Allen Park -
So Joey Harrington is not
Tony Saragusa’s type of guy? Detroit fans had never expressed much interest in
big Tony before the Philadelphia game as far as I could tell. To the extent the
beefy side line announcer had any notoriety or name recognition at all; it was
for his girth and stunts rather than the cogency of his commentary or his powers
of analysis. So Detroit fans could have cared less, except that Saragusa
uttered words that struck a chord. Harrington just happens to be the most
controversial player on the Detroit Lions. The quarterback of the Lions has
historically been much maligned, but the controversy surrounding Harrington goes
deeper and transcends the position he plays.
Just as the general
election is providing fresh evidence of a cultural and geographical divide in
the United States, Lions’ fans are polarized. Import fans from the West Coast
tend to glow over Harrington’s occasional successes seeing blue skies ahead even
in the wake of disappointing losses. But their perspective is framed not only
by what Harrington has done on the NFL gridiron, but for what he has done in
college, which included leading a quite anonymous college program to national
prominence. And then there is the fact that Harrington’s smile, candor, and
goofiness seem to resonate with the cosmopolitan Coast. They see this as part
of Harrington’s character, features that make him unique, and they believe that
breaking the mold is good.
For many cranky Detroiters, who have endured an
intolerable number of losing seasons, Joey’s vibe is positively offensive. They
resent the west coast logic of quarterback development demanding results now.
And cynics have a point. There are numerous examples of a quarterback with a
lofty college pedigree that did not translate their success onto the NFL
gridiron. How long are we fans supposed to wait? But often it seems that the
real issue with fans is less patience than culture. Many heart Landers do not
find “Joey” at all charismatic. They see his seemingly incontrovertible smile
as a glamour façade that was unexpectedly peddled on them during the 2002
draft. From over the grassy knoll, the normally demure William Clay Ford
descended into the Lions’ war-room and anointed Harrington the franchise’s
savior. Fans in this camp see every Harrington mishap as offensive. His
interest in piano smacks as a lack of commitment to the game of football, the
smiles that fly from Harrington’s face even in the midst of a defeat irritates
them as a smirk from an outsider who does not care or understand their decades
of suffering. For many blue-blooded Detroit fans their ideal quarterback lives
next door. In Brett Favre, the poorly shaven, once pill-popping, gunslinger,
the Sunday warrior who is a notorious tough guy that never misses a start, Lions
fans see Bobby Layne and reminisce about their last slice of real glory.
What is remarkable about
Harrington’s brief stay in Detroit is how he has never been free to be himself.
Fans have relentlessly compared him to others, not only to Favre, but also to
his back up McMahon, and, of course, to David Carr, the quarterback selected
immediately ahead of him. Harrington well understands such comparisons now, and
how fan scrutiny offers him a test every bit as challenging in its own way as
the Ray Lewis’ of the world give him each Sunday.
It should come as no
surprise that viewed through two different cultural lenses, the image of
Harrington and his progress would inspire such conflicting diagnoses. Sometimes
among debating fans there seems to be little middle ground between savior and
bust. The truth about Harrington, however, clearly lies in between. In fact,
it is remarkable how in many ways Harrington’s progress over the last two
seasons and three games is almost typical of young quarterbacks that are drafted
early and who are expected to lead and turn around poor franchises.
Harrington’s growth curve resembles that of such vaunted names as Favre and
Montana, that serve as the gold standard of quarterback play in the modern era.
In recent NFL history
there have been quarterbacks who have matured more quickly than Harrington.
