Watch Bo, and Learn a Lesson

Say it ain’t so, Bo.

Bo Jackson, washed up at 29? Hard to believe.

Same as it was hard to believe when a young Sandy Koufax called it quits, or a young Gale Sayers retired, or a young Fernando Valenzuela had to kiss us goodby.

Same as it was hard to believe that a young Magic Johnson’s basketball career was at an end, or that a young Wayne Gretzky actually speculated that the time might have come for him to hang up his skates.

Remember this the next time some athlete asks for an unseemly sum of money.

Remember this when some athlete claims he must make his fortune now, before his body betrays him.

Or her body. Remember how old Tracy Austin was--or wasn’t--when she had to quit tennis, or how many rides Ron Turcotte had left in him before he was left unable to handle a horse.

Remember how close Tommy John or Orel Hershiser came to never pitching a baseball again, or how Teddy Higuera was never the same after an injury, or how Dave Dravecky kept trying to pitch with a cancerous arm that doctors eventually had to amputate.

Think about that $7.1-million annual salary of Ryne Sandberg’s. Whenever you resent him for it, keep in mind how his salary in 1997 or 1998 might be zero dollars.

What if he becomes the next Bo Jackson?

One misplaced step. One bad slide. One pitched ball to the jaw. That’s all it would take.

Think of Lyle Alzado and how fast it can all be taken away from you. Think of Mike Utley. Think of Bill Shoemaker, and how his accident could have happened five years sooner, or 10, or 15.

Think of Mike Tyson, and how tragedy can be brought on oneself. Think of Roy Tarpley, and how he drank and used his way into the Continental Basketball Assn.

Save your pity. Save your sympathy. These people don’t want it. Bo Jackson doesn’t want it. Fate is fate.

But have a little understanding.

Maybe the next time a referee stops a prizefight, you won’t complain so loudly that the loser easily could have withstood a couple more belts to the face.

Maybe the next time a quarterback dumps a pass a fraction of a second too early, you won’t jump all over him for being some wimp.

Playing with pain is part of sports, and has been since gladiator days. But pain isn’t Bo Jackson’s complaint. He’s willing to handle the pain.

He simply can’t play the game anymore.

Either game. Any game.

Vincent Jackson, the most remarkable physical specimen it has been my pleasure to observe, no longer can make his livelihood. Either of his livelihoods.

He cannot play baseball. He cannot play football.

And TV commercial gags notwithstanding, Bo cannot play polo, go bowling, be a bobsledder or try his luck at hockey.

He isn’t qualified.

Maybe Michael Jordan could make it as a pro golfer were his basketball career taken away, but he wouldn’t be anything special anymore. He’d merely be another skillful golfer.

Bo can’t be Bo.

That’s the tragedy of this. He will still be Bo the man, Bo the husband and father, Bo the legend. But Bo can no longer be Bo. Not the Bo we know.

The Bo who catapulted baseballs over Anaheim’s center-field fence. The Bo who ran 90 yards down the Coliseum sideline.

The Bo who threw out a runner at the plate from the shadow of the outfield fence. The Bo who, on his way to the end zone, hurdled Brian Bosworth’s brushy head.

And the Bo we’ll never know.

The Bo of whom his former Kansas City Royal manager, John Wathan, once said: “If he ever plays baseball full time, he might hit 60 homers like Babe Ruth and steal 100 bases like Ty Cobb.”

The Bo of whom his former football employer, Raider boss Al Davis, once said: “I can’t even fathom what Bo could accomplish over a full season of football. It boggles the mind.”

What does this Bo do for a living now?

Become a broadcaster?

Hey, he might be good at it, being as witty and bright as he has shown himself to be. But Bo Jackson is hardly the most outspoken, outgoing guy in sports, partly because he has a slight speech impediment that causes him to stammer.

That shouldn’t be held against him by any network, any more than a physical disability should. Yet somehow I doubt that sportscasting is Bo Jackson’s idea of a good time. He’s a physical being. He needs to do something, not discuss something.

Bo will get by. He’ll find something to do. He’ll probably become the world’s greatest fisherman or billiards player or archer. Or knowing him, two out of three.

Or he will become the world’s greatest sportswriter. You don’t need two good hips for that. You only need two wide hips.

Best of luck, Bo. And to those out there who would be Bo, you wanna-be Bo’s, hey: Stay in school, get your degree, learn to do something else. What happened to him could happen to you.

* BASEBALL REPORT: C7