I didn't even need to read the text messages or listen to the voicemails. I already knew what they were all going to say: Sean Taylor was dead.
Early Monday morning, Taylor was rushed to the hospital for surgery after he was shot in the thigh by an intruder in his Miami home. Late in the afternoon, media reports suggested that Taylor was responsive to external stimuli. The fourth-year NFL standout was no longer on the brink of death and was going to pull through, we were led to believe.
The news lifted the spirits of thousands of still-stunned Redskins fans like me. That night, the possibility of Taylor losing his life was completely absent from my thoughts. Instead, I kept thinking that the worst was over, that No. 21 would be back on the field leveling opposing wideouts in no time. I even allowed myself to have a chuckle over the fact that he kept a machete by his bed, as the press had reported. Only Sean Taylor, I thought.
Like many other Skins fans Monday night, I went to bed anticipating more good news in the days to come. I woke up late Tuesday morning, however, to find that I had several missed calls and texts on my phone from between six and seven in the morning. I knew there was only one reason why I'd have so many from so early in the day. Indeed, Taylor had died at 3:30 a.m., his injuries proving too severe even for such a well-conditioned and fearless athlete. As I watched ESPN report on Taylor's death, I found myself fighting back tears. My initial disbelief turned to downright shock. Making it all the more surreal for me was that I had just gotten my sister a Taylor jersey for her birthday three days earlier.
Taylor's death, it seemed, had much the same impact on much of the Washington region. As the Washington Post reported on Wednesday, devastated fans overloaded local sports-talk radio stations with calls expressing their grief, and several hundred tearful fans gathered at the Redskins' training facility in Virginia on Tuesday night for a candlelight vigil.
As I struggled to come to grips with what had happened, football became the last thing on my mind. A young man with a promising life ahead of him had died, and his 18-month-old daughter would now be growing up without a father. I realized that the letdown after depressing Sunday losses I had grown so accustomed to feeling during my years rooting for the Skins was beyond insignificant, incomparable to the pain and anguish Taylor's family and friends must be going through. Indeed, the controversy over Coach Joe Gibbs' questionable decision to go for it on fourth down in the third quarter in Sunday's loss against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers - a choice which was unsuccessful and probably led to the Redskins' third crushing defeat in as many weeks and that I had spent all of Sunday night kicking myself over - was rendered completely moot.
Tragedies like this really do put things into perspective. I also got to wondering why I, and so many Skins fans like me, reacted as we did to Taylor's heartbreaking passing. After all, I'd never met him, and, since he rarely granted interviews, most of the real insight I had into Sean Taylor as a person had come from media reports of his various on- and off-the-field transgressions. And I can't even count the number of times I've cursed at the TV over the past four seasons after a trademark boneheaded play by No. 21, be it blown coverage downfield or a late hit out of bounds. Yet my intense reaction - and the emotional response that I'm sure thousands of fellow Redskins faithfuls also experienced - seems to suggest that we all knew him well and even loved him.
Maybe it was that only in his absence - in coming to terms with the fact that No. 21 would never again suit up in the Burgundy and Gold - could we truly come to appreciate how special a person and phenomenal a talent he was, and therefore how much he would be missed. With his linebacker-esque size and cornerback-like speed, the player who teammates came to call "the Meast," for half-man, half-beast, was one of the great safeties in the NFL and was still getting better. The passion Taylor brought to the game was incredible and awe-inspiring, almost - maybe even oftentimes - to a fault. Anyone who has seen a clip of Taylor absolutely decking AFC punter Brian Moorman during a fake punt in last year's Pro Bowl, normally a mild-mannered affair, can certainly attest to that. Nevertheless, Taylor's intensity and athleticism instilled fear in his opponents but also a great deal of respect. His death leaves a gaping void both in the Redskins' locker room and in the team's secondary.
Maybe it was that we diehard fans are so deeply invested in the team - to the point that we get incredibly worked up over its every success and failure, no matter how insignificant in the grand scheme of things - that we come to treat our team's fortunes as our own. Maybe, as we saw clips on television of Gibbs and other Redskins coaches and players, some of the toughest guys anywhere, struggle to stay composed after losing such a close and revered friend and teammate, we just couldn't help choking back tears ourselves.
Or maybe it was just the tragedy and senselessness of it all. That Taylor was shot during an apparent burglary attempt. That the bullet struck a vital artery, of all places. That he died a loving father, protecting his fiancee and young daughter. That the only reason he was at his Miami home in the first place was because he had injured his knee several weeks ago and wasn't required to be with the team. That, as teammates, coaches and friends have said, he had matured so much in recent months, both on the gridiron and off. That Taylor was in the process of turning his life around, of leaving his troubled past behind him. That a life with so much promise ahead of it had been extinguished much too soon. And that a hero to so many had to meet such a tragic end.
Rest in peace, No. 21. You will be sorely missed.
Alex Mazerov '10 says goodbye to No. 21
