Andrew luck is tired.
He’s tired of being sacked repeatedly by walking, breathing mountains.
He’s tired of injuries and surgeries and rehabs and setbacks and re-injury.
He’s tired of rumors and speculation and conjecture and expectation.
He’s tired of playing through the pain in a game he no longer enjoys.
He’s tired of being defined by a skill he has or a title he holds.
He finally got so tired of it all that he finally said no more. Two weeks before the start of a season playing for a team aspiring to the Super Bowl, he shut it all down.
Andrew Luck decided to take his body and go home—and good for him. He may feel badly right now, but something tells me he’ll be thankful he did.
The knee-jerk reaction by some fans is to castigate him; to brand him soft and a traitor, to claim leaving like this is cowardly. Anyone who says that is wrong.
There’s nothing cowardly about being able to be around for your wife and kids and family for the next fifty years.
There’s nothing cowardly about preserving your brain and your knees and your bones so that you can fully participate in that life.
There’s nothing cowardly about choosing mental health above the applause of complete strangers.
There’s nothing cowardly about declaring yourself worth more than the money to be made.
Physical disabilities and brain disorders and substance abuse and suicide are sadly a well-documented part of the sport’s legacy. The NFL is notorious for consuming human beings; for parading them in the draft like cattle—for subjecting them to repeated physical, skeleton-crushing, brain-battering abuse—and then unceremoniously discarding most of them shortly after they turn thirty—often with the celebration of the fans who now lament their degradation.
And yes, no one is forcing them to do any of this stuff or to endure the damage—which is exactly why Andrew luck is leaving right now.
He knows that we fans don’t care about athletes.
Oh sure, we may have use for them when their abilities benefit our home town or fantasy teams, but we’re not there beyond that. We’re not present as they hobble around their homes like men two decades older than they actually are. We’re not there as their cognitive abilities fail them or their minds cloud in midlife. We’re not around when their pain is profound and their depression crippling and their finances for care run out.
Comedian Jerry Seinfeld once said that with professional athletes, we’re essentially “rooting for laundry.” Andrew Luck knows this isn’t far from the truth; that we cheer for these people when they’re starting for our teams and getting us fantasy points and winning us playoff games and hoisting championship trophies—but we don’t give them much thought if they get injured or lose their starting jobs or when they go on IR for the season—and definitely not when they put on another team’s uniforms. Then they’re fully expendable.
Many in the media and sports fandom question the timing of Luck’s decision, but this only underscores both our callousness and the urgency he was obviously feeling. We know from our own lives, that there is no good time to have an injury or a physical illness or a bout of depression or a season of anxiety. These things arrive when they do, and it’s rarely when we feel ready for them or when other people will be spared by their impact. Luck doesn’t seem like the impulsive type to me, he just seems like a good guy who was smart enough to grab a lifeline when he was sinking. I wish more of us could have that kind of wisdom and humility.
It’s reported that Andrew Luck may be forfeiting tens of millions of dollars by leaving his team and career right now. That in itself is a mature statement of clarity from the 29-year old. He’s telling you that whatever that dollar amount is, it isn’t worth his mobility or his sanity or his ability to be present and alert for the remainder of his life.
In a time when money is everything and when we lament the unabated greed of athletics, Andrew Luck is doing something important. He’s declaring his humanity to be of greatest value; that who he is off the field matters more than the guy who wears the uniform. He is directly resisting the antiquated “real men fight through pain” mythology that has pressured far too many sons to sacrifice their bodies and brains on the altar of false manhood.
In the prime of his career and earning potential, and in the moment where the spotlight is the brightest and the accolades endless, Andrew Luck is taking his body and his brain and what’s left of his health and he’s going home.
Good for him.
