Our Heroes Must Never Grow Old

The most recent cover of Sport Illustrated has Brett Favre on the cover with a hood over his head and graying stubble on his face reminding everyone of what they already know: Brett Favre is close to the end. The way his hood is placed on his head makes him seem almost holy or wise; like someone who has been through many storms and weathered them. We can see the lines on his face and his eyes aren't as wild as they used to be. He seems more settled, more reflective. And lest you chide me for ascribing these characteristics to a "football" player you need to understand that Brett Favre is much more than that to anyone who has even remotely followed this game. He is an ideal, a representation of what the game should be. He is the personification of the prodigal son, the wild man who did things his way. The man who almost went too far, only to stop himself and right his way. The man who slung his grief out of his arm the night after his father died...and did it in front of America. He is the man who was at the top of the game and led his team to the top of the league. He was the wild stallion that was harnessed, the gunslinger who never ran out of bullets, the ironman who has yet to rust. He has done his job without missing a day of work for the last 14 years. He has done this in a violent sport, a sport that thrives on brutality. He has done this in a man's sport. And what we see now is the sunset. It's not quite disappearing yet, but soon it will. And with the sun will go a player that our generation and probably the next will never see the likeness of again.

One of my favorite movies is "Unforgiven". Clint Eastwood stars as William Munny who is a retired bounty hunter who has settled down and started a family and a farm. His young wife dies and he's no good at farming so he sets off on one last job and faces the demons of what it's like to kill again. It's not as easy as it used to be or maybe it never it was. Munny used to be the best, but now he just struggles to get his horse under control. The best gunslinger becomes the old gunslinger: not as fast, not as sharp. But we want him to win, we want him to succeed. Maybe we want it more than we ever have because in the back of our minds we know that it will never be like it was. And we want that, don't we. I know I do. We think if we want it bad enough for them, then they'll win. We try to will them to win, but all the while we see the shadows creeping and it's getting a little darker every minute. And this bothers us. It bothers us because we know we are losing more than person in a uniform or on a screen, we're losing a little bit of what we see in ourselves when we watch that person. We know we're getting older. We know someday we'll not be as fast or as sharp as we once were and that's hard to accept. We want so bad to defy age, to beat time. We inject fluid into our faces and our bodies. We take vitamins, we exercise, we use facial cream, but we know time keeps its steady pace. And when one of our heroes rides off into the sunset, they take a part of us with them.

I haven't read the article in Sports Illustrated, but there's one quote that I've seen and it says this: "Our heroes must never grow old." And I wish that quote were as certain and final as it sounds. It sounds like a decree spoken from someone in authority, like an addendum to the Ten Commandments. If only it were. Maybe if I say it enough, I'll feel that way. Maybe I'll even believe it. But for now, I can just wait and count the strokes of the hands that keep pulling the sun down.