Flickering Neon: Stick to the NFL

Sporting News, The, Feb 28, 2000 by Dave Kindred

There, unwittingly, he provided the context of his circumstance this spring. He `used to do' it. Chances are, he no longer can do it. Not at 32 going on 33 with two years off. Especially when he wasn't all that good to start with.

Is this possible? Deion Sanders an old man? Suddenly a lovable underdog? Ten minutes ago, he came stylin' into our lives with gold jewelry clanking in raucous rhythm to his Neon Deion Prime Tune swagger/braggadocio. Now he talks in a preacher's tones of God's help in surviving lost love and thoughts of suicide. Now he's 32 years old, and maybe he's done with football or football's done with him. So we see him in a Reds baseball uniform again. Good for him.

He's talking. You can't be around Sanders long before he's filling your notebook. When the Cincinnati Enquirer's Chris Haft came within earshot, Sanders moved the reporter's ballpoint to action by announcing a plan to transform the Bengals from NFL pussycats to saber-toothed contenders.

"But to consider the Bengals," Sanders says, ignoring the fact there's no evidence the Bengals would want him, "you have to understand that I want to win. Therefore, I want to come with a package of players if I'm going to play there."

Because his body is breaking down--a toe yesterday, an ankle today, a knee tomorrow--Sanders is near the end of his NFL career. The Cowboys are expected to release him, and it's uncertain if anyone will want to pay, say, $5 million for a cornerback with wobbly wheels.

Is this, too, possible? Football without Deion?

He's still talking, now about agent Eugene Parker: "I told him I want him to be the first attorney to put together a team package. We've got linemen, we've got linebackers--whatever you want, we've got it We can come and revamp your whole defense."

Then he said, "For a fee."

Part of Sanders' charm is that even his entertainments come with a foundation of truth. Only when he knew a touchdown was certain did he begin that drum major's high-stepping. He toyed with receivers in ways that allowed quarterbacks to think he'd been beaten, only to come back, quicker than a snake lick, and steal the pass. If in his career he made only a dozen tackles, it didn't matter. Asking the game's greatest cover man to make tackles is like asking Cindy Crawford to spell. Unnecessary, even unattractive.

So, could Sanders actually deliver a team-transforming package of talent to the Bengals? Not as long as the Bengals throw dimes around as if they're manhole covers. But with the right team at the right time, such a package deal certainly could be arranged.

In fact, we might hope it's done this fall if that's what it takes to keep Sanders on the field. The curious and unexpected truth is that it's now not only safe to root for him, it's almost obligatory.

Here's a millionaire, one of the greatest football players ever, the only man ever to play in both a World Series (lost with the Braves, '92) and a Super Bowl (won with the 49ers after the '94 season and with the Cowboys after the '95 season). He has entertained us, sometimes more foolishly than necessary. He has given us a zillion quotes, some of them so off-putting as to be proof certain of egomania, but at least one so wise as to threaten the integrity of his cover: "My heroes are Martin Luther King Jr., for his courage; Hank Aaron, for his perseverance, and Muhammad Ali, no explaining necessary."

Now we see Sanders, the old man, with the kids at the Reds' spring training camp, there two weeks ahead of the real players and saying, "I figured I needed to get a jump on them." He also may have needed the extra time to remember which end of the bat to hold. He last played major league baseball three years ago, and in that time has been in a ballpark only on a day last June when he saw the Rangers and Rockies.

That day, Sanders says, he watched baseball and thought, "My God, this is what I used to do."

There, unwittingly, he provided the context of his circumstances this spring. He "used to do" it. Chances are, he no longer can do it. Not at 32 going on 33 with two years off. Especially when he wasn't all that good to start with. A slap hitter with a poor on-base percentage (while batting leadoff) and a mediocre outfielder with a weak arm, he played more than 97 games in only one of his eight big-league seasons. That was in 1997, when he played 115 games for the Reds, hit .273 and stole 56 bases.

He survived because his great speed helped him outrun mistakes. But age and its accomplice, injury, may have robbed Sanders of that ability. He also comes to the Reds' camp when the club has a surplus of good outfielders. The Enquirer's baseball man, Haft; says Sanders can win a job with the Reds only by beating out Dmitri Young, Michael Tucker or Alex Ochoa, all veteran outfielders younger than the gimpy cornerback.

Let's say Sanders were 28 again. Let's say he knew a ball from a strike. Let's say he moved on a baseball field with a tenth of the instinctive grace that makes him such a wonderful football player. Then his presence at the top of a lineup including Barry Larkin, Ken Griffey Jr., Dante Bichette and Sean Casey would make the Reds a formidable offensive machine.