Wednesday, July 12
By Mark Kreidler
Special to ESPN.com
It's inevitable: As Dallas wide receiver Michael Irvin officially hangs up his cleats, or his hammy first-down signal, or his electric-violet suits, or whatever part of Irvin's wildly successful NFL career it is that he finally decides to hang up, you will hear the man described -- by somebody, somewhere -- as a complete player.
And that's fine, as far as it goes. Thing is, it doesn't go remotely far enough.
Complete player? Listen, Michael Irvin was the complete show. He was the living embodiment of just about every stereotype that could possibly be associated with the American sports figure near millennium's end, for better and for infinitely worse.
Decades from now, as historians revisit this little dot on the long graph of sporting life in our country (and sure, that's assuming they'd want to), they won't have to work too hard. Just dig up two photo stills, one of Irvin making a brilliant end-zone catch and another of Irvin wearing a mink coat and shades into his own drug trial, and the era will be quite completely captured.
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Irvin clawed after the excesses of fame like they were mother's milk, to the point that he allowed them nearly to bring him down at the height of his career. ” |
Irvin didn't represent the mainstream of sporting society; it was the extremes he captured, the highest and lowest edges of the page, the rare fringes. That includes the part about the playing, of course: We're talking about an elite athlete, a man who retires among the top 10 in NFL history in both receptions and yardage.
Irvin's was no ordinary talent, but rather a quite outsized one. He was a fearsome part of a fearsome offense, and he was part and parcel of the Cowboys' majestic restoration as a preeminent NFL franchise. Playing pitch-and-catch with Troy Aikman, working alongside running back Emmitt Smith, Irvin was at the heart of a team that went to three Super Bowls in four years -- and won all three.
But, look, we're barely getting warmed up. Michael Irvin was the whole deal -- all of it, from A through at least XXX. He played for an outlaw college program at Miami, one of the most infamously messed-up and infectiously successful Division I mini-dynasties ever. He was incredibly brash. He was, is and always will be a phenomenally great quote.
He made millions of dollars, to the point that money was just one more thing he had too much of. He clawed after the excesses of fame like they were mother's milk, to the point that he allowed them nearly to bring him down at the height of his career.
He was arrested in a hotel room in which authorities also found drug paraphernalia and two women who described themselves as, uh, models. He showed up for court one day during his ensuing trial wearing that ridiculous Huggy-Bear-goes-to-traffic-school get-up, and what happened next seemed only appropriate: A security guard asked Irvin to autograph his book.
Did we say book? A Bible, is what it was.
And these were the '90s. This was the time that was in professional sports in America, a time that is absolutely destined to be looked back upon with equal parts awe, disgust and wonderment. Shocking that so many could be paid so absurdly well for playing the games. Shocking that so many of those paid so well could find so many different ways to undermine their own golden situations.
Shocking, of course, that fans would tolerate the kind of behavior from their "heroes" that, coming from the guy down the street, would have them on the phone to the cops in 30 seconds. And shocking the way the media pandered after the whole affair, alternately oblivious to and indignant about the goings-on, depending upon the mood of the day.
It wasn't the mainstream of the the time, necessarily. In the main, athletes still rose through the ranks to become competent if unspectacular professionals, spent a comparatively quiet four or six years near the top and then moved on to the next phases of their lives, neither a trail of malice nor any particular fanfare in their wakes.
But that's the mainstream; what history will recall is the wide margins, the extremes, the tops and bottoms. In that regard, Michael Irvin is utterly bound to be remembered, perhaps to a degree that outstrips even his tremendous work on the field as a bona fide top football player.
What can you say? It's a sign of the times. For Irvin, the sign always glowed neon.
Scouting Around
Those in the crush-the-DH camp had to have taken note of what Mike Piazza said in the aftermath of his beaning by Roger Clemens during the Mets-Yanks dustup over the weekend, an act that Piazza and his teammates took to be utterly intentional on the part of Clemens, a lifelong American Leaguer. "I thought sometime down the line in my career, I could have been a designated hitter," Piazza said, "but I think that's probably not a good thing for baseball. I think that if he (Clemens) knew he had to come up (to bat) the next inning, he probably would have been a little more careful." The absence of the DH surely hasn't eliminated the brushback pitch in the National League, but it's also inarguable that Piazza makes more than a little sense.
What Pistons president Joe Dumars said when he first heard that Grant Hill was leaning toward signing with the Orlando Magic rather than re-up with Detroit: "I'll jump off that bridge when I get to it." All of which can only make you wonder what went through the minds of the executives in San Antonio, who actually won something with Tim Duncan on board. What Hill's time with the Pistons proves beyond the slightest doubt is that no single player can elevate an essentially mediocre lineup to greatness -- but, since you followed the early years of Michael Jordan in Chicago, you knew that already.
Sorry, just can't get into the arguments over whether the fans are correct or nutso in their balloting for the baseball All-Star teams -- or any other All-Star teams, for that matter. It's a fan game; it is an exhibition; it counts for absolutely nothing beyond entertainment value. Thus, the balloting is beyond the scope of any rational debate. And any team that agrees to pay a bonus to a player for making the All-Star team is just asking to be ridiculed, not to mention getting its pockets picked. Bring back Rick Dempsey!
Less visible on the radar screen, but here's to Tim McDonald, one of those quietly competent pros you so rarely actually hear about. Released by the 49ers in a cost-cutting move, McDonald chose to retire rather than subject himself and his body to another season of pro football. It was the right move but a difficult one for a guy who genuinely loved the sport, played it beautifully from his safety position and rarely let a receiver forget who it was who had just hit him. Down the home stretch of his career, McDonald made 111 of a possible 112 starts for the 49ers, who depended almost totally on his leadership and solid decision-making on the field. As legacies go, it'll do.
Mark Kreidler is a columnist for the Sacramento Bee, which has a web site at http://www.sacbee.com/. |  |
