T-post Tom
08-09-2009, 01:36 AM
One more big play for Derrick Thomas
By JOE POSNANSKI
The Kansas City Star
CANTON, Ohio | This is where the bust of Derrick Thomas will stand forever. Funny thing, it seems like every school field trip of my Cleveland childhood ended here in this room of faces in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. I remember being oddly chilled whenever I would come in here. It always seemed like these busts featuring the greatest football players and coaches were staring at me.
They still stare. There is the bust of Dick Butkus, his eyes squinting, his face masked in rage. There’s the bust of Frank Gifford, looking immaculate, every hair in place, a football star about to be an announcing star. Speaking of hair, there’s the old Kansas City Chiefs coach Hank Stram, the hair on his bust lifting high off his head, as if blowing in the wind. The Chiefs players had a lot of laughs about that hair.
There’s Kellen Winslow’s bust, looking as if it is ready to be called into the game RIGHT NOW — who the heck needs a body? Let’s just play some football.
There’s Merlin Olsen’s bust, and it is smiling — not many busts in here are smiling — and you get the sense that if the bust had arms, they would be outstretched to help up the quarterback he just sacked.
There’s the bust of great Chiefs linebacker Willie Lanier, and it looks to the right, like he has just noticed a running back on the loose and he needs to go clean up that situation.
I never knew the educational value of coming to the Pro Football Hall of Fame on school field trips — seems like we would do that maybe two or three times every year. Maybe I do understand now. Here, in this room, you have the players and coaches who represented excellence. True, they represented that excellence on the football field. But that’s OK. This is about football. This is the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Most of us believe there’s a more enduring place for people who live good lives.
There’s the bust of Vince Lombardi, the old Packers coach. He was all about doing one thing as close to perfect as humanly possible. Cleveland running back Jim Brown was about pummeling the defense again and again and again, never allowing pain or discouragement to slow him. Baltimore’s Raymond Berry was about precision — he always took exactly the same number of steps, made exactly the same shoulder fake, turned exactly the same way. Paul Warfield was about stretching expectation; even the worst-thrown passes never felt out of his reach.
So, what does Derrick Thomas represent as a football player? What is his football legacy? After the long wait, he’s a part of this place now. He’s a part of football history in a whole new way. If you walk all the way around the room, past all the other busts, you will find an empty glass shelf where Thomas’ face will stare out.
They put Thomas’ bust right in the middle of the six who were inducted Saturday night. Directly above him will be Bruce Smith, the brilliant defensive lineman who at his best was like Schwarzenegger’s Terminator — impossible to block and impossible to deter. Above left is Bullet Bob Hayes, the Olympic gold-medal sprinter who as a receiver for the Dallas Cowboys animated the imagination. Above right is Buffalo owner Ralph Wilson, an original member of The Foolish Club, that collection of dreamers who in 1960 put together the American Football League.
Below left is Randall McDaniel, the terrific offensive guard who never allowed himself to have a bad day — 202 consecutive starts, 12 straight Pro Bowls, brilliant every year. Below right is Rod Woodson, who could have played anywhere on the field and been a star; he was a Pro Bowler as a return man, as a safety and as a cornerback, and there’s little doubt he would have been one as a receiver or running back, too.
And what was Derrick Thomas? Of course, he was about big plays. He had this inner clock on the football field, and his alarm would go off just when the game hit its crucial moment. OK. Time to make something big happen. Then, he had the talent and boldness to make something big happen RIGHT THEN. Maybe he would try to jump the snap count. Maybe he would use a move that he had been saving all week for just that instant. Maybe he would see something, a little something, that would clue him in to what the other team wanted to do, and he would get in the middle of it.
Whatever Thomas’ secret, he sacked quarterbacks 126 times, and he forced 45 fumbles, and he scored at least three safeties — officially three, but going back, it looks like it may have been four — and he scored four touchdowns. Those were the defining plays that made the Kansas City Chiefs a playoff team year after year in the 1990s.
So, big plays will no doubt be the legacy he leaves for NFL fans. But there’s something else, too, something more personal that he leaves behind in Kansas City. All around the Hall of Fame on Saturday, there are Derrick Thomas jerseys. There are Chiefs fans who drove in from all over the country. Maybe it is because red stands out — especially on a gray day in northeastern Ohio — but wherever you turn, there is another blur of red, another flock of Chiefs fans. In the early afternoon, I decided to count Derrick Thomas jerseys as I walked around. One spin through the hall, I counted 197.
