When the Steelers drafted Plaxico Burress, I was wary. His college coaches had said that although his gifts were many, he had a me-first attitude. Sure enough, I quickly grew to dislike him. Most of us did. He blew off meetings, once publicly damning his coach for having the audacity to hold camp on Mother's Day, just like the other 31 teams did. His mother was long dead, mind you.
He further ingratiated himself by dropping passes, refusing to go over the middle, and once, gloriously, celebrating his catch at midfield by spiking the ball. He hadn't been touched by a defensive player, so the spike was a fumble. A lost fumble.
And thus was a nickname born.
His tenure in Pittsburgh was marred by underperformance, skipped practices, arrests, whining to the media, and general dickitude. And when the Steelers gladly let him go to New York, he flipped the race card at our faces.
"I mean, I wasn't liked as a person. I was seen as a black kid, young African-American, cornrows, drives fancy cars, wears diamond earrings, things like that. They just kind of based their perception off of what I drove and what I did and things like that. All those things were never a part of any other player on that team but me. I fit New York more than what I fit Pittsburgh. Nobody's worrying about my big truck or my Rolls-Royce or what I have on. That makes me feel good. People just accept me how I am instead of looking at me and judging me."Yeah. How'd that work out for you, Spike?
Buh bye.