Where to begin?  Where to begin...

All I can think, "it's not fair."  "It's not fair."  "It's not fair."  Again and again; it just reverberates.  My mind has a hard time getting past just that one simple phrase.  It isn't fair.

It's a strange thing.  In just the last two weeks we have had news of celebrities like Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson all passing with the Jackson passing coming as the biggest shock to the world.  Of course it was a monumental occasion to lose such a public figure like Michael Jackson at such an early age; but in the midst of all of the celebrity passings, it still seemed strange, unusual, perhaps even pathetic to see people shed real tears over their imagined "heroes;" over personalities, which, the only extent any of us ever knew was what we saw on the TV or in a concert or on a CD.  Only a few short days ago it appeared unnatural to me to cry over someone whom you had never really met, who had never known you personally.

Yet I abruptly learned what it is all about when I learned of the news of my childhood hero dying, his life cut short, at the age of 36.  And it wasn't just that his life was cut short so abuptly--but so violently, the victim of a heinous murder. 

So again I say, "it's not fair."

For me it was an inevitability.  Once one grows attached to a sport, attachment to a particular team is not too far behind; and once attached to a team, attachment to a team's star and heroes will pursue.  Having followed the Houston Oilers/Tennessee Titans franchise for the last 18+ years, McNair undoubtedly etched a special place into my heart.  A man who embodied so much and represented so much good--not just within his sport, but about humanity itself--established a legacy in the minds of Tennessee fans, Baltimore fans, and NFL fans alike.  McNair gave of himself to his team, to his teammates, to the cities he played in, whether it was Houston, Nashville, or Baltimore.  And so it's no surprise to find that fans who watched him play fell in love with him and accepted him into their hearts. 

When Favre Left

Yeah, it's "just football," and yeah it's "just a game."  But I am reminded of when Brett Favre retired--the first time.  Call me naive, call me sentimental, but when Favre supposedly hung up his cleats for good the first time and it was clear we would not ever see him wear #4 for the Packers ever again, there was a certain chill, a slight feeling of loss, as though we were never going to get to see a familiar friend again.  Of course those feelings of fond farewell and goodwill have long been trampled over in the year or so since that time; they also have become very trivial in the wake of a real loss. 

I realize it sounds cheesey, and I realize it's cliche--Steve McNair and I never hung out at each other's house.  We never spoke on the phone.  We never shared a laugh over a beer at a restaurant.  But every Sunday in fall for 13 years, Steve McNair was at my house playing football.  At the same time, he was inspiring others never to give up, he was giving it everything he had, he was putting on a show--he was demonstrating sportsmanship and camaraderie.  And the persona of this crazy-tough warrior and gentleman extended out beyond the confines of the football field, leading us to believe in him all the more. 

At the end of his 13 years in the league, although I harbored some bitterness and resentment over his stint with the hated rivals in Baltimore, he was a hero and a champion to me.  And today he's gone, and without any real good explanation why. 

I keep running through the replays in my mind, watching him play the role of Superman on the grass surface in Nashville.  And the next moment I realize that person no longer exists on this earth.  It was all such a short time ago.

You are missed and will be missed, Steve.