With their comeback win over the Jacksonville Jaguars last night the Indianapolis Colts locked up one of the two AFC Wildcard spots. By clinching, Tony Dungy became the first coach to ever lead a team to the playoffs for 10 straight seasons. Their win the previous week tied the record for most 10-win seasons in a row, at 7, and a victory next week would set a new record for most straight 12-win seasons by any head coach. He’d set the new bar at 5.
Even more impressively, none of the coaches Dungy has passed achieved what they did during the salary cap era. To reach these pinnacles and to stay there for so long in the parity era is nearly inconceivable. It’s one thing to dominate in the manner of the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox, buying your way to victory, but to do so playing the same cards everyone else is dealt is entirely different.
Most impressively of all is how Coach Dungy coaches. In a world dominated by hard-nosed, red-faced men with blood-pressure problems, Dungy never raises his voice in anger. He is a firm believer in doing things “the right way, the Lord’s way.” His words, not mine. Coach Dungy does not use profanity. In his spare time (NFL coaches have nearly none) he volunteers as a grief counselor for parents who lose children to suicide, having lost a son that way himself. He treats his players like men, like they deserve to be treated, and they respond by giving him their absolute all.
Beyond his coaching, in his spare time (NFL coaches have nearly none) Dungy volunteers as a grief counselor for parents who lose children to suicide, having lost a son that way himself. The grief of that loss still plagues him, and it probably always will. A desire to spend more time with his family is the primary reason there are huge rumors of his impending retirement after this season. A pity. I’d like to see so worthy a man set some of those records a little higher, to make them truly untouchable. Just as he already is.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
An empty wishing well
Come Thursday night, Parker will be all better. No more pain, no more aches, no more bleeding.
It’s time. The chemotherapy bought us eight more months to love him. He spent that time as happy as possible. He got an extra summer of playing hose. He picked up an autumn of trotting in leaves and chasing small woodland creatures. When both Manda and I worked he spent days at my parents, pursuing Bounder in the hills, splashing in the creek running through the canyon. He ate treats and was petted and hugged and kissed countless times, by me, by Manda, by family and friends.
But the time has come to let go. Parker doesn’t chase bunnies any more; he can only jog across the house. He doesn’t fly over or through sagebrush these days; I lift him into the car. His claws have grown longer, no longer worn down by the asphalt and dirt passing beneath his paws. His fur is more sparse, thinned by drugs and his system responding to those prescriptions. In the last two years, Parker lived a perfect dog life. In the last eight months he squeezed every drop of life from his time and body. But those wells have run dry. There’s only so much to give, and only so much for which to live.
“I love you” means being willing to say good bye. “I love you” is keeping him alive in happiness and health, not in agony and defeat. It's tough to do the right thing, but his happiness is fading. It's about 9:30, and I'd guess his time at 44 hours from now. He'll be loved every second of it, and he won't go alone. Our vet, wonderfully, is coming to our house to let him go to sleep at home. Don't worry, we'll hold him until all the pain is gone.
It’s time. The chemotherapy bought us eight more months to love him. He spent that time as happy as possible. He got an extra summer of playing hose. He picked up an autumn of trotting in leaves and chasing small woodland creatures. When both Manda and I worked he spent days at my parents, pursuing Bounder in the hills, splashing in the creek running through the canyon. He ate treats and was petted and hugged and kissed countless times, by me, by Manda, by family and friends.
But the time has come to let go. Parker doesn’t chase bunnies any more; he can only jog across the house. He doesn’t fly over or through sagebrush these days; I lift him into the car. His claws have grown longer, no longer worn down by the asphalt and dirt passing beneath his paws. His fur is more sparse, thinned by drugs and his system responding to those prescriptions. In the last two years, Parker lived a perfect dog life. In the last eight months he squeezed every drop of life from his time and body. But those wells have run dry. There’s only so much to give, and only so much for which to live.
“I love you” means being willing to say good bye. “I love you” is keeping him alive in happiness and health, not in agony and defeat. It's tough to do the right thing, but his happiness is fading. It's about 9:30, and I'd guess his time at 44 hours from now. He'll be loved every second of it, and he won't go alone. Our vet, wonderfully, is coming to our house to let him go to sleep at home. Don't worry, we'll hold him until all the pain is gone.
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