I remember playing football games in the street. I remember the boundary of parked cars. I remember stepping over manhole covers. And I remember when you caught a touchdown pass, you ran as far as you wanted because there really was no end zone.

The game ended when the sun went down. That was the rule. But there was always one kid who wanted to keep playing, who refused to accept darkness as a reason to stop. Remember that kid? The more he played, the more emotional he got. And when the other kids started making their way home, to dinner or whatever, this kid started whining and complaining, insulting the other kids, calling them out and doing anything he could to get them to stay and play just a little bit longer.

I was always fascinated by that kid. I also envied him. I envied him because, as much as I liked the game and liked my time out there playing, I just didn't love it like he did. For me, football defined the space it occupied in my life, but nothing more. It didn't define me. But for him, football was everything. I often regret that I never stuck around to find out what he did after the other kids left him there.

	No. 22 is still running -- and he has his reasons.

I've seen that kid recently. In the past few weeks, I've seen him in two very distinct forms. It was him; I'm sure of it. I saw him playing running back for the Arizona Cardinals one Sunday, and I saw him playing receiver for the Oakland Raiders the next.

I went to see the Cardinals play the Rams first because I wanted to see if the running back really had lost a step. Lost a step. That's always been a funny expression to me. It sounds so ... fatal. Sounds like he's no longer the human he was -- like he's lost a limb. For all the things I know and understand about sports, there's one thing I don't understand. I've always heard -- mind you, mostly from the "purist" sports fans -- that the players today don't love the game the way they used to. Or, they just play for the money and go through the motions. And maybe that's true for many in this generation of players.

So here is the running back for the Cardinals, who continues to play after he's run for more than 17,000 yards and won a league MVP trophy and a Super Bowl MVP -- who continues to play for a team that hardly ever even wins. And those same people look for every reason why he should stop playing. They hold up charts that show his decline in production and they painstakingly try to pinpoint the exact moment when that step was lost. Perhaps people are confused by guys like him. How can you measure love with a damn chart?

Anyway, maybe No. 22 has lost some of his burst. You can try to tell him that; I think many people already have. But he can't hear you. Or won't hear you. I think maybe James Baldwin, in my opinion the greatest writer of all time, might provide a clue to why he won't. Baldwin saw music and musicians in much the same way many of us view sports and athletes.

In a story called "Sonny's Blues," Baldwin wrote, "All I know about music is not many people ever really hear it ... but the man who creates the music is hearing something else, is dealing with the roar rising from the void and imposing order on it as it hits the air."

For No. 22, that roar must be sickening about now. Maybe that's what he hears. Maybe that's all he hears. He can't hear the detractors. He's too busy trying to impose order on what has become, in his 14 seasons, solely his creation. He knows, for example, you can't play for the fans. You have to play for yourself. You have to be true to yourself. If you're true to yourself and to your talent, the fans will get what they want.

On one play in the second quarter against the Rams, I saw No. 22 take the ball and start to his right, then cut back to his left and skip over and past an outstretched Rams defensive lineman. And I recalled something I'd seen once before.

It was in October of '94, a few days after my 28th birthday. No. 22 was playing for his old team, the Cowboys, and I was a journeyman defensive back for the Redskins. I remember they had the ball on the goal line. Can't remember what down it was, but they were going to score because we weren't that good at the time. On this play, he took the ball and started to his left; but as he did, the linemen on both sides of the ball got all entwined, as they usually do in short-yardage situations. A tangle of legs separated him from the end zone.

In that situation, you might see a running back dive, jackknife-style, into the end zone; and he could have easily done that. But instead, he skipped over and through them all. It was as though a couple of kids were swinging two jump ropes and signaling that it was his turn to come into the center. And when he came to it, he turned his torso slightly and he skipped -- his feet lightly, briskly, tapping the ground as he sidestepped past the goal line. It was one of the best examples of pure athleticism I'd ever seen. And I was glad I got to see it up close. Never forgot that.

Nine years later, a few days before my 37th birthday, he made a similar move as I watched him play for the Cardinals against the Rams. This time, it netted just a yard, and no points. But he did get a chance to score later that day; and when he did, he showed me something. He showed me he still had love.

There were three minutes left in the first half. His team had the ball on the 1-yard line, first-and-goal. Now, you just knew he would demand the ball four straight times. And he did. On first down, he took it behind the center for no gain. On second down, he took it left and got half a yard. On third down, he took it left again and was stopped in his tracks. By this time, the Rams' crowd was roaring. But while they were screaming, the Cardinals running back took the ball one more time and followed a block from the center and right guard, and plowed into the end zone.

Instead of ripping off his helmet like he's done after many of his 153 touchdowns, No. 22 gestured to the crowd. He held his index finger to his lips, telling them and anyone else who might be screaming at him, to hush. The crowd, at least the people in the Edward Jones Dome, did. Briefly.

That was it, though. That was his only touchdown that day. In the third quarter, he carried the ball only once for a yard. The Cardinals lost 37-13, and he dressed quickly and made his way out the locker room. But I overheard him tell someone: "If you don't do things that you're capable of doing, you get your behind torn up like we did today." And with that, he was gone.

***

The next Sunday, I went to Chicago to see the other kid. He's a receiver, much taller and leaner and several years older than the Cardinals' running back. His team, the Oakland Raiders, was playing the Chicago Bears at the revamped Soldier Field. He wears No. 80.

I had once been a teammate of his with the 49ers, so I'd seen a lot more of him than I had the other guy. He's always been a bit of an enigma to most people around him. Even as his teammate, I never claimed to really know him. In fact, I wonder if anyone really knows him.

