Hammock Parties
11-22-2007, 01:25 AM
http://www.kansascity.com/sports/chiefs/story/372163.html
There’s so much to be thankful for
When Sunday’s game ended, I waited around for Priest Holmes. I did not have anything in particular to ask him. Waiting him out after games had become something of a ritual. I have joked with friends that I have spent half my career waiting for Priest Holmes to get dressed after a game.
He was the last man out, as always. Holmes said a few words to our reporter about Brody Croyle’s first game, and then he caught my eye and held out his hand to shake.
“I can’t talk now,” he said quietly.
“That’s OK,” I said. “How do you feel?”
Then he shook his head sadly. And he said, “I really can’t talk now. I’ll talk to you back in Kansas City.”
I should have known then that it was over. But there really was never any decoding Priest. He always danced to his own rhythms. At his best — and I think of his best as those 13 remarkable games played in 2002 — he was as good a running back as I ever saw, a running, catching, blocking triple threat who played football with the businesslike intensity of someone trying to prove the world wrong.
As great as he was then, I felt more inspired watching him this season. He had lost speed. The holes weren’t as easy to find. He took the hits harder. In the end, it’s not easy to know what to make of the Holmes comeback, which began with talks about a dream in River Falls and ended with numbness in Indianapolis after only four games. Maybe I’m naive. Definitely, I’m naive. But I have always believed he came back, in large part, to show people one more time what is possible.
Every year, I write this Thanksgiving column, listing off the many things I’m thankful for. Two years ago, after he got hurt, I wrote this: “I’m thankful for Priest Holmes. Dozens and dozens of people have stopped me to ask whether Priest is finished. I always give the same answer: Only Priest knows for sure. He’s 32, he’s hurt again, the odds are stacked. But odds, like linebackers, have never intimidated Priest Holmes. If he wants to come back, he will. Shocking the world is his game.”
This Thanksgiving I write this: In all the years of writing about sports, I’ve never been around an athlete who thrilled, confused, entertained, enlightened and inspired me as much as Priest Holmes. Thank you, Priest.
•••
We begin Thanksgiving column XII: I’m thankful that Elizabeth, my oldest, age 6, eventually kicked the ball in a soccer game. She had become expert at running around the pile, as if she were a satellite to the game action, but in her last two games she closed her eyes and jumped in the pile and kicked the ball. That’s a good way to live. I’m thankful that Katie, my youngest, age 2, wants to kick the ball already.
Here’s the food paragraph: I’m thankful for Arthur Bryant’s burnt ends, the flattened chicken at Jack Stack, the buffet at China Wok, chocolate fondue where you can find it, Sheboygan Dogs at the ballpark and pasta everywhere. I’m also thankful for my trainer, David, who helps me feel the pain for eating all that stuff.
I’m thankful for Chase Daniel and Todd Reesing and the biggest football game to be played in Kansas City in all my years here. I’m thankful for Donnie Edwards and Derrick Johnson — the old and young of Chiefs linebacking — and the Plaza lights and the Boys and Girls Club and the (one) open lane approaching the Broadway Bridge. I’m thankful for Alex Gordon and Billy Butler (may they hit three-four in the Royals’ lineup for years to come) and Tony Gonzalez when there’s a pass up high. I’m thankful for Adrian Peterson in the open field, Roger Federer on the run, Steve Nash on a two-on-one and Tiger Woods with a putt that he has to make. I’m thankful for all those old Royals and Chiefs who still live in town, still connect us to better times.
I’m thankful, one more time, for Mike Sweeney. The last few years on the field were not what anyone hoped, especially Mike. That’s just the frailty of the human body. But last week, he was chosen winner of the Hutch Award, given to the player who best exemplifies the fighting spirit of the late Fred Hutchinson. Mickey Mantle won this award, Yaz, George Brett, Johnny Bench, Dennis Leonard and now Mike Sweeney. That is still what Sweeney means to me.
I’m thankful for 75-degrees days in November and the brutal days like Wednesday that make us all appreciate them more. I’m thankful for the best-in-America convenience of the Kansas City airport — never more than when picking up my parents during the holidays — and the old scoreboard at Kauffman Stadium (ready to be packed away), and the way the downtown Marriott lights up at night. I’m thankful that baseball, so far anyway, doesn’t have instant replay slowing down and the game. Enough things slow down baseball as is. I’m thankful for the way Dayton Moore has started to restore pride in the Royals and the smell of the Arrowhead parking lot before Chiefs games (not so much after), and the way Kansas and Missouri fans go at it this week. I should pass along some of the jokes people have sent along.
As always, I’m thankful for Margo Ann.
And finally, big finish, I’m thankful for the Buck O’Neil Award that the Hall of Fame will start giving out, parents and kids who still play catch in the front yard, GPS systems, Janie Quisenberry-Stone, recommendations at Rainy Day Books, Salvation Army bell ringers, the Bruce Springsteen song “Girls in their Summer Clothes,” school teachers, volunteer coaches, hockey on television (if you can ever find it), conversations with Bill Self, the menu at Governor Stumpy’s, 18th and Vine, good fountain Diet Cokes (not too much syrup, not too little), the way Gary Pinkel has found himself and restored Missouri pride, outdoor basketball goals, Costco smoothies, soft pretzels, Julia Othmer’s music, the Kansas at Kansas State basketball game this season (I’m predicting the end of the most amazing streak in college sports), all the readers who have hung in there with me for a dozen Thanksgivings, and last, to bring it all around one final time, I’m thankful for the time I was able to beat Priest Holmes in a game of chess. It was at a Hooters Restaurant in San Antonio. He chose the place.
“I thought it might distract you,” he said afterward. “But you had a stronger will than I did.”
