I’m not afraid of flying; I just fear I’m going to die. I think I’m – vulnerable. I admit it. I don’t fly. I got claustrophobia. I don’t go in high buildings. I don’t do those things. I’m just myself, whatever that is.
Whatever that is, that's John Madden.
Built like a frickin' buffalo, John Madden never spent an hour of his life being handsome. Cameras didn't necessarily like him, but neither could they look away.
He played ball, got drafted in fact, but when a knee went bad, his playing days were over. His talents lay elsewhere. He knew how, in some mystical way, to get the best out of everyone around him, which may well be the primary definition of what a coach is or should be. The John Madden star shown brightly in large part because he pitched the luminosity of those around him and, perhaps more importantly, the great world around him.
John Madden championed football, but, more than that, he championed life. Obituaries generally do their best to polish up their subjects, but yesterday's cavalcade of praise was not makeup. People loved John Madden, even people who didn't really give NFL football all that much attention. Everyone knew John Madden. Everyone loved him.
Some people have a way of sucking the oxygen out of any room they're in. Madden wasn't one of those. Madden opened the windows and let oxygen in, made it easier and sweeter to breathe. The man loved life.
One story, yesterday, really stuck. Because he didn't fly, wouldn't--he flat refused--the man spent endless hours in a motor home he suitably furnished. Here's the story. Once, out on the plains of Nebraska, Madden spotted a flower crowding the prairie roadsides. He pulled over, took out a beat-up book of wildflowers, stepped outside, stood there, book open, those flowers at his feet, and figured out exactly what they were.
That's a great story about a great coach, a great football commentator, and a great man. Madden took the time to love sunflowers.
It would be a chore to think of another human being whose death could usher in so much joy and praise.
“If you think about it," he once said, "I’ve never held a job in my life. I went from being an NFL player to a coach to a broadcaster. I haven’t worked a day in my life.”
Want to understand the love people had for the man? Deconstruct that line--"I haven't worked a day in my life." Somewhere along the line, the man learned to love. What a legacy.
Built like a frickin' buffalo, John Madden never spent an hour of his life being handsome. Cameras didn't necessarily like him, but neither could they look away.
He played ball, got drafted in fact, but when a knee went bad, his playing days were over. His talents lay elsewhere. He knew how, in some mystical way, to get the best out of everyone around him, which may well be the primary definition of what a coach is or should be. The John Madden star shown brightly in large part because he pitched the luminosity of those around him and, perhaps more importantly, the great world around him.
John Madden championed football, but, more than that, he championed life. Obituaries generally do their best to polish up their subjects, but yesterday's cavalcade of praise was not makeup. People loved John Madden, even people who didn't really give NFL football all that much attention. Everyone knew John Madden. Everyone loved him.
Some people have a way of sucking the oxygen out of any room they're in. Madden wasn't one of those. Madden opened the windows and let oxygen in, made it easier and sweeter to breathe. The man loved life.
One story, yesterday, really stuck. Because he didn't fly, wouldn't--he flat refused--the man spent endless hours in a motor home he suitably furnished. Here's the story. Once, out on the plains of Nebraska, Madden spotted a flower crowding the prairie roadsides. He pulled over, took out a beat-up book of wildflowers, stepped outside, stood there, book open, those flowers at his feet, and figured out exactly what they were.
That's a great story about a great coach, a great football commentator, and a great man. Madden took the time to love sunflowers.
It would be a chore to think of another human being whose death could usher in so much joy and praise.
“If you think about it," he once said, "I’ve never held a job in my life. I went from being an NFL player to a coach to a broadcaster. I haven’t worked a day in my life.”
Want to understand the love people had for the man? Deconstruct that line--"I haven't worked a day in my life." Somewhere along the line, the man learned to love. What a legacy.
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