvel at what he accomplished.
Two of my favorite artists:
What that means is for most of his life he lined up on all fours across from a 300 pound man whose only job was to knock Reggie on his ass as hard as possible. Sometimes there were two men tasked with that job.
On the offensive line was a center; the man who has the football. When a signal was given, the center hikes the football to the quarterback. The quarterback's job is to throw the ball or give the ball to someone else, who runs with it.
Sometimes Reggie's job was to stop the man with the ball. Sometimes Reggie's job was to occupy the attention of one or more lineman so one of his teammates could get the man with the ball. They worked as a team.
Reggie never knew when the attacks would come. The quarterback had a secret signal, known only to him and his teammates. Reggie would wait, on all fours, as the quarterback barked out fake signals; to try and fool him.
This was his life on the field.
When the ball is snapped, the offense knows where the play is going. They move immediately to their task. You have less than a second to react. While your first instinct is to protect yourself; but your job is to protect the line of scrimmage. That imaginary mark where the football starts out at each play. What you are... your body... are secondary concerns.
When the ball is snapped there are several seconds of furious hand-to-hand combat. Forearms and hands and heads and punches and grabs: all manner of physical abuse. Knees are crippled, shoulders wrenched, fingers broken, toes stepped on, bruises inflicted. The sound of bodies hitting and the crack of plastic as your pads collide drown out the sound of cheering crowds. Drown out the sound of million dollar contracts. You drown in a sea of plastic and sweat and the thought of what must be done.
Then a whistle blows and you have to stop. Immediately.
Then you line up, and do it again. Now your chest hurts, maybe from being punched, maybe from the hot air youre desperately trying to suck into your lungs so you can breathe again. Your hands hurt from getting caught in between shoulder pads; or maybe someone just grabbed them and twisted. Your knees hurt from being hit from the side... maybe a 280 pound man rolled up the back of your legs as you were falling last play. Maybe your nose is bleeding and its hard to get air. Maybe your neck feels like the tendons are about to snap and its hard to turn your head. You might have been poked in the eye, but it doesnt matter because you can still see fairly clearly for about five feet in front of you, and thats all that matters. Because thats your entire world.
And you line up. And do it again. And again.
Football uses war-like terms. The area in-between the lines are called trenches. John Madden might say "The battle in the trenches" when describing the course of a football game. White' own autobiography was called In The Trenches.
Trench warfare was created by Confederate General James Longstreet (Robert E. Lee's second in command) near the end of the Civil War. During World War I it was the sight of some of the most horrific combat ever. Its not as far off an analog as it might sound.
Actual war uses guns and to fail is to be killed. To fail in football is not to die, dont get me wrong. It cant compare on that level. To fail in football is to give up a first down. A touchdown. To lose a game. Perhaps to be cut. Fired, they would say in the real world. But, football uses bare hands, in a much smaller space. In that way, it is the purest form of combat. If countries were forced to fight war as closely and with as much passion as men play football, less wars would be fought.
While your average accountant could have a career lasting 40 years, the average professional football player plays just under 4. Reggie played 15. When you retire, its hard to walk. Its hard to pick things up with your broken up hands and maybe your lower back hurts so much you cant stand up straight or hold your children. Theres no whistle to stops pent up rages you might feel. No penalty for losing your temper. In a sport with an abnormally high number of wife abusers, drug users, and criminals; Reggie White was a minister. Reggie White worked with inner city kids during the off season. He established Christian groups for athletes and counseled young players coming into the league. Reggie White had a beautiful, devoted wife, whom he did not sleep around on, and kids that he didnt abuse.
On this site and in my general life, most of my artistic friends are much harder on athletes than athletes are on them. My artistic friends, to be frank, come across as jealous ... that athletes make too much money or get too much attention for just playing football.
There is incredible art in football, incredible beauty and incredible sacrifice. Their tools are their bodies. Reggies canvas was a 4 foot wide piece of field that he sacrificed his body to perform on. Reggie ended his career as one of the best at his position and at the game. In his chosen art, he was the guy others aspire to. The guy kids grow up wanting to be and the guy they imitate... the sincerest form of flattery.
Reggie White said some dumb things near the end of his career. If youd like to focus on that, you can. Cynicism is the new black. If you want to continue to rant about how football players make too much money or get too much attention, you can do that, too. Try to figure out if your distain goes just to athletes, or to anyone that makes too much money or gets too much attention. Try to explain it to me if you want... but unless youve been both, good luck.
Because, me, see, Ive been both. Ive painted and written and toiled away for days with ink and pen... seen work in print. And, me, right now... Im typing with both hands, even though both my pinky fingers look like theyve been bent over sideways (because they have.) My knees crack when I walk and my head doesnt go all the way over to the left. Sometimes I can't sleep because I'm worried about how a drawing will turn out and sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night because my legs wont let me sleep.
Ive felt the sweat and bled the blood.
Me... Im going to mourn the loss of one of my favorite artists. The same way I would if I was alive when Kustav Klimt or Alphonse Mucha died. A man who I copied on the field the same way I copied Art Nouveau and the Vienna Succession when Im in front of a piece of bristol. I ma not ever be as "good" in the craft as any of those three men; but their world is familiar to me.
So, Im going to mourn a man, a husband and father and artist, who passed away at the fucking ridiculous young age of 43, though no fault of his own. And, like everyone else thats seen his work... marvel at what he accomplished.
Two of my favorite artists:
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
it_thing_hard_on:
Whoa! Say what now?!?
freakpirate:
How could I resist? It was freakin' cows man! COWS!!!
