| | | You don't want to get your heart stole. You don't want that to happen, baby.
|  | | Eddie George knows that wherever he goes, Ray Lewis will be waiting. |
Don't care if it's some pulchritudinous, truly merciless woman like Laila Ali, or if it's somebody else you believe deep down can whup yo ass. You don't want a stole heart.
Yet it happens all the time in ball. They say you aren't a real man until you get your heart stole. No. You aren't a real man until you get your heart broken. It's not the same. A broken heart can mend. A stole heart is MIA, presumed dead. Nothing is learned from it.
Myself, personally -- don't know much about history. Don't know much bi-ology. But do know a thing or two about chemistry, bad ball karma.
Went to the camp of the Tennessee Titans last season, to reason with Stevie McNair, from Waydownyonder, Miss-sippi. Did he have another one of those Super Bowl
drives to the 1-yard-line in him? I had found that as exciting as hell. You?
I went to Nashville and spoke to McNair, not at so much length, but enough to see if he could one day become something like a poor man's John Elway, a bull-necked manimal, who, unfortunately, was slowly getting busted up, the chinks and chunks being taken out of him from playing in the same division with Pittsburgh Steelers and Baltimore Ravens.
But, as I did not have to remind him, he'd built his mother a big, new, roomy, wonderful house, on the very same land where she had once sharecropped, and this is no small thing when you grow up black and po (not poor) in the Mississippi Delta. While I spoke to McNair, I (we?) noticed Eddie George watching. Wondered if Eddie was an egomaniac who believed all roads led to him.
Wish I'd had time to do a case study. Eddie George was about to become a vic -- Ray Lewis' personal property. Ignorant of this future back then, I said to Stevie McNair, "You'll need Eddie, one day soon, Stevie. I knew Elway, too. You ain't better than Elway. And Elway couldn't do nothing about winning no Super Bowl, not alone, not until Terrell Davis showed up."
McNair stared and said, "Yup."
Later, Eddie George had his heart stolen by Baltimore linebacker Ray Lewis. So, McNair ain't going anywhere. He won't have any ballads written about him,
not anytime soon, and will not have the opportunity to drive the ball down the field in the next Super Bowl.
|  | | George simply hasn't been the same since his run-in with Ray Lewis. |
Ray Lewis is a Heart-Stealer. And he's good at it, too. If your heart is available, Ray will take it from you, with no compunction. So it came to pass that no matter if McNair throws Eddie George a little flare pass in the flat, or if Eddie George gets to run between the tackles, all Ray Lewis has to do now -- after lighting Eddie George's butt up a few times with some where-did-he-come-from-blowing-my-butt-up-like-that? tackles, laughing, then telling Eddie George about it -- is show up and scowl at Eddie George and,
basically, it's over.
We all saw what happened in the playoff game with Super Bowl implications last season between Baltimore and Tennessee, a real tough-as-rawhide
struggle between the two most devastating teams in pro ball. It was decided on this little flare pass to Eddie George. Eddie basically just kind of gave
the ball to his daddy, Ray Lewis, in some way subconsciously thinking it would get Ray off of his butt. Ray, not being one to let his be-atches down when they bring him his money like they're supposed to, returned the gift for a TD.
Before last Monday night's game between the Titans and the Ravens at Adelphia Coliseum in Nashville, Lewis was interviewed by ABC. Ray said every time
Eddie got the ball, he would be coming for him, looking for him, "with a passion." When informed of this, Eddie George bucked his eyes like Bernie
Mac and said it's not like that between him and Ray.
Oh, yes it is, Eddie.
But we -- that would be me and the remorseless Road Dog -- have a way out for Eddie George, a way he can steal his heart back from his personal Heart-Eater, Ray Lewis. Eddie, unless you take our advice, your life will be a nightmare, a living hell of walking around with no heart, because somebody has snatched it out of your chest and held it up, still warm and beating, letting your blood stream down his arm before thousands of disbelieving witnesses, while you watch.