And it just reminded me: Derrick Thomas was the hub of Kansas City for a long time. He played in the days when every football ticket at Arrowhead Stadium was sold before the season even began. Those were the days when Fridays throughout the city were red and when every conversation in every office building and factory and car dealership and shopping center revolved around a football game on Sunday. Those were the days when the parking lot at Arrowhead was one giant barbecue pit, and you could smell ribs and chicken cooking as far as Topeka.
There’s still some of that now. Kansas City still loves its football. But it’s different. Many of the emotions have faded. The Chiefs have not been much good for years, and there’s a new and still unknown regime in place. Maybe they will reinvigorate the team and the city. Maybe it will be again like the 1990s.
Then again, maybe not. Sure, the 1990s Chiefs will be remembered for what they did not do — reach a Super Bowl — but they should also be remembered for what they did do. They brought Kansas City autumns to life. From 1990 to 1997, they reached the playoffs every year but one (and it was only bad luck and quarterback woes that cost them a spot that year), and they gave people in the city something to talk about, something to cheer about, something to complain about.
Derrick Thomas was the pivotal player in all that. He made the big plays. He inspired his teammates. He riled up the fans. Thomas died in February 2000, when he was only 33, and the Chiefs have not had a good defense since then. They have not been that same sort of tough and unshakable team since then. They have not made nearly enough big plays. They have not been the center of Kansas City, not in quite the same way.
There’s a hospital near the Hall of Fame in Canton — Mercy Medical Center — and on Saturday afternoon there were a bunch of Chiefs fans wearing Derrick Thomas jerseys and sitting on lawn chairs in front of a giant red truck with the Chiefs logo on the side. They were grilling, of course. Two of them — Tanja and Zan McCurry — were from Bend, Ore. Two more — Connie Emery and Cindy Kloepper — were from Kansas. There was a family of Simpsons — Kelly, Brett and Chad — and they were from Wisconsin and Ohio. And, finally, a man from Kansas City dressed up as a superhero called X-Factor, and his father, Daddy X-Factor, sat on the curb. They knew each other through various coincidences and connections. Yes, Derrick Thomas brought them together.
“Even though he’s gone,” Kelly Simpson said, “we had to come.”
The others nodded and ate and offered food to security guards and others who were passing by. That’s what Kansas City Chiefs fans do. They offer food. A slow but persistent rain fell from under a dark gray sky. The Chiefs fans talked about the sacks Derrick Thomas made just when the team needed it most. The smoke drifting off the grill smelled like 1997.
By JOE POSNANSKI
The Kansas City Star
CANTON, Ohio | This is where the bust of Derrick Thomas will stand forever. Funny thing, it seems like every school field trip of my Cleveland childhood ended here in this room of faces in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. I remember being oddly chilled whenever I would come in here. It always seemed like these busts featuring the greatest football players and coaches were staring at me.
They still stare. There is the bust of Dick Butkus, his eyes squinting, his face masked in rage. There’s the bust of Frank Gifford, looking immaculate, every hair in place, a football star about to be an announcing star. Speaking of hair, there’s the old Kansas City Chiefs coach Hank Stram, the hair on his bust lifting high off his head, as if blowing in the wind. The Chiefs players had a lot of laughs about that hair.
There’s Kellen Winslow’s bust, looking as if it is ready to be called into the game RIGHT NOW — who the heck needs a body? Let’s just play some football.
There’s Merlin Olsen’s bust, and it is smiling — not many busts in here are smiling — and you get the sense that if the bust had arms, they would be outstretched to help up the quarterback he just sacked.
There’s the bust of great Chiefs linebacker Willie Lanier, and it looks to the right, like he has just noticed a running back on the loose and he needs to go clean up that situation.
I never knew the educational value of coming to the Pro Football Hall of Fame on school field trips — seems like we would do that maybe two or three times every year. Maybe I do understand now. Here, in this room, you have the players and coaches who represented excellence. True, they represented that excellence on the football field. But that’s OK. This is about football. This is the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Most of us believe there’s a more enduring place for people who live good lives.
There’s the bust of Vince Lombardi, the old Packers coach. He was all about doing one thing as close to perfect as humanly possible. Cleveland running back Jim Brown was about pummeling the defense again and again and again, never allowing pain or discouragement to slow him. Baltimore’s Raymond Berry was about precision — he always took exactly the same number of steps, made exactly the same shoulder fake, turned exactly the same way. Paul Warfield was about stretching expectation; even the worst-thrown passes never felt out of his reach.
So, what does Derrick Thomas represent as a football player? What is his football legacy? After the long wait, he’s a part of this place now. He’s a part of football history in a whole new way. If you walk all the way around the room, past all the other busts, you will find an empty glass shelf where Thomas’ face will stare out.
