It wasn’t just the suddenness of it, or the criminality or the simple tragedy of it. It was all of it: the sheer loss. The human loss – a father, a son, a fiancee, a player, a teammate. The human loss is perhaps the most raw and real as those who knew him personally grieve in the basest, most human way possible. With tears and anger, they stood bewildered by the loss of a special, interpersonal connection. It was Lavar Arrington fighting back tears while giving his eulogy; it was Clinton Portis raising his jersey to show the 21 beneath it, close to his heart; it was Fred Smoot lying face down and motionless, weeping on the field after the loss to Buffalo; it was Santana Moss raising the 2-1 on his hand after every score, it was Jackie Garcia paralyzed with grief as their baby daughter bounded about. As fans, we sense the loss to a different degree – in the abstract. The loss is more than purely human, it is the loss of potential, of hope, of a symbol, and the loss of a hero. Maybe I’m conveying too much hyperbole in describing a professional football player, but to a Washington Redskins fan, Sean Taylor was more than “just another guy.” Our loss has evolved into an idea.
People die. Some live long, illustrious lives and die peacefully in a comfortable space. Some have life stricken away unfairly, cruelly, by a stray bullet or a faulty brake line or a burglary gone awry. Sean Taylor’s fate landed in the latter column and it’s no more tragic than anyone else. His was a fate no different than any other victim of tragedy, we all just happen to know his name. We all just happen to be fans of his.
Grief has a way of bringing things together; tying up loose ends even when the event responsibile for the grief is a source of so many real and existential questions. We will never answer the question of why someone had to die, but we will always be inspired by the question of how one chose to live. As fans, that’s what we remember. That is ultimately what brings us together. The grief we all share as a community only strengthen the bond we have with our team. The memory of Sean flying around on the football field is one we all share and that is an inspiration that will never die.
In my own corny little way, I drew a lot life lessons one-year ago today when Sean first went to the hospital and passed soon thereafter. I even wrote about it and got to share it with the ‘Skins fans at washingtonpost.com. It was a short column called “One Day at a Time,” but I can’t say enough about how much that mantra has carried me this past year. It is what got me through a period of heavy self-doubt and depression as an unemployed 25-year-old in way over my head with a wedding to pay for and a grad-school fiancee to support. It is what got me through the stress of three low-paying part time jobs and a career search that ended with me concluding that I wasn’t smart or disciplined enough to start or hold a career. It is what got me through when I was fed up with all of it. I took everything one day at a time and I look back a year later and find myself in the most content and satisfying place I’ve ever been – on the couch of my apartment 16 floors high with a mac on my lap, food in the kitchen, and a beautiful wife by my side.
So, this is how I remember Sean Taylor one year later: I think, I play and I live one day at a time. And especially today, 365 days later, I reflect on this BEAST of a man doing what he does best:
Sean Taylor. April 1, 1983 – November 27, 2007
Word.
Hail to the late, great Sean Taylor.