I did not, of course. Nobody I know had a stronger will than Priest Holmes.
There’s so much to be thankful for
When Sunday’s game ended, I waited around for Priest Holmes. I did not have anything in particular to ask him. Waiting him out after games had become something of a ritual. I have joked with friends that I have spent half my career waiting for Priest Holmes to get dressed after a game.
He was the last man out, as always. Holmes said a few words to our reporter about Brody Croyle’s first game, and then he caught my eye and held out his hand to shake.
“I can’t talk now,” he said quietly.
“That’s OK,” I said. “How do you feel?”
Then he shook his head sadly. And he said, “I really can’t talk now. I’ll talk to you back in Kansas City.”
I should have known then that it was over. But there really was never any decoding Priest. He always danced to his own rhythms. At his best — and I think of his best as those 13 remarkable games played in 2002 — he was as good a running back as I ever saw, a running, catching, blocking triple threat who played football with the businesslike intensity of someone trying to prove the world wrong.
As great as he was then, I felt more inspired watching him this season. He had lost speed. The holes weren’t as easy to find. He took the hits harder. In the end, it’s not easy to know what to make of the Holmes comeback, which began with talks about a dream in River Falls and ended with numbness in Indianapolis after only four games. Maybe I’m naive. Definitely, I’m naive. But I have always believed he came back, in large part, to show people one more time what is possible.
Every year, I write this Thanksgiving column, listing off the many things I’m thankful for. Two years ago, after he got hurt, I wrote this: “I’m thankful for Priest Holmes. Dozens and dozens of people have stopped me to ask whether Priest is finished. I always give the same answer: Only Priest knows for sure. He’s 32, he’s hurt again, the odds are stacked. But odds, like linebackers, have never intimidated Priest Holmes. If he wants to come back, he will. Shocking the world is his game.”
This Thanksgiving I write this: In all the years of writing about sports, I’ve never been around an athlete who thrilled, confused, entertained, enlightened and inspired me as much as Priest Holmes. Thank you, Priest.
•••
We begin Thanksgiving column XII: I’m thankful that Elizabeth, my oldest, age 6, eventually kicked the ball in a soccer game. She had become expert at running around the pile, as if she were a satellite to the game action, but in her last two games she closed her eyes and jumped in the pile and kicked the ball. That’s a good way to live. I’m thankful that Katie, my youngest, age 2, wants to kick the ball already.
Here’s the food paragraph: I’m thankful for Arthur Bryant’s burnt ends, the flattened chicken at Jack Stack, the buffet at China Wok, chocolate fondue where you can find it, Sheboygan Dogs at the ballpark and pasta everywhere. I’m also thankful for my trainer, David, who helps me feel the pain for eating all that stuff.
I’m thankful for Chase Daniel and Todd Reesing and the biggest football game to be played in Kansas City in all my years here. I’m thankful for Donnie Edwards and Derrick Johnson — the old and young of Chiefs linebacking — and the Plaza lights and the Boys and Girls Club and the (one) open lane approaching the Broadway Bridge. I’m thankful for Alex Gordon and Billy Butler (may they hit three-four in the Royals’ lineup for years to come) and Tony Gonzalez when there’s a pass up high. I’m thankful for Adrian Peterson in the open field, Roger Federer on the run, Steve Nash on a two-on-one and Tiger Woods with a putt that he has to make. I’m thankful for all those old Royals and Chiefs who still live in town, still connect us to better times.
I’m thankful, one more time, for Mike Sweeney. The last few years on the field were not what anyone hoped, especially Mike. That’s just the frailty of the human body. But last week, he was chosen winner of the Hutch Award, given to the player who best exemplifies the fighting spirit of the late Fred Hutchinson. Mickey Mantle won this award, Yaz, George Brett, Johnny Bench, Dennis Leonard and now Mike Sweeney. That is still what Sweeney means to me.
I’m thankful for 75-degrees days in November and the brutal days like Wednesday that make us all appreciate them more. I’m thankful for the best-in-America convenience of the Kansas City airport — never more than when picking up my parents during the holidays — and the old scoreboard at Kauffman Stadium (ready to be packed away), and the way the downtown Marriott lights up at night. I’m thankful that baseball, so far anyway, doesn’t have instant replay slowing down and the game. Enough things slow down baseball as is. I’m thankful for the way Dayton Moore has started to restore pride in the Royals and the smell of the Arrowhead parking lot before Chiefs games (not so much after), and the way Kansas and Missouri fans go at it this week. I should pass along some of the jokes people have sent along.
As always, I’m thankful for Margo Ann.
And finally, big finish, I’m thankful for the Buck O’Neil Award that the Hall of Fame will start giving out, parents and kids who still play catch in the front yard, GPS systems, Janie Quisenberry-Stone, recommendations at Rainy Day Books, Salvation Army bell ringers, the Bruce Springsteen song “Girls in their Summer Clothes,” school teachers, volunteer coaches, hockey on television (if you can ever find it), conversations with Bill Self, the menu at Governor Stumpy’s, 18th and Vine, good fountain Diet Cokes (not too much syrup, not too little), the way Gary Pinkel has found himself and restored Missouri pride, outdoor basketball goals, Costco smoothies, soft pretzels, Julia Othmer’s music, the Kansas at Kansas State basketball game this season (I’m predicting the end of the most amazing streak in college sports), all the readers who have hung in there with me for a dozen Thanksgivings, and last, to bring it all around one final time, I’m thankful for the time I was able to beat Priest Holmes in a game of chess. It was at a Hooters Restaurant in San Antonio. He chose the place.
“I thought it might distract you,” he said afterward. “But you had a stronger will than I did.”
I did not, of course. Nobody I know had a stronger will than Priest Holmes.