Dying ain't no way to make a living, EG. This is what you should do now ...
What, Dog? You trying to tell me my business? You're saying to hold The Eddie George Solution until the end, make the pilgrims wade through your
list of Heart-Eaters first? You don't own me, Dog. I ain't your be-atch, Dog. But ... you might be right.
So, first, here is Road Dog's List of The Heart-Eaters of Sports. (And if you have some more you want to add to the list, feel free):
Charles Oakley, Chicago Bulls
|  | | Charles Oakley, left, has stolen the hearts of both his opponents and his own teammates. |
Oakley is a serial Heart-Eater, the Hannibal Lecter of Heart-Eaters in sports. Started out with then-Philly forward Tyrone Hill's heart. Oakley
liked the taste. Slapped Hill around before a shootaround. People seemed to respect him for it. Warmed to his work after that.
Instead of Tyrone Hill slapping back, or at least dropping some J's on Oak on-court, or bringing in some muscle to defend him, like Luca Brazi, or Suge
Knight, Ty Hill only gulped, shrank, shriveled up and got traded from the Philadelphia 76ers to some place where they don't make Charles Oakleys.
Don't much care what Oakley's reasoning was for eating Hill's heart. Hill owed him some money? So? Does your mortgage company send somebody out to
slap you around? Would you just sit there and take it and looked shocked if it did? Oak stole Ty Hill's heart. Oak stole little Jeffy McInnis' heart, real unfair because Jeffy is a Munchkin, compared to Oak.
Still, Oak slapped him around before a practice in L.A. because the Clippers guard supposedly hit, in the Biblical sense, some sassy bimbette Oak was supposedly sweet on. Hey, Oak, if you're gonna slap somebody around over shared affections of a woman, especially that particular coquette, you are going to be slapping people all day. McInnis didn't have a gangster brother to say to Oak, "You slapped my brother around in public?" So, Oak was not compelled to explain, "He was banging cocktail waitresses three at a time! I got a business to run here! Sometimes I gotta kick asses to make it run right!"
Ol' Oak even wanted to eat Vinsanity's heart last year, even though he was on the same team. Why do you think Toronto traded him?
Now Oak is gnawing on the beating left ventricle of Bulls coach Tim Floyd Horrible! Bon appetit, Oak.
Scott Stevens, New Jersey Devils
|  | | Scott Stevens has made a habit of taking Eric Lindros' heart away. |
Eric Lindros belongs to Scott Stevens. If Stevens says, "Get over here now, Linny," Lindros's skates are magnetically pulled toward Stevens'. "Now, lift
your chinstrap up, so I can get a better angle on it. I said, lift your chinstrap up. There. Now say g'night, Linny."
Lindros: "G'night, Linny."
Moe Green, Las Vegas
Re: Fredo. See above. "The Godfather" isn't sports? Gambling isn't sports? Are you kidding? Ask Phil Mickelson if gambling's not sports. Ask Pete Rose. Ask Paul Hornung. Ask Alex Karras. Ask Arnold Rothstein. Or, just be quiet and take Dog's word for it.
Randy Johnson, Arizona Diamondbacks
In the All-Star Game a few years back, a National League batter named John Kruk tried to make it seem funny, that his heart got stole on national TV by
the Big Unit, then representing Seattle and the American League. Kruk was a lefty batter who liked to crowd the dish a little, dive in. Unit came with sidearm heat that Kruk couldn't even see but damn sure heard when it hit the catcher's mitt. Sounded like somebody had got shot. Kruk stepped out and checked his heart, to see if it was still there. He actually felt for it. People laughed. I laughed. You laughed. If you don't believe me, check the tape. Unit not only struck Kruk out, he retired him.
