In 1989, when Major League Baseball announced that all-time hits leader Pete Rose would be banned from the game for life as punishment for gambling on baseball, the phrase "tragedy" got tossed around a lot. One of the game's all-time great players " known to the fans as Charlie Hustle for the effort he put into each and every play " was officially a pariah, and would not be enshrined in the Hall of Fame: "tragedy."
Mike Royko, one of the great newspaper columnists of the last century and a great devotee of baseball, begged to differ. He wrote in the Chicago Sun-Times:
"A tragedy? Here is a man who, by all accounts, was a lousy husband, an indifferent father, a poor judge of friends and a liar.
"Of course, that doesn't make him any different than a few million other guys.
"But what set him apart was that he was born with exceptional hand-eye coordination and athletic ability. That, plus total determination, made it possible for him to play major league baseball for 24 years
"Oh, to have spent 24 years enduring such tragedy. Or would you settle for a month, a week, even a day? You bet you would...
"It's not a tragedy. It isn't even sad, as the baseball commissioner put it. Tragedy is a kid getting hit by a car. Sad is being old, alone and lonely.
"Rose had the life that almost every American boy has dreamed of. He played The Game and was paid and cheered for it.
"Now it's time for him to become a grownup. The game is over."
Reading the sports pages these past few weeks got me reaching for my book of Royko columns, searching for that passage. For reasons that I'm sure Royko would have appreciated, those same sports headlines have me feeling far less tragic than puzzled.
First, late last month, Miami Dolphins running back Ricky Williams announced he was retiring from football. Williams, one of the NFL's leading rushers for the past several years, said he was leaving the game at age 27 mostly as a lifestyle choice, but Williams admitted that testing positive for marijuana " the third league drug test he failed " influenced his decision. Williams stated publicly that he frequently used a masking agent to try to conceal his marijuana use from league drug testing, and that he wanted to continue using the drug once he left the NFL.
Last week, the Dallas Cowboys released their starting quarterback, Quincy Carter. Dallas fired the player who led the recently-moribund Cowboys to a 10-6 record and a playoff spot last year. Unnamed NFL sources told reporters that Carter was released because he tested positive for cocaine; Carter had already failed one drug test, and was in the league's substance abuse program. Cowboys coach Bill Parcells told the media he was "saddened" by Carter's sudden departure.
It's hard not to be saddened by these kinds of stories, stories about people seemingly leading lives of glamour, fame and prestige, people with extraordinary gifts and good fortune who see their lives dissolve in a day. After all, as Royko observed, athletes do live the lives that so many of us dream about, and it's hard to see that dream unravel even from a distance.
At the same time, though, so often the athletes themselves " people who ought to be considered fortunate by virtually everyone " are the agents of their own demise, be it by gambling, wrecking their lives (sometimes literally, like when Atlanta Thrashers star Dany Heatley's speeding caused a car wreck that killed teammate Dan Snyder) or taking drugs.
And that's what makes these self-destructions puzzling. Why would someone with all that fame, all that money, all that natural talent risk it all with such careless behavior. It's a question few of us will ever be in a position to answer, because few of us will ever find ourselves in such privileged situations.
For athletes like Carter, Williams, Rose and many others, the game is over. But, given how privileged they were to play in that game in the first place, the ending seems far more wasteful than tragic.
