His Name is Bob

I'm not even sure who was carrying the ball. It may have been Kevin Faulk. Or Corey Dillon. It doesn't really matter.

Here's what matters: on Sunday night, Bob Sanders—just like in every unrealistic football film ever made—literally leapt over a wall of blockers to almost decapitate the
ball-carrier. Seriously, the only way it could have been any more Hollywood was for it to occur along the New England sideline, where the aftermath of the collision knocks
dozens of Patriot players and coaches and cheerleaders into a table full of Gatorade.

While watching it, I had two instantaneous realizations. First, it became quite clear that Bob spent his sabbatical rehabbing and training with all the right people.

Secondly, and far more depressingly, I knew that I could not write about it. We've been down that road before; we need not go again. Another 2,000-word recap of a devastating
Bob Sanders hit—regardless of how fantastically super-human it may have been—would
be the journalistic equivalent of releasing a sex tape:
either way, I'm formally announcing to the world that
I have nothing of value left to give. And either way, your
retinas would end up charred and probably useless.

Rather, I'm here to nip a growing problem in the bud.
I'm here to address all those people arbitrarily
assigning nicknames to Bob. It all stops right here.
Right now.

I'll admit it: I was as caught up in this as anyone.
Probably more so. In fact, most of yesterday was
spent trying to nail down an accurate moniker for Bob.
A nickname that honors his eye-popping murderous
rage and destructiveness. We had obviously
bypassed the usual assortment of sophomoric
drivel (i.e., "the Hitman," the "Meat Missile," "the
Eraser," and so on). That stuff is beyond normal
cliched...it's Nick-Lachey-cliched.

Instead, we were immersed in miltary weaponry
jargon. Namely, the "daisy cutter." (Trust me, it fits.)
The "daisy cutter"—aka, the BLU-82B/C-130 weapon system, or the "Commando Vault" during its time in Vietnam—is a 15,000-pound conventional bomb designed to explode just above the ground (so as to maximize its annihilation radius). In short, the "daisy cutter" brings the noise. Big time. Just like Bob.

But it didn't take long before we realized that it all seemed so wildly, painfully contrived.
It seemed so "Defend the Rock." And here's why:

First of all, Bob wasn't always "Bob." In college, his name was "Demond." Demond Sanders. (I'm not making this up.) Apparently, he just chose the name "Bob." Out of nowhere. His full name—as listed on Wikipedia—is Demond L. Sanders. I mean, he could have chosen any name. He could have just knocked off the extra "d" and gone by "Demon." Or he could have simply picked "D.L. Sanders," which I'm pretty sure is the Cherokee translation for "the bringer of concussions."   Truthfully, he could have done anything. And yet, he chose "Bob," the heavyweight champion of uncontrived names.

Who are we to override his carefully thought-out decision?

But more importantly, he's now at the point where he's beyond nicknames. Frankly, after Sunday night's game, it's obvious that he's far beyond that point. You give nicknames to people like Rob Morris (the "Hammer") and Mike Prior ("Servicable White Chocolate"). You don't give nicknames to Ray Lewis or Brian Urlacher or Shawne Merriman. You don't
need to. And if Bob showed us anything on Sunday, he showed us that he's in that same elite class of game-changing, bell-ringing, nickname-less defenders.

If nothing else—if Bob had recorded zero tackles instead of 11—his mere presence on the field changes everything. Everything. Did you notice the attitude of the Colts defense against the Patriots? It's like they were injected with heroin...heroin mixed with large amounts of 130-proof "Shove It Up Your Ass!" brand malt liquor. For the first time in a long time, they played angry. And rather gangsterly.

They played like Bob.

For example, Freddy Keiaho somehow morphed into the Somoan Ray Nitschke, and Antoine Bethea came to the party in full-blown Maximus Decimus mode. Plus, Dwight Freeney finally found his long lost fifth gear, and—most profoundly—there were even sightings of Crunk-tacular dance moves on
the sidelines once again. Seriously, do you
think that's a coincidence? Do you think that
if Bob sits, the high-octane energy remains?
Do you think that the Cotls defense is still
running around the field like a pack of
Haughville hyenas angrily mauling anything
that moves? No f---ing way.

Now I'm not saying that this defense is a
world-beater. I'm not even saying that it's
the top defense in our division. All I'm
saying is that they are drastically better now
that Bob is back, and that there's only a
handful of players in the NFL who can
have that type of impact.

And none of them have nicknames.

Listen, I'm done writing about Bob Sanders.
I don't think I can do it in good conscience
anymore. It's just like how I can't write anything about Peyton and/or Marvin; their otherworldly skills are so outrageously obvious, that even mentioning them borders on unimaginable triteness.

After Sunday night, I fear, such is the case with Bob.

It's been a good run.

But before I go, let me leave you with this: if you want to trivialize Bob's significance to this team, call him the "Hitman." If you want to solidify his reputation as a CFL-caliber safety, call him the "Eraser." And if you ever want to have one of your lungs ripped out of your chest and handed to you, go ahead and address him as the "Meat Missile" upon getting introduced to him.

But remember, "Bob" is a simple name that is representative of a simple job: "see the ball-carrier...destroy the ball-carrier...repeat." To call him anything else seems superfluous. Manufactured. No...it's definitely just "Bob." Period.   Because if you haven't already, you'll soon come to this realization: it's perfectly, bad-ass-ly uncontrived.

Just like Bob.

(Understand, I'm not trying to tell you that you can't tack on a now unnecessary "Sanders" every once in a while. Because you can.

I'm trying to tell you that when you are ready, you won't have to.)

Tuesday, November 7, 2006

His Name is Bob

What are you trying to tell me? That I can run through
a wall of blockers?

No, Bob. I'm trying to tell you that when you are ready, you won't have to.

Bob:

Morpheus:

His Name is Bob

T-minus 10...9...8...7...6...

Sometimes, a picture is worth a thousand
poorly worded metaphors.