Kruk went away whining and complaining about how "today's players" weren't the same, had no guts, no stick-to-it-tiveness, which old fans love to hear about today's players, because it makes them feel that their eras were better. Bullcrap City, is what it is. Big Unit stole Kruk's heart. Kruk was the one who wasn't the same, Kruk was the one who lost his spine, Kruk had no stick-to-it-tiveness. Kruk was Bob Horner all over again. Hey, whatever somebody's accusing you of doing, that's usually what they're guilty of
doing.
|  | | When you step in the batter's box against Randy Johnson, there's a chance you'll have your heart stolen. |
Jeff Reboulet, Los Angeles Dodgers
Little utilityman stole Big Unit's heart. Hits him like he owns him. In the playoffs a few years back, as a Baltimore Oriole, Reboulet knocked Unit off
the hill; Davey Johnson, then Orioles' manager, knew something we didn't. Reb stole Unit's heart. Hey, go figure.
Donald Trump, New Jersey Generals
Years back, in the mid-1980s, this New York real estate tycoon named Donald Trump got it in his head that he wanted to own a pro football team. Poof, he
bought the New Jersey Generals of the USFL, lock, stock and human depreciable assets. Trump then made an offer to the starting quarterback for
the Los Angeles Raiders, Marc Wilson.
Raiders owner Al Davis checked his heart and found it stole. This from a man unafraid to buck, sue and otherwise torment the NFL and Pete Rozelle.
But everybody's heart can get stole. Just a matter of when, how, who. Davis matched Trump's offer to Wilson, when any good football man like Big Al
Davis should've known that Marc Wilson, as a pro QB on a Super Bowl team, was no more than a glorified back-up. But Davis did not want to be
out-riched by Trump, who was using the same tactics Al once used to sign Roman Gabriel, John Brodie, Lance Alworth et. al., under a goalpost to
future AFL contracts. That was how Al got in, in the first place.
So, Al Davis actually stole Al Davis' own heart! He paid Wilson 600 Gs, then a princely sum, and was forced to start him several years to justify it, thereby missing two Raider Super Bowls in the mid-'80s because his QB wasn't up to speed with the rest of his fine '83 Super Bowl team. Meanwhile, Davis didn't pay Marcus Allen, forcing Allen to pout and eventually to K.C.
Took Al Davis a full 15 years to recover from what Trump hath wrought. Trump'll like that: "What Trump Hath Wrought."
Michael Jordan, Planet Earth
In the 15 years between 1982 and 1997, slowly but surely and most spectacularly, Michael Jordan stole the heart of every basketball player on planet Earth. Somebody took some informal poll and found that nearly 70 percent of NBA current players at one time or another had a Michael Jordan poster on their walls.
The Ultimate Heart-Eater: Michael Jordan.
All he had to do was look at them all and they wilted like daisies in the Kalahari. Remember when Barkley and the Suns were in the Finals against the Bulls? It was three games to two, Bulls, Sir Charles had won a game in Chicago to make it 3-2, the series was back in Phoenix, and the Suns had a chance to win at the end. The ball rotation had it that Thunder Dan Majerle had the last shot. It was a simple shot, a 15-footer from the right base. Majerle was virtually unguarded. He went up formful, sweet -- then his form broke, and you could see in his peripheral vision that he was thinking, looking, "Where is He? I know He's here somewhere. Probably getting ready to grab this shot right out of my hand," and that little break caused Thunder Dan to pull the string just a little and the shot was off, and the Bulls and Jordan had won another title, helped
very much by the fact that Michael Jordan was the Greatest Heart-Eater of Them All. There must be a hundred stories like that about Jordan.
|  | | There has been no greater heart-stealer in the history of sports than Michael Jordan. |
Not bad stealing, right there, seeing as how hoopers as a class must understand and utilize and defend against the selling-wolf-tickets, these-two-for-yo-mama intimidation trash-talking, heart-stealing game from the time they first hit the playgrounds. Let somebody back you down from going to the hole, don't matter how much game you got. In fact, the more game you have, the more likely dudes will try and steal your heart, back you down -- because they can't outplay you.
