Lost amid the tributes at the end of 2007 were the deaths of two special people: Steve Gilliard, the blogger, and Daryl Stingley, the New England Patriots' pass receiver.
Gilliard's was the blogosphere's most distinctive voice. He led a one-man army called Newsblog that had the motto "We Fight Back." Reading his blog, as I did religiously, was like climbing into the ring with Muhammad Ali. An autodidact with a phenomenal breadth of knowledge about history, military policy, sports and culture, Gilliard kept his finger on the world's pulse from his Harlem apartment and decried the bullshit flowing out of Washington, D.C. Chronic health woes ended his life at age 41.
Stingley was one of the classiest humans on the planet. A cheap hit in a 1978 game permanently paralyzed him from the chest down. Because of the nature of his injury, the NFL was relieved that his death on April 5, 2007 went unnoticed. (I'll bet the mortgage his name never comes up during Super Bowl coverage). The NFL knows they dodged a bullet when Stingley did not sue them for what had been criminal negligence.
The rest of the story involves Jack Tatum, a "headhunting" defensive back nicknamed Assassin for his killer instinct. When he hit Stingley (in the back, of course) and severed his spinal cord, the play had been whistled dead, the ball overthrown. The game itself was a meaningless preseason exhibition.
Tatum should have been barred from the NFL if not brought up on assault charges. Instead he played three more seasons and bragged about his exploits in books. In the 29 years of life remaining to Stingley, Tatum never visited, called or wrote, never apologized to him, or anyone, for his actions. To this day, Tatum tells anyone stupid enough to believe him: "It was a clean hit."
For overcoming medical (and racial) obstacles to engage in the collective conversations of their time, the lives of Gilliard and Stingley will always be an inspiration. The life of Jack Tatum, on the other hand, will be a cautionary tale.
Speaking of cautionary tales, another man who did evil things and faced no consequences still walks among us. If the name William Calley doesn't ring a bell, maybe this will: My Lai. That's the name of the village in Vietnam where, on March 16, 1968, U.S. soldiers led by Lt. Calley gunned down 347 unarmed Vietnamese civilians—women and children included.
Though Calley would also like to go unnoticed, a Daily Mail reporter tracked him down last October, noting, "Aged 64, and living in comfortable obscurity in Atlanta, this comical-looking figure, standing just five feet, three inches tall and sporting a white Colonel Sanders goatee, jam-jar spectacles and a Stetson, makes a most unlikely mass murderer."
Calley refused to speak with the reporter unless he was paid $10,000 upfront; even then, he would only speak for one hour. But of course, Calley has nothing worth hearing to say, and the Daily Mail refused. After all, Calley once said, "Killing those men in My Lai didn't haunt me."
Ah, but they weren't all "men." Among the 22 people for whom he faced murder charges were women and children, including a 2-year-old trying to run away. The Daily Mail noted, "According to a fellow soldier, Calley caught the infant by the arms, swung him into the ditch, and despatched him with a single bullet." Calley also ordered his men to follow his lead, threatening them at gunpoint if they didn't. Though he was eventually convicted of premeditated murder of 22 civilians, his life sentence was commuted by Dick Nixon.
As for Calley's remaining in "obscurity," fat chance of that happening. Oliver Stone is now scouting locations in Vietnam for a film about the My Lai Massacre called Pinkville, to be released in 2009.
