StarCat/CatStar

in the p***y.” Similarly, just because I'm Joe Blow doesn’t mean I can drive
around with the blood of two stabbing victims in my car, destroy my presumably
blood-soaked clothing, tell a bunch of witnesses to keep their mouths shut, and
then skate because neither myself nor my buddies (which, when added together,
equals the sum total of anyone who could possibly have perpetrated the murders)
can quite remember just who did what to whom.
After the violence and the canned apology, cue the platitudinal chorus that
“everybody deserves a second chance,” and “everyone loves a good redemption
story.” There’s something distinctly American, we’re told, about a man’s right to
atone for his sins and begin anew. Really? Is that what we genuinely believe,
minus the football? Let’s check.
Let's say a new neighbor comes calling to deliver his court-ordered
introduction as a sex-offender…Let’s say his name is Ben. Big bastard. Seems a
bit slow-witted. Are you going to take him under your wing, offer him that
second-chance job at your small business? Would it assuage your apprehension if
he explained that the sexual predator wasn't actually him, but an alternate
personality named Big Ben? What if he told you that none of it was his fault,
because the rapes only occurred after “Big Ben just kept building up […] kept
taking over […] Superman kept taking over Clark Kent and you just never saw
who [I] was any more.” (Compare Roesthlisberger’s explanation to that of
Roberto Herrarte, who murdered his wife and son while they slept: “I am Otto.
But I have Roberto inside of me who is responsible for everything I did that was
bad.”) Would you let him date your daughter? Would you let Jameis Winston
date your daughter? Would you hire Adrian Petersen to babysit?
Michael Vick is generally presented as the ultimate example of rehabilitation
via the “second chance.” Technically, Vick earned absolution through his
remarkably erumpent moral fortitude, evidenced I guess by the fact that he
hasn't ditched his legion of handlers and snuck into the backwoods to breed and
train and murder some dogs. In reality, of course, we're extrapolating the
resurrection of his dog-slaughtering soul from the fact that he's still okay at
playing football.
And Vick is just one figure within the bizarre equation that success on the field
expiates off-field evil. Which is why the Roethlisbergers of the world rush to
declare a negation of the past, calling everyone's attention back to what really
matters, in the bigger picture, which is football, repeating (and always, bizarrely
enough, with an air of wounded moral superiority) some variation of “I don't
intend to discuss any details […] I'm more determined than ever to have a great
season [...] I'm happy to put this behind me and move forward.” Well no shit. I'm
sure Phil Spector would have preferred everybody just turned up The Ramones
and left him alone, and I'll bet Bill Cosby is more than ready to tell some jokes. In
fact, I'm guessing nearly every rapist and murderer in the history of rape and
murder would rather we forgot about his past. But they have to earn our
forgiveness. Only those who can come back and win are assumed to have passed
through the chrysalis of redemption. Which is why Tiger Woods is still perverted
damaged goods, but Ray Lewis “has washed away his sins...because we
understand that what we all got to watch him do was special.”
Which brings us to the odd recurring insistence that an athlete’s personal life is
sacrosanct, off-limits, and absolutely unrelated to his job. This is completely
hypocritical for two reasons. First of all, the proposition that you can’t be fired
for actions outside of the workplace applies to literally no job in America, from
bus boy to President. Secondly, this supposed right to privacy is only ever