In My Write Mind

For weeks, Tony Dungy answered all the questions about how he’d handle the rest of the regular season. How he would navigate his Indianapolis Colts through a season in which they had gone undefeated, had been perfect and on the verge of something special.

Even with all of that, with 13-0 and three games left before a perfect season, Dungy remained cool. Gave the same answer to all who would ask. Said that perfection would be nice, be he had to do what was best for his team.

Had faith that his team would be fine.

His team lost on Sunday. Lost that perfect aura, put a small blemish on what still could be a wonderful season. Most players were disappointed by the loss, probably Dungy most of all.

He knew what it would’ve meant to be perfect. And especially to be an African-American head coach able to run the table. That loss hurt. But it was only that. One loss. There was still a next week. Another game.

Thursday morning, four days after his team’s first loss of 2005, Dungy and his family suffered the worst loss imaginable. He lost his oldest son.

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[originally posted January 2005]

The train’s hull had all the ambience of a public library, replete with dingy lights and dazed denizens. The graffiti-ravaged car was no different than any other morning. Scads of trash highlighted the brick-colored floors. The same billboards lined the marquees. The same looks of indifference were on half of the crowd’s faces as their minds were undoubtedly intent on what awaited them at work; the other half most likely thinking of weekend plans or overdue bills or hell, maybe even library cards.

The point is, as it always seems to be on the New York City subway system: it was just one of those days.

Except it wasn’t.

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