I’m sure some part of you wishes you led the life Steve McNair did, or at least the life he led until one of his mistresses, Sahel Kazemi, stood over him with a loaded 9mm, no doubt crying hysterically, and followed through on the age-old crazy lover’s threat that “if I can’t have you, no one can.” Hell, you’d probably accept the untimely demise if it meant you got to live like he did until Kazemi punched his ticket. He had women, fame, the respect of his peers, a possible spot in the Hall of Fame awaiting him, and enough money in the bank to finance a thousand trips to Tahiti.

In the aftermath of his unlucky tryst the national media and his peers began an awkward dalliance with how to frame the life of a man who in every way possible had it all, but in the end seemed to just hit the jackpot in the wrong way. Is he a football god or a philandering miscreant? Was he a Hall of Fame-caliber player who should be mourned or is he a cautionary tale? Or was he simply just a man enjoying the fruits his life bore? The reality is that in the end, being Steve McNair was pretty awesome, perceived flaws and all, because seriously, what’s the point of being one of the best quarterbacks of the last 20 years if you can’t have four women at once?

He was an ebony god in Nashville with his own soon-to-be opened fried chicken joint, enjoyed an impeccable reputation as a humanitarian and all around great guy, and was a reputed family man who reputedly only fucked his wife. His reputation was so immaculate that even white sportswriters wrote about him in reverent tones usually reserved for the likes of Joe Montana, Peyton Manning, and John Elway. He was the first black man to win a share of the NFL MVP as a quarterback, almost won a Super Bowl by himself, and willed himself through games with injuries that would put the rest of us in traction for eight weeks. But in the end Steve McNair will be remembered more for getting mixed up with a delusional and suicidal waitress from a shitty restaurant chain no matter how many highlight videos NFL Films puts together and teary testimonials his ex-teammates record for posterity, and that’s exactly how it should be.

It’s become clear that in the days and weeks leading up to McNair’s death, things were either going very well or very badly for him, depending on your point of view. Various media reports and police interviews show that not only was McNair involved with Sahel, but at least one other woman whom she began stalking shortly before the murder/suicide – and possibly more. His wife, Mechelle, whom many people have described in the press as a borderline saint, was either oblivious to her husband’s wandering phallus, or willfully ignoring it as so many long-term marriages become more business arrangements than life-long love matches. Something that is painfully obvious considering that McNair had at least two rented condominiums in the Nashville area and in the previous eight months was openly spending at least two or three nights a week at Kazemi’s apartment, had taken her on a half-dozen vacations (while he had entertained his family at the Dave & Buster’s where Sahel worked as a waitress), co-signed for a loan on an Escalade, and fed her the oft-used line about divorcing his wife. As it is with almost all crazy women, the pussy must have been incredible.

How many men have multiple girlfriends? How many men cheat on their lovely wives? How many wish they could? Now, think about how awesome it is to be a top-flight quarterback in the NFL and the smorgasbord of top-shelf vajayjay (or piles of beefcake, depending on your preference) passing before your eyes. You know that unattainable beauty you see at your office every day? She’s an afternoon snack for a pro quarterback, so you can understand why McNair had to beat them off with his prodigious and oft-used member before ending up involved with a delusional club trollop who was looking for a sugar daddy.

You won’t see any players or league officials condemn McNair for straying from the marital bed since most of them partake of the same pleasures of the flesh that he did. Former teammate Eddie George and coach Jeff Fisher stepped into the breach to cover for him by insisting that McNair had trouble adjusting to life after football to explain away doing what comes naturally (fucking 20-year-old hotties because you can) and focusing on the positive aspects of McNair’s life on the football field. Meanwhile, most players in professional sports have probably been talking a little shop about each other’s mistresses, comparing notes, and in some cases, if they’re smart, breaking off contact with the smoking hot nutjob they met at the club five months ago. Meanwhile, Steve’s wife, who has been described as lovely and perfect, has been pumped full of sedatives, visited by a string of preachers, sequestered from the press, and surrounded by police, Tennessee Titans officials, and lawyers since her husband’s demise at the hands of a hotter piece of ass. Expect her full story and expert advice on homemaking, child rearing, hacking into your husband’s PDA, and cashing in on his violent death to come out in a slapdash biography on the Oprah reading list within five months.

The shame of this is that Sahel makes crazy ladies look bad. Big, dramatic murder/suicides are usually perpetrated by loser guys who think (sometimes correctly) that they’ll never get another piece of ass as sweet as the one walking out the door. Most crazy women just drink all of your booze, crawl through your bedroom window at 3:30 am, threaten to kill you or cut your balls off, and make complete fools of themselves in public during a psychotic breakdown after they sense you’re pulling away. But to actually buy a gun and then shoot you after you fall asleep on the couch? That’s elite-level crazy. But to then take it a step further and position yourself to fall on your dead lover when you blow your brains out? That’s the Heavyweight Champ of Crazies, Steve, and I gotta give it up, you got the big trophy that escaped you on the football field.

About Dick

An actual working journalist, he uses Ruthless because real publications donít have any interest in 50,000 word essays on Bud Selig.