Fans need look no further than Dan Marino. He was a rookie sensation that
outperformed all other NFL quarterbacks in his inaugural season. As
unprecedented as this history is, it is not relevant to Harrington or any one
else. Marino’s amazing leap to peak productivity in his rookie campaign dusts
every quarterback in NFL history. Even Joe Montana and John Elway, who many
would see as “greater” players, and who also won NFL championships, do not stack
up to Marino’s fast start. What made Marino so exceptional were not only his
competitiveness, quick-release, and accuracy, but also his being drafted late in
the first round. A glut of quarterback talent in the 1983 draft class landed
Marino on a good team with two superb wide receivers. In evaluating
Harrington’s progress fans could not expect him to jump out of the gate in that
manner. Indeed, for every Marino one seems to have three Ryan Leaf’s, Tim
Couch’s, and Akili Smith’s. How then can we objectively ascertain Harrington’s
development?
The Marino example
suggests that one over-riding factor that contributes to a quarterback’s
development is their surrounding cast. Peyton Manning inherited Marvin
Harrison, and following his rookie season landed All-Pro running back Edgerrin
James. With a weak defensive cast, moreover, Manning has been all throw, and he
has done this to great success except in the playoffs.
Few people seem to realize
that the quarterback position is defined by twin realities. It is well known
that the quarterback, in his role as the distributor of the ball on offense, has
more potential impact on the game than any other position on the team. At the
same time, however, not every one appreciates that no player’s performance is
more dependent on others to do their job than the quarterback position. A great
corner back can shut down a receiver outrunning, out muscling, and outreaching
his guy. But for a quarterback to be successful requires others besides him to
perform at a high level.
This brings us to the
NFL’s passer rating, which is the starting point for most debates about who is
the better quarterback. Unlike most other NFL statistics the quarterback rating
is an average that incorporates and weighs a host of passing statistics. As an
aggregate statistical measure it is more meaningful than any other statistical
rating taken by itself, but that does not necessarily mean that it is an
accurate reflection of the quarterback’s performance. For a pass to be
completed requires not only that the offensive line gives the passer time to let
the play develop, but that the full back picks up the blitzing linebacker, that
the center clears a throwing lane, that the receivers make the right reads, that
the designated receiver cuts his route precisely to the hot spot, and that after
all that he catches the ball. And what if any one of these things does not
happen? What if one person on the chain makes a mistake? What if the receiver
runs the wrong route resulting in an interception? Those mistakes all tally
against the quarterback’s rating. One may rightly counter and say what about
the amazing one handed grabs receivers make on a poorly thrown ball? What about
the cornerback who trips? Don’t those mistakes count in the quarterback’s
favor? Yes, they do, but they illustrate the same point. The rating is not
reflective of the quarterback’s performance per se, but it is a measure
of his success inside an offense against a varying set of defenses. More
fundamentally, the great plays and defensive mistakes never off set the mistakes
on offense for a very simple reason. There is only one way for the play to
work: if eleven men fulfill their assignments, while there are a hundred ways
for each of them to mess up or get beaten up by the defense. This funnel
principle defines the quarterback and always will. Offensive greatness requires
good quarterback play, but offensive ineptitude can happen for a myriad of
reason even when a quarterback is playing well.
This truth does not
exonerate the quarterback from an offense’s poor performance. Nor does it mean
that a great quarterback is unable to elevate his teammates’ level of play.
What it does mean is that fans have difficulty accurately evaluating the
quarterback and his performance from game to game. On the small screen it may
seem that the quarterback threw the ball right into the hands of the linebacker,
but unless you know the play and the reads, the fault may well have been on the
wide receiver.
This brings us back to
cultural lenses. Most fans do not evaluate players objectively. For one thing,
fans do not have access to the same information that coaches possess in
evaluating performance. Fans are overly reliant on the media, which may or may
not have any greater football knowledge or access to inside information. Smart
NFL coaches are also masters of spin, and try to direct the media and the public
towards interpretations that suit their interests. The “truth” about a play or
a player is often not forthcoming, at least not immediately. It is no surprise
than, that fans reach for their own idiosyncratic shorthand to explain the
reality they see unfolding before them each Sunday. One favorite that I already
alluded to is evaluating the team through the quarterback’s play in isolation,
or judging him according to his “toughness.”
