Saturday, September 29, 2007
Sports

The other dream

Facing the realities of football

Houston Texans defensive tackle Cedric Killings is rushed off the field after sustaining injuries during the team’s Sept. 23 game against the Indianapolis Colts. CREDIT: Bob Levey/Getty Images

By Chris Renaldo

Our culture loves icons—the culture of sports in particular. Myths and icons are great marketing tools. Say names like Joe Montana, Walter Payton, John Elway, or Barry Sanders and what do you see in your mind’s eye?

But football mythology has a growing list of tragically iconic names: names like Darryl Stingley, Marc Buoniconti, Chucky Mullins, Mike Utley and Kevin Everett. As recently as last week, the name Cedric Killings vied for a spot on this infamous roster.

From the time I could walk, I dreamt of being a football player. I dreamt of being an icon. My particular journey led me to Groves Stadium in Winston Salem, N.C. on Oct. 23, 1983. Looking back, I realize that sunny autumn afternoon was the closest I would ever get to becoming an icon.

At that moment in my life I was not an icon; I was a walk-on in the “wedge” on the University of Maryland kickoff return unit. About 30 yards in front of me was another anonymous player in a black No. 50 Wake Forest jersey. I suppose he was chasing a dream of his own.

I know why I played football. I enjoyed the contact. I reveled in the recklessness and the ever-present possibility of a violent collision. I described a “good hit” as orgasmic. I drank the Kool-Aid. I embraced the myth. As the saying goes, I loved the steak, but never gave much thought to the slaughterhouse. On that October Saturday 24 football seasons ago, I finally saw the slaughterhouse, and I wasn’t the butcher. I was the cow.

Wake Forest kicked off and, as instructed, I sprinted 15 to 20 yards and linked up with my teammates to form the wedge. Upon hearing a “go” call, we would attempt to punch a hole in the Wake Forest kickoff coverage unit. Not a very glamorous or iconic existence, but such is the anonymous “pawn for pawn” nature of football often unseen by fans or the media.

As had occurred three or four times before, No. 50 battered the wedge with his helmet. In this particular instance, I never heard “go.” Not wanting to be a sitting duck, I took two or three steps forward, but before I reached full speed, I collided with No. 50 with the force of two rutting mountain goats.

This collision was different. There was no familiar warmth. There was no orgasmic release. I felt “volts” (jock vernacular for tingling; aka a “stinger”) travel down my spinal column and terminate in my coccyx. My body immediately went limp. I remember feeling almost weightless. I don’t remember where No. 50 ended up, but I was flat on my back and I could not feel my arms or legs. I remember the smell of the grass and the clear blue North Carolina sky. I remember not being able to breathe, but not having the time to be concerned because in the instant I considered something might be wrong, I regained feeling in my extremities, inhaled, popped off the turf and sprinted of the field with little more than a slight tingling sensation in my left arm.

I never really gave much thought to that experience until 1985, when I heard the name Mark Bouniconti for the first time. I thought about it again in 1989, when Chucky Mullins became a part of football lore. The significance of that day grew each time another “brother” made the list: Mike Utley, Dennis Byrd, Kevin Everett. I would not attempt to be so melodramatic as to claim “survivor’s guilt,” but it does make one think about the random, arbitrary nature of life, and the true consequences of our choices.

I say this because it’s one thing to dream of being a football player from the time I could walk. But it’s another to consider football players with whom I shared the dream, who now dream of being able to walk. SP