You can imagine my surprise when I watched RUN RICKY RUN about NFL behomoth Ricky Williams. Ricky Williams, for those of you athletically challenged, was a smokin' football player who had the celerity and dexterity to stake his claim in the NFL draft. Sadly Ricky's enviable talent was coupled with crushing anxiety; he sat through interviews in his football helmet and didn't lift his voice to the microphone.
Ricky battled his anxiety with pot. He smoked bluntsbowlsbongs and failed three drug tests before he was thrown out of the NFL. What was the world to do with this forlorn talent? Here was a player biologically engineered to dominate the game but uninspired to do so. Ricky took his leave to the chagrin and pleasure of broadcasters everywhere and experimented with planes of knowledge. He got into holistic medicine, yoga, and kush. He spent hours upon hours residing in his "dark places" where he felt most at home.
You, dear reader, may be pouring Irish whiskey into your morning coffee, wondering why a style bug like me gives a shit. After all, I prefer J. Crew to jersey and I never watch the Super Bowl. But Ricky was unearthly. While he was baked and demure, his eyes and mouth bespoke intellectual curiosity and unabashed opinions. Ricky was a dreamer, a mythical hybrid America hadn't encountered, "the heart of a yogi, the body of a football player."
I guess what I'm trying to say is: I'd watch football every Sunday if boys like Ricky ran the game.
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