Football is a tough guy’s
sport. Any one who has played knows the bumps and bruises that ensue after a
match and that they do not fully heal in one week’s time. Then there is the
rash of serious injuries, even life-threatening ones that strike down players.
Every Sunday reveals the human body’s frailty and weak points: knees, ankles,
necks, and concussions. Football players on average die decades before their
counterparts in baseball. Many shuffle around on arthritic knees like the great
Dick Butkus. Typical of violent sub-cultures, masculinity is defined in terms
of toughness. In football legend clings not only to successful players in
glamour positions, but more often to tough guys like Ditka and Nitschke whose
play was defined by savagery. Football is a professional sport that honors the
overweight lineman, the psychotic linebacker, and the half-mad wedge breaker.
Fans laugh in amazement at Manning’s virtuoso deconstruction of a defense, but
they are awed by how Favre played with a broken thumb. It is not just success
that matters, but “guts”.
The maelstrom of scrutiny
that surrounds Harrington is the inheritance of any high draft pick or starting
quarterback, but he is also caught in a broader cultural morass. The
expectations and prejudices that are applied to Harrington often have precious
little to do with what he has done on the gridiron. Rather they are based
principally on a particular understanding of “toughness.” When Saragusa noted
that Harrington was a wine and strawberries kind of guy, he was questioning his
masculinity through code words. To someone outside male subculture the fact of
whether Harrington ordered a posh Belgian import or Guinness Stout seems
irrelevant. But to serious fans this is a choice laden with significance.
Evaluating masculinity according to consumer products appears to be a carry over
from politics where neo-conservative pundits have defined Real America by
contrasting apple pie, Ford trucks, and black coffee with biscotti, Volvos, and
lattes.
The true Joey Harrington,
however, appears to be someone more complex than the convenient stereotypes fans
like to apply. Tight spirals nullify reports of his noodle arm, at least those
that are thrown over thirty yards. His head coach who expressed amazement that
Harrington did not miss one off-season work out contradicts the Piano Boy’s lack
of commitment to football. Suggestions of Harrington’s alienation are
contradicted by teammates that claim him as a friend, albeit somewhat “goofy”.
Harrington’s lack of toughness belies the fact that only a heart ailment and a
coach’s decision have knocked him out of games for more than a series. This is
not to say that the cynics’ stereotype of Harrington is completely inaccurate.
Stereotypes are both true and untrue, that is the nature of generalization. The
critical issue is, however, to what extent does such conventions of judgment and
categories of analysis reflect in a real way upon Harrington the person and the
player?
As a person, Harrington
appears to be both aloof and enthusiastic. He is tightly focused on football,
but also has other interests. Joey’s smile may seem confident to some and
lackadaisical to others. Harrington’s face strikes many women as handsome and
some men as effeminate. For a novelist these types of contradictions are the
rich stuff from which Pulitzer winning tales can be spun. The calculus of NFL
fans is somewhat simpler if not baser. What NFL fans want to see in a
quarterback are not only wins, but also a role model that they can relate to.
There is a reason that the NFL can command top dollar from the networks in
contrast to other sports. The NFL appeals to the alpha male. Professional
football players serve as icons that enable fans to get in touch with their
vanishing ideal of masculinity; physical toughness, vulgarity, the outdoors, a
hard sweat, respect, and an honest living. In de-industrializing states like
Michigan, where globalization strikes hard upon blue-collar workers with little
education or ability to fill modest roles in the new economy, one sees a culture
in crisis. Michigan has militias, xenophohic forms of evangelical literalism,
and chronic obesity. These are all expressions of a male angst. In this
context, the antipathy towards Harrington can be understood not only in terms of
how “Joey” fails short of many fans’ notions of what constitutes a good
quarterback, but also in how he openly flails against their notions of
masculinity. The quarterback that should serve as the icon for
alpha-masculinity has become subverted and in typical alpha male fashion, one
strikes back with ferocity projecting one’s own emasculation back onto the hero.
