Sean Taylor

Don't say anything. The TV is on mute. I'm just waking up to the fact that one of my favorite players is dead. Just stay motionless and wait and wait and wait.

Wait, he's dead?
That's right.
Who shot him?
Dunno.
What do mean you don't know?
Just don't know.
It was a robbery?
Think so.
Doesn't sound like one.
I know.

I don't want to know about the investigation. I don't want to hear about involvements or his want past mistakes. I don't want interviews or to hear prayers. Just stop for a second: I don't want this. I don't.

This is crazy.
I know.
Stop TALKING so much, would you?

Phone's ringing, foot tapping and I know this happened, but I don't want it. No immense talent, no shame, no past.

No future. No present. I don't want that. I don't want the father-son conversation that follows these things.

This is insane.
Yeah, isn't it? I mean, he was so...
Don't.

In the midst of all the squeezing of hands and prayers and players in shock, there's a fan base unaware of locker-room presence, joke-telling abilities and general humanity. Don't tell us. Maybe it's better if the fallen-warrior status remains. This is hard enough to watch as it is.

At times, Sean Taylor was fodder for my father and I's arguments. "Once a thug always a thug,"
he'd say. Don't prove him wrong or right with this. Just don't. Don't don't don't.

Can we cut the sound up?
Ugh, please don't.