A.E. Housman's poem "To an Athlete Dying Young" beautifully recounts the story of a heralded athlete who died while in his prime, after setting a championed record. Instead of mourning the young man's death, the poet congratulates him:
"Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After Earth has stopped the ears"
So yeah, the poem pretty much solidified my opinion on Vinny Testaverde (because we all have opinions on him, right?). I mean, I really am tired of all these old geezers - and in today's sport, being able to legally consume alcohol is now considered "old" - clawing to hold on to something they lost long before they were being considered future Hall of Famers.
Because how often do we see gifted, celebrated athletes slowly get sacked into obscurity? They fall deeper and deeper into the abyss known as "aging," trying to reach for the heyday they once enjoyed, without ever taking a look in the mirror. For some, the pinnacle of their careers may lie in Superbowl rings, and for others, in high school yearbooks. A sick knuckle ball or bulls-eye right arm earned the chance to be a man amongst children, to literally be hoisted on the shoulders of zealous disciples. Above politics and arts, sports is the best medium of immortalizing any man of any origin or age. Seriously, when your hair is gray and retirement is going great, you'll remember Joe American, the star quarterback, more than Tom Goody, the class president.
But like all things in this world, nothing lasts forever. Peaks ultimately peak and muscles eventually grow tired. And the man with the flashy slam dunks is now riding the pine of any team that can give him a chance, desperate to "go out with a bang." But unfortunately, time is never on an athlete's side. Disciples quickly convert and talented rookies immediately fill the void. Now, with two busted knees, a jersey with the wrong colors, and a paycheck worth as much as Lebron's new shoes, memories of the glory days are exactly that: memories. And instead of the bang, the lasting image frozen on ESPN is a wrinkled, old man shagging balls for the Mr. Now. I think it's what the kids today call a "has-been." But look on the bright side, he's a "great locker room presence!"
While it's good, Elisha, while it's good.
So, what does Eli Manning have to do with all of this?
Eli has the opportunity that only few before him have held. A Superbowl MVP, a historic upset, a play for the ages, and a jealous big brother. This is Jordan's buzzer beater against the Jazz, Bettis's unlikely championship in his hometown, and even Zidane's headbutt on the world's stage. Eli is on the plateau that has rarely been reached, just short of Jessica Alba's husband.
So, really, there is only down for Eli. He will never conduct an upset as significant and will never throw a pass as ridiculous. But he does have the chance to buy lasting real estate on this near-godly heaven. Here, he can forever enjoy the status above the endless other athletes who could no longer pay the mortgage. He can forever enjoy the company of buddy Tiki Barber and Barry Sanders, while looking down from the cliff and rightfully laughing at the Shaqs, the Testaverdes, the Karl Malones, the Craig Biggios, and yes, the Brett Favres (Yeah, I said it).
Housman also writes in his poem,
"So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup."
A Lombardi trophy and a key to immortality in hand, Eli has the choice to forever keep his smiling baby face glorified in the long-term memories of the world "before its echoes fade." Or he can be diagnosed too late and "die" too old. David Tyree can come too.
-K.H.
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