Ode on a Running Back

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Ode on a Running Back

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When Ricky Williams was traded to Miami in 2002, I did not yet fully understand what a running back could be. I was a Dolphin fan by blood, raised by my family to idolize Dan Marino; raised by Marino to view football as a primarily aerial endeavor and stardom as an easy stroll along Hollywood beach at sunset.

 

There were only two seasons between the end of Marino and the beginning of Ricky Williams— seasons that saw the Dolphins quietly reinvent themselves as a defensive powerhouse while fans settled in to wait for the heir apparent. It wasn’t Damon Huard, nor was it Jay Fiedler (much to my dismay). Brian Griese couldn’t hack it and Daunte Culpepper, who unlike the others arrived with actual expectations in tow, was a bust.

 

Meanwhile, Ricky. He sure as hell wasn’t replacing Dan Marino, but that was the whole point. Where Marino was big grins, long bombs, and Jet Skis, Ricky was mirrored face mask, spiteful stiff-arms, and eventually,surreptitious bong rips. A decade before Milton Bradley wore earplugs in left field, Ricky isolated himself by wearing his helmet during postgame interviews. His nerves were no more a natural fit in Miami than they were in New Orleans. The very notion of a bruising halfback with social anxiety disorder as the heir to Marino was so silly as to be unthinkable.

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