Troy Murphy, a Golden State Warriors forward, out of Notre Dame, is going through it right now. Dudes trying to steal his heart all over the place. 'Bowing him upside the head and jawbone, trying to goad him into fighting. Because, see, fighting ain't playing basketball. Plus, Murphy won't back down on the court like your average
American white boy. But see, that's because he got NBA game. And more than that, he ain't scared. He just wants to be able to flow.
But everybody is scared of something. Anybody can get his heart stole. Murphy can play. That makes him a problem. And if dudes can talk him out of it, intimidate him out of it, then they don't have to get busted by his game. He busts himself. That's the ugly beauty of getting your heart ate.
Which brings me back to Ray the Mangler and Eddie G., OK?
This is on the down-low, OK? Listen up ...
I'm spilling this as a public service. Dog says this is what Eddie should do. The next time the Titans play the Ravens, if they ever do again, and Stevie McNair throws Eddie George a swing pass in the flat, and Eddie is supposed to turn and catch the ball, thereby leaving himself open to a hurtling Ray Lewis about to rack him up from behind, Eddie should do this:
Forget the ball.
Forget the ball for one play, turn, rev up, ramp up and meet Ray head-on with everything you believe in, everything good and bad you have in you. Bring it all. Let worlds collide. This is football. Eddie George is as big or bigger than Ray Lewis, as fast or faster. Ray hits harder, of course; Ray gets a running start, and usually has Eddie in his crosshairs, while Eddie has his back turned. That's Ray Lewis' --any defenders' -- great edge. But that doesn't mean Eddie George can't turn early, hit first, can't initiate
the contact, can't lead sometimes.
Check out the tapes on Walter Payton. He did it all the time. See, Eddie G. used to be a great back, before Ray Lewis got hold of him. He has the juice. So sell out, one play, don't even play the ball, turn and do the Oklahoma with Ray.
Maybe you win that play, and maybe you don't. But either way, now we've got a ballgame, and now you've stole your heart back.
This is not a new theory. Football is a game of hitting. You might as well catch it -- you're gonna get hit anyway. A collision sport. De-cleaters. Yada-yada. It is one of the older Jedi of the NFL, Ahmad Rashad, who can best teach the likes of an Eddie George, a would-be Jedi, a good lesson on the best way to survive in this environment.
See, Rashad once played with a QB named Fran Tarkenton, up in Minnesota. Tarkenton was good, for a man who didn't have a cannon, a big arm. He couldn't really gun it in there on the quick slant like Elway, Bret Favre, Stevie McNair, or even Elvis Grbac.
So what did Ahmad Rashad do, since Tarkenton liked to call the quick slant in spite of his shortcomings? Did Rashad just throw his body and his heart in there to be stole while nobly attempting to spear the softly thrown ball as it descended slowly toward the helmet of, say, Jack Tatum? Oh, no. Ahmad Rashad told Fran Tarkenton, "You
got three steps to get the rock in there." After the first three steps of this dangerous pattern, Rashad was saying he would no longer be trying to catch
the ball. He would be trying to save his life. He would take the defender on. A first down or his career. No choice.
Rashad would be keeping himself whole, protecting his heart from being eaten alive by taking on the aggressor rather than taking on the ball. Not on
every play. Selected plays. The live-to-fight-again plays. He was playing very smart football. No wonder that today Rashad is a hail-fellow-well-met,
and seems to have done well for himself as a good example of the new, vastly entertaining media "jockocracy" that the "fearless" Howard Cosell feared and
loathed but never understood. Maybe it's no accident that Ahmad Rasahd looks as if he might outlive the 10-year NFL veteran's projected lifespan of 54
years by some 20 or 30 years, or maybe even more.
Just consider what Dog is saying, Eddie. Just think about it.
Ralph Wiley spent nine years at Sports Illustrated and wrote 28 cover stories on celebrity athletes. He is the author of several books, including "Best Seat in the House," with Spike Lee, "Born to Play: The Eric Davis Story," and "Serenity, A Boxing Memoir."
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