Indy's Favorite Son?

It's the giant elephant in the room right now. So I'm just going to come out and ask it:

When it's all said and done, might Bob Sanders end up being Indy's all-time favorite son?
It's not as far-fetched as it seems. I mean, it's safe to say he's already ahead of such luminaries as James Whitcomb Riley, Chuck Person, whoever started Shapiro's Deli,
Jim Harbaugh, Booth Tarkington, and Babyface. As it currently stands, he's up in that same lofty tier as David Letterman, Oscar Robertson, Bob Gregory, Steve McQueen,
Slick Leonard and Kurt Vonnegut.

But it all comes down to this: is it possible that Bob ends up more widely revered — more genuinely beloved — than even the Sacred Two (Reggie Miller and Peyton Manning)?

A few years ago, that seemed impossible. Now? It seems probable. It seems right.

Blasphemy? Mabye. Maybe not. Let's examine the facts. (And by "facts," I'm obviously talking about "my perceptions.")

First of all, it's an odd concept, "favorite." It doesn't
mean "best." It doesn't mean "greatest." It's a wholly
subjective notion. And while I don't in any way want to
slight Reggie or Peyton, all I can say is what I've
personally observed. And most tellingly, what I've
personally observed is this:

In a typical week, Flipside gets only a few dozen
emails. But if we so much as type the words "Bob
Sanders," we instantly get about 400 borderline-
incoherent messages screaming something along
the lines of "BOB!!! ... f--- yeah!" We get another 100
or so emails enthusiastically thanking us for merely
mentioning him. And lastly, we get most of Iowa
responding with passionate, eulogy-style rants
honoring their dearly departed Hawkeye. I can't
overstate this enough: it's uncanny. It really is.

(For the record, there's no such firestorm of emotions
when we write something on Reggie or Peyton or
abortion. Food for thought.)

So why is that? What is it about Bob that elicits such
raw fervor? Why does this city treat him like he's Chuck Norris, Jesus, and Bill Hudnut rolled into one?

Is it the sinus-shattering hits? His reckless fury? His proud Daywalker ancestry? His general bad-ass-ness?

Yes ... yes ... that hasn't yet been proven ... and yes. It's all of that. But it's more than that too. A lot more.

For one thing — and I hate to go all "Tiger Beat" magazine here, but I really don't have a choice — he's Indy's first mega-cool athlete. I'm dead serious. Whether you can admit it or not, that fact carries significant weight in this city ... mainly because of our painfully cool-deprived history. I mean, aside from Roger Penske, Sam Perkins' water bong, and the Major Taylor Velodrome ... we're rather lacking in the "cool" department. We just are. Thus, when most of the Western Hemisphere unanimously agrees that our starting free safety is the coolest man on the planet ... well, that matters. To us, that matters greatly.

But probably not as much as Bob's ferocious style of play.

Because really, Bob doesn't tackle ... he feeds. Violently. Graphically. And for obvious reasons, we absolutely delight in that. We do. He plays the game in a fashion we all wish we could play: constantly in 9th gear, with little disregard for living or dying, somehow unbound by the laws of physics.

And it doesn't take a life-long football fan to notice this. Unlike Peyton's genius, the elderly Thai lady working over at "Charlie & Barney's" — a lady who knows exactly nothing about football — can easily appreciate what Bob brings to the field. And she does appreciate it. She tells me about it. Regularly. (As a related sidenote, the only English she knows is centered around chili and Bob Sanders. I'm not joking. Frankly, if she didn't look like a battle-weary Ghengis Kahn, she'd be the ultimate fantasy wife.)

And my Thai lady-friend isn't alone. To the vast majority of Indianapolis residents, the act of audibling out of a 2nd down run play — as crucially important as it may be — isn't particularly awe inspiring. But the act of de-femur-ing a running back is.

Understand, I'm not saying Bob is better than Peyton. Nor am I saying he's more essential to their success. I'm just saying that Bob's brilliance is more out in the open. It's more understandable to a wider range of people. And in the context of this debate — the whole "could-Bob-become-Indy's-favorite-son?" discussion — that goes a long way.
A really long way.

But does it seal the deal? I don't know. There could be some people still on the fence.

The deciding factor here will inevitably be how Bob carries himself off the field in the years to come. But honestly, there's just no way he could
ever top what Reggie and Peyton have done for this
community. It's an impossible act to follow. And if
there's anything that might keep Bob from obtaining
the top spot, it would be that. So if you want to hang
your "I-like-Reggie-and-Peyton-more-than-Bob" hat
on their charitable exploits, nobody would argue with
you. It's an incredibly valid point.

Then again, some of us won't necessarily need Bob
dropping 10 mil on a children's hospital to consider
him our all-time favorite. Some of us won't need him
to give us 20 years of devout do-gooding like Reggie
gave us. At least, I won't. I won't need all that. The
only thing I'm looking for is some basic civility and a
mere modicum of common sense. That's all. Don't
shoot up a nightclub ... don't carry your stash through
an airport security gate ... don't torture dogs ... and
don't sprint up into the bleachers looking to decapitate
some accountant. This isn't rocket science.

And thus far, Bob seems to understand that.

Which brings us right back to the question at hand:
will he end up as the most beloved Indy figure of all time? Who knows. But at the pace he's on now, it's hard to think he won't.

When we were discussing the issue via emails, Larry Phelps masterfully summed up the views of most everyone I know:

Whether you agree with him or not, I don't know. And I don't really care. Because you'd certainly agree with this: our current Colts team is a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Maybe a once-in-six-lifetimes deal. And Bob is a sizable reason for this. In fact, if the Colts were a human body, they'd be thusly appendaged: Peyton is the head ... Harrison and Wayne are the arms ... Mathis and Freeney are the legs ... and Bob is the big cast iron balls. It's as simple as that.

He gives the Colts a swagger, and that swagger continuously gives them the chance at greatness. And not just "AFC South" greatness, mind you ... but "historical" greatness. Dynasty greatness.

(Will the last person still on the fence please lock up when you leave?)

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Here's my take: Bob will not enjoy his time in the sun in the present day, but rather 40 years from now, when we're with our grandsons talking about the Golden Age of Colts Football, it won't be Peyton or Marvin, Edge or Addai we speak of glowingly ... it'll be that crazy, little Jack Tatum-esque s.o.b., Bob Sanders. And the weird thing about it is, he'll only be in a Colts uniform for like 7 seasons, but a Colts legend he will be (you have to say that last part in a booming William Wallace voice). Essentially, the guy is Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin and Sitting Bull wrapped into one shit-kickin', pot smokin' traveling circus. He'll burn out quickly, but we're going to enjoy it like no other.

I love you, Bob.

(Not pictured: the offensive lineman Bob is threatening ... and more specifically, the offensive lineman's now soiled pants.)

Thomas Paine said it best:
"nothing says 'don't f--- with me' like a tattoo of a battle mace"
.