Crime and Punishment

Two items of sports news caught my attention yesterday, and the stark contrast of these events gave me pause. First, National Football League commissioner Roger Goodell announced that Cleveland wide receiver Donte Stallworth was suspended for one season without pay as a result of an drunken driving incident in Florida during which Stallworth killed a pedestrian. A short time later, it was announced that convicted felon and quarterback Michael Vick had signed a 2-year contract that could be worth almost $10 million with the Philadelphia Eagles. One career (admittedly one that was struggling to hold on) dealt what may be a final blow, the other reaching the culmination of a Lazarus-like resurrection. Both events make me almost physically ill.

It's no secret that in recent years the NFL has had a significant number of players making the headlines for off the field criminal activities, including everything from homicide cases (Carolina wide receiver Rae Carruth was convicted of conspiring to murder his girlfriend) to felony drug trafficking (Cowboy lineman Nate Newton was convicted for transporting 175 pounds of marijuana) to illegal possession of a firearm (Giants wide receiver Plaxico Burress is currently charged with this offense after shooting himself in the leg with the weapon in question at a nightclub). Of course, the list doesn't include a multitude of DUI's, domestic abuse charges, simple assaults and other "minor" offenses. But why is this so? Is it, as some writers/armchair psychologists have speculated, simply that football is a violent sport played by exceptional athletes who are trained to perform acts of great violence on the field? Is there any truth to a newer school of thought that blames erratic brain function (and resulting, seemingly irrational crimes) on the residue of years of concussive blows to the head? Are these coddled, protected men so unused to being in the real world that they have come to believe their athletic prowess and fame will protect them no matter what foolish actions they partake in? I don't know the answer to these questions. All I know is that these crimes have acted like a corrosive acid on my liking for this sport.

When I was younger, I was a huge fan of the Washington Redskins, my hometown team. I remember the years of Sonny Jurgenson and Sam Huff as players, not announcers. I still know many of the names of the "Over the Hill Gang", the first Redskins team to get to the Super Bowl (where they lost one of the ugliest games ever, 14-7). After a few dark years, a new shining beacon arrived by the name of Joe Gibbs, and suddenly the Redskins were champions, not just once but 3 times in nine years. Then, following the death of owner Jack Kent Cooke and the eventual takeover of the team by a brash new owner, Daniel Snyder, the dark years descended again, and have lasted to the present day. As I got older, I learned that some of my heroes such as Jurgenson, John Riggins and Dexter Manley were deeply flawed men, but most of that came out after their careers were over. I felt bad for them, but it didn't affect the team directly, so these foibles were quietly overlooked. Then nearby rival Baltimore was shaken in 2000 by the Ray Lewis case, in which the star middle linebacker was initially charged in a shooting in Atlanta with everything from homicide to aggravated assault (he eventually pleaded guilty to obstruction of justice), followed in 2004 by the conviction of star running back Jamal Lewis on federal cocaine distribution charges. More charges followed, with a distressing number of convictions. Still, these were things that happened in other towns, to other teams. Then, in 2007, it hit home. Star Redskins safety Sean Taylor, who was just coming into his own as one of the best defensive players in the league, was shot to death in his own home by burglars during the Redskins season. The aftermath was traumatic to me. For several days, the truth, that Taylor was trying to protect his wife and young daughter, was counterbalanced by a disturbing series of stories alleging that Taylor was involved in gangs, in drugs, and that the crime was in retaliation for a confrontation with thugs over some all-terrain vehicles the year before. The team rose up and miraculously made the playoffs. My heart wasn't in it. For me, like many others, sport, in it's myriad forms, is a form of escape. It allows us to put aside the trials and tribulations of the real world and focus on something as clean and pure and simple as skill against skill, strategy against strategy, and the fervent wish that we too could be as athletically gifted as those we are watching. Now the real world had intruded, and the idealism that sport represented had been shattered. It has happened to most sports now (the Escobar killing during the World Cup in 1994, the 2002 manslaughter case against the NBA's Jayson Williams, the drug scandals that have wracked sports from baseball to cycling to NASCAR, the tawdry figure skating affair in 1994) with very few remaining unblemished. The corrosion of the spirit continues unabated.

Now there are two additional reminders of this. In the lesser known story, Stallworth spent a night in a bar drinking, then hit and killed a man on the way home with his car. His blood alcohol reading was .12 (the legal limit in Florida is .08). He reported the accident himself, waited on the scene for police, plead guilty to a charge of DUI homicide (though receiving a ludicrously light 30-day sentence with two years of monitored house arrest), and has reportedly reached a financial settlement with the man's family. Some allege the punishment is harsh in response to another serious NFL DUI case (the much criticized Leonard Little vehicular homicide case in 1999), but I keep coming back to one thing: he killed a man. It wasn't in combat or wartime. He wasn't defending himself. He certainly didn't mean to do it. But there is one, unescapable fact. Stallworth took a 4,500 pound blunt object and hit a man with it at high speed. He killed him. How is that harsh? He'll get another chance at the NFL in a year. That family will never see their husband/father/son again. Stallworth made one bad decision, and now a lot of people are paying the price.

Michael Vick's story is better known. Implicated in a dog fighting ring in 2007, he lied, obfuscated and tried an increasingly desperate series of excuses until finally being convicted on federal felony charges late in that year and sentenced to 2 years in jail. At the time of his conviction he was given an indefinite suspension by the NFL, which was lifted by commissioner Goodell last week. Yesterday he signed with the Eagles for millions of dollars. Michael Vick didn't kill anyone. Yet to me, his crime is just as grievous as that of Stallworth. Vick tried to kill the truth. Ok, that is an idealistic statement. In our system of criminal justice however, there are penalties for trying to conceal the truth, which is exactly what Vick tried to do. In my mind, he has become a stereotypical pampered athlete who doesn't give a damn about anything except himself and his paycheck, and is prepared to do anything to avoid facing the consequences of his actions. Hardly the prototype of the hero-athlete, or anything remotely resembling a role model.

A number of years ago, basketball player Charles Barkley achieved some notoriety by proclaiming far and wide that he was not a role model. Therein lies the problem. Like it or not, young people look up to athletes, especially successful ones. Now there are two other athletes for them to look at. One is a relatively stand up guy who made a catastrophic error, but he's not a star player and gets suspended for a year beyond his legal penalties. The other is a liar who tried to escape his punishment at all costs, but is a star player who served his legal penalties and stands to make millions of dollars from the NFL yet again. Who is the greater villain? I'm don't know anymore. All I am sure of is that the corrosion has tainted my love of football, and I am not sure if the damage can be repaired.

Thanks for reading!