We Americans all fear death. Because we’re the kind of society that forgets shit five minutes after it’s happened, there’s a terrible collective anxiety that our lives will get a similar kind of treatment once they have ended. I know this firsthand. I’m fucking terrified of dying. I don’t believe in heaven or any of that shit. I think it all just goes to black. Forever. And man, that makes me want to wrap myself naked in a shower curtain and scream for my mommy’s warm embrace. Because once I’m forgotten, then all that’s left of me is gone. There’s nothing there. Not a trace. It’s as if I never existed. I never counted. I never meant anything.
But you! You, my friend, led the National League in RBIs in 1974. Yes, you, Willie Stargell! It says so right in this sports almanac. And, as long as they keep publishing almanacs, your name remains there in perpetuity. Your accomplishment is final. It is set in stone. And thus, so are you. Great athletes don’t die. Like the characters on Keats’s Grecian urn, they are forever frozen in time at the exact moment when they are at their very best. Who cares if the rest of your life is forgettable? You conquered death! You faced the Grim Reaper, and you deked the shit outta him. You live on, baby! Why rest in peace when you can still make some fuckin’ noise right here on terra firma? Huh?
You are now officially an immortal. Because you, good sir, were a man with balls. Great, big hairy balls that made everyone sit up and take notice. I’m proud to be able to call myself your life coach. And I’m equally proud to call myself your death coach. In many ways, you’ll always be like a son to me. An abstract, nebulous son I can’t quite picture in my head, who hopefully helped earn me a shitload in royalties. I’ll never forget ya, kid. You had the balls of a champion. Stuart Scott said they tasted sublime. I want you to be proud of those balls. They served you well.
And lest you think your journey is at an end, guess again. I’ve got a very special someone here to let you in on a little secret.
HEAR IT FROM A DEAD ATHLETE!
Even in heaven, my fucking leg still hurts
by Johnny Unitas
Hoo boy. I gotta tell you, heaven is gorgeous. When I passed on from the tangible plane of existence, I expected lots of clouds and cherubs playing harps and whatnot. But it wasn’t like that at all. There was this beautiful, winding, golden road in front of me, surrounded by rolling fields of glowing, amber wheat. And the sun sat hovering above the horizon, in a perpetual state of clear dawn. Never saw anything so pretty. At the end of the road was a gate. But it wasn’t the ostentatious, pearly gate that you always read about. It was an old-style, carved wooden door, around ten feet high. Next to it was a rather unassuming little man who stared me down and offered me a wide smile. His nose crinkled and little crow’s-feet formed around his eyes as he shouted across the way to me, “Welcome, John!”
St. Peter. Man, he wasn’t anything like I expected. Yet when I saw him, everything about him felt appropriate. Felt like a brother, or someone I knew well and was finally getting to see again. Everything about this place felt warm, welcoming, like home. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t daunted. I was just comfortable. So, without hesitation, I started walking along the road toward Peter.
And then, my fucking sciatica flared up again.
I tell you, even in heaven, my fucking leg still hurts. I thought I had gotten rid of this back when I died. Forty years I lived with this shit. It was like someone took a knife and tore down my leg from ass to ankle. Hell, even lying down didn’t do anything. So I figured dying would probably take care of all that. I figured nerves don’t feel pain when you’re dead and all, and that your soul doesn’t carry any of the physical deterioration you experienced during life on Earth.
But shit, was I wrong.
You can’t find a decent orthopedist here. Heaven contains pretty much every person on Earth who died. Ever. You realize how many people that is? Trillions! You’d think a fair number went to hell, but you’d be wrong. Most everyone gets into heaven. They’re very lenient about it. Hell only has about five people, and that’s including Frank Zappa. Just finding my mother was a huge pain in the ass, let alone some doctor.
There’s also the fact that most of the doctors here are from the past. Hell, one of them thought I was a warlock. What an idiot. And I thought the NFLPA had shitty medical coverage. At least they had a prescription plan down there. I’d gladly trade one night at the sumptuous buffet in exchange for a little Celebrex. One of the quacks here said chewing on milkweed would help the pain. Are you shitting me?
Most people are enjoying themselves here. I’ve noticed it’s only former athletes who have had their pain transcend celestial worlds. Bronko Nagurski still has a knee that flaps around like a windsock. Lyle Alzado forgets every goddamn thing you tell him. And Wilt Chamberlain still has the lesions. I have a theory on this. Otto Graham thinks the wear and tear we experienced on the field was so brutal that we carried it with us to this place. But I think that’s horseshit. I see war vets walking around with nary a limp.