EVERY MAN lives two lives: the one that was, and the one that will be remembered. With Buddy Ryan, the dichotomy between the two is beguiling to consider, particularly for those of us who remain ardent fans of his sport in this kinder, gentler era.
In a way, it is a dichotomy similar to the one that exists within the ghost of each game we watch. There is Sunday as we remember it: the wins and losses, the strategic decisions, the remarkable way that physical talent expresses itself in finite space and time. And there is Sunday as it existed, each play consisting not just of the enjoyment it provides, but also of the physical costs incurred in its production.