What I do know is that this guy paid me one of the highest compliments I ever received on a football field. It was my fourth week as a Niner; and I was covering him at practice one day, or at least trying to. Now, you should know that few things in this world are more boring than an NFL practice during the regular season. There is no contact, there's very little genuine enthusiasm and the atmosphere is somnolent, to say the least. When I practiced, I always kept myself entertained by pretending I was still in high school and running every drill at full speed. I was usually alone with such devices.

	Jerry Rice is still going too -- but for how much longer?

Then I saw No. 80 up close.

One Wednesday afternoon at practice, as he ran back to the huddle (and no matter what he was doing, No. 80 always ran), he paused, looked me in the eye, nodded his head approvingly and said "I like you. You make me work." When the game's most legendary workaholic tells a scrappy overachiever he likes your style, it isn't something the scrappy overachiever ever forgets.

I thought about that as I watched the game in Chicago. And I recalled another time No. 80 had played at Soldier Field. It was the 1989 NFC Championship game. I was a junior in college at the time, and I lived in the Bay Area. The 49ers supposedly had no business being there, because they were a "finesse" football team. But in the bitter cold that day, he caught a slant from Joe Montana and blazed a path to the end zone, his breath visible through a white mask. His team won, 28-3, and beat Cincinnati two weeks later in the best Super Bowl ever, with No. 80 as the game's Most Valuable Player. That was 14 years ago, the receiver's fourth season. His breakout season.

The game against Chicago a few weeks ago was pretty boring until the final quarter. Up 'til then, the most intriguing sight for me was watching No. 80 go to the sideline after each series to confer with his coach, former Raiders receiver Fred Biletnikoff. Back in the day, Biletnikoff had also been MVP of the Big Game (Super Bowl XI) and was known for his own obsessive behavior, although his took more of a frayed-nerves-and-several-packs-of-smokes manifestation.

Anyway, the day perked up when the Bears came back from an 18-3 deficit to go ahead 21-18 with seven minutes left. No. 80 had only caught two balls up to that point. He'd been open a lot; but his quarterback, Rich Gannon (another of those reluctant kids in the street games), was off all day. On one play, with the Raiders on the 50-yard line, No. 80 made another case for why love can't be measured on a chart and how a step isn't necessarily lost as one gets older but maybe just momentarily misplaced. On first down with 6:13 left, No. 80 found his step in pretty much the same place he'd left it 14 years earlier.

He ran a variation of one of his signature routes -- the deep comeback. Bears cornerback Charles Tillman was playing heavily inside. No. 80 released off the ball, keeping his arms in tight, revealing nothing, like he always does. That's what leaves defenders guessing. Most receivers give away their intentions when they run. But not him. His feet, quick and choppy, and his arms, pumping like pistons, were aligned straight upfield as he drove Tillman toward the hashmark.

At about 15 yards, he turned toward the sideline and looked for the ball. When it came, it drifted as though it would sail out of bounds. Without looking down, he placed his feet a half-inch from the boundary, extended his hands, snatched the ball and then softly tumbled out of bounds. A few minutes later, Sebastian Janikowski kicked a 49-yard field goal to tie the game.

But the Bears took three minutes to drive downfield and kick the winning field goal on the game's last play.

After the game, No. 80 stood in front of his locker, getting dressed. He slowly put on a black suit, white shirt, and a simple black tie as the reporters descended upon him.

"It seems like they were prepared for everything you guys did today," said one reporter.

"Well, guys," said No. 80. "I could stand here and say they had our scheme completely down. You've got to credit them. They looked at the Raiders; they watched the film."

Thought it was funny he said the Raiders film. It was like he wasn't part of the Raiders, like he was a separate entity. And in many ways, he was, and always has been. Throughout his career, he's never mentioned cornerbacks by name. To him, they've always been faceless parts of a faceless defense that can't stop him from succeeding. Why bother to learn their names? A whole lot of faceless corners have come and gone in his 19 years. Perhaps that's why he is still playing. If his opponent never changes and the game never changes, why should he stop?

He made it clear that he was done answering questions. He spoke his last sentence while he made his way toward the bathroom, leaving the reporters behind. And as he did, the man who never reveals anything while he's in motion, may have revealed something about his intentions.

"It's only the fifth game," he said. "But it feels like Week 16."

Was it frustration from this particular loss, or something deeper? I think it was deeper, because it sounded like No. 80 was actually thinking about going home. He walked away as though his Huffy was locked up somewhere in that bathroom.

When he came out, I approached him. I said "J.R., remember me?" Just as I said it, he discovered his cell phone was missing. "Hey, did someone take my cell phone?" he snapped to no one in particular. But he softened for just a half-second when he saw me.

"Yeah, I remember you, man," he said. "What's happening? How are you?"

"I'm good," I said. He shook my hand, looked me in the eye and was on his way. I got the feeling people were looking at us, and looking at me. The only thing worse than being in a locker room when you aren't one of the players is to have other people notice you. So I left, hoping no one else had seen me.

But I don't think No. 22 for the Cardinals cared who saw him later that day. He was in Dallas, where he had broken his scapula trying to run over his old team -- the team that had told him the sun had gone down and it was time for him to leave. After the game, he broke down, saying something about wanting to just do his best.

I'm sure the people who are demanding that he retire saw him break down. I'm glad they did. I'm glad I saw it, too. I'm glad, because now I think I know what that kid in the street did after the other kids went home.

I think maybe he cried.

Alan Grant is a former NFL defensive back and the author of "Return to Glory: Inside Tyrone Willingham's Amazing First Season at Notre Dame"