Years of Poems and Spirits

Sean Taylor died this morning. I was awaken by the news on the radio, didn’t know what to make of it the whole day. Then, as I am watching a TiVoed Bears-Broncos’ game, the news suddenly sinks in.

It is now, at this moment, the game ceases to be a game, but something very personal. I will miss the speedy figure, in burgandy and white, roaming in the backfields on Sunday afternoons. It is not because he retired, or is injured. He is dead.

It is strange because I can’t think of anything good to say about Taylor as a person. I don’t know him nor have I heard anything examplary about him. As the Skins struggled year after year, Taylor mostly appeared in highlight reels chasing the offensive player’s tail.

Yet he is the last one I would associate with death. He’s young. He has a thuggish spirit that is violent, mean, intimidating, and above all, adolescent. When he hits, he hit as if he wants to kill but can never be killed. While it was exhilarating to watch, now the image becomes chilling to recall.

He embodied life and peronified vigor when he was alive. Now he is dead, mortality looms larger than usual. I will miss him.