They put Thomas’ bust right in the middle of the six who were inducted Saturday night. Directly above him will be Bruce Smith, the brilliant defensive lineman who at his best was like Schwarzenegger’s Terminator — impossible to block and impossible to deter. Above left is Bullet Bob Hayes, the Olympic gold-medal sprinter who as a receiver for the Dallas Cowboys animated the imagination. Above right is Buffalo owner Ralph Wilson, an original member of The Foolish Club, that collection of dreamers who in 1960 put together the American Football League.
Below left is Randall McDaniel, the terrific offensive guard who never allowed himself to have a bad day — 202 consecutive starts, 12 straight Pro Bowls, brilliant every year. Below right is Rod Woodson, who could have played anywhere on the field and been a star; he was a Pro Bowler as a return man, as a safety and as a cornerback, and there’s little doubt he would have been one as a receiver or running back, too.
And what was Derrick Thomas? Of course, he was about big plays. He had this inner clock on the football field, and his alarm would go off just when the game hit its crucial moment. OK. Time to make something big happen. Then, he had the talent and boldness to make something big happen RIGHT THEN. Maybe he would try to jump the snap count. Maybe he would use a move that he had been saving all week for just that instant. Maybe he would see something, a little something, that would clue him in to what the other team wanted to do, and he would get in the middle of it.
Whatever Thomas’ secret, he sacked quarterbacks 126 times, and he forced 45 fumbles, and he scored at least three safeties — officially three, but going back, it looks like it may have been four — and he scored four touchdowns. Those were the defining plays that made the Kansas City Chiefs a playoff team year after year in the 1990s.
So, big plays will no doubt be the legacy he leaves for NFL fans. But there’s something else, too, something more personal that he leaves behind in Kansas City. All around the Hall of Fame on Saturday, there are Derrick Thomas jerseys. There are Chiefs fans who drove in from all over the country. Maybe it is because red stands out — especially on a gray day in northeastern Ohio — but wherever you turn, there is another blur of red, another flock of Chiefs fans. In the early afternoon, I decided to count Derrick Thomas jerseys as I walked around. One spin through the hall, I counted 197.
And it just reminded me: Derrick Thomas was the hub of Kansas City for a long time. He played in the days when every football ticket at Arrowhead Stadium was sold before the season even began. Those were the days when Fridays throughout the city were red and when every conversation in every office building and factory and car dealership and shopping center revolved around a football game on Sunday. Those were the days when the parking lot at Arrowhead was one giant barbecue pit, and you could smell ribs and chicken cooking as far as Topeka.
There’s still some of that now. Kansas City still loves its football. But it’s different. Many of the emotions have faded. The Chiefs have not been much good for years, and there’s a new and still unknown regime in place. Maybe they will reinvigorate the team and the city. Maybe it will be again like the 1990s.
Then again, maybe not. Sure, the 1990s Chiefs will be remembered for what they did not do — reach a Super Bowl — but they should also be remembered for what they did do. They brought Kansas City autumns to life. From 1990 to 1997, they reached the playoffs every year but one (and it was only bad luck and quarterback woes that cost them a spot that year), and they gave people in the city something to talk about, something to cheer about, something to complain about.
Derrick Thomas was the pivotal player in all that. He made the big plays. He inspired his teammates. He riled up the fans. Thomas died in February 2000, when he was only 33, and the Chiefs have not had a good defense since then. They have not been that same sort of tough and unshakable team since then. They have not made nearly enough big plays. They have not been the center of Kansas City, not in quite the same way.
There’s a hospital near the Hall of Fame in Canton — Mercy Medical Center — and on Saturday afternoon there were a bunch of Chiefs fans wearing Derrick Thomas jerseys and sitting on lawn chairs in front of a giant red truck with the Chiefs logo on the side. They were grilling, of course. Two of them — Tanja and Zan McCurry — were from Bend, Ore. Two more — Connie Emery and Cindy Kloepper — were from Kansas. There was a family of Simpsons — Kelly, Brett and Chad — and they were from Wisconsin and Ohio. And, finally, a man from Kansas City dressed up as a superhero called X-Factor, and his father, Daddy X-Factor, sat on the curb. They knew each other through various coincidences and connections. Yes, Derrick Thomas brought them together.
“Even though he’s gone,” Kelly Simpson said, “we had to come.”
The others nodded and ate and offered food to security guards and others who were passing by. That’s what Kansas City Chiefs fans do. They offer food. A slow but persistent rain fell from under a dark gray sky. The Chiefs fans talked about the sacks Derrick Thomas made just when the team needed it most. The smoke drifting off the grill smelled like 1997.