Marcus Hayes is an odd writer. No shit you say, have you every seen his personality on Daily News? Very odd.
Take for instance the two articles Hayes has written in the past two days about the passing of Garrett Reid. The first, published on Monday, seems to passively demean Garrett Reid. Given the the benefit of the doubt, maybe Hayes’ sentiment is lost on the reader, nonetheless, I find the article strange.
Hayes describes Garrett Reid as “tall and awkward” FIVE times in the article:
Garrett Reid, when he was a teenager in Green Bay, was a tall, awkward big brother.
Garrett Reid grew into manhood tall and awkward.
Garrett was quieter, more withdrawn. Always very sensitive. Tall. Awkward.
Garrett Reid grew into adulthood tall and awkward … and massive, and hardened.
What was soft and gangly for its first 27 years became chiseled and massive…He was still tall. Awkward.
Very peculiar. Hayes’ focus is aimed at physical traits (implied negativity) that have no bearing on Reid’s overall life story. I don’t see the relevancy of the repetition. Usually emphasis is placed on positive personality traits when eulogizing even the most troubled subjects. Not here. Hayes also labels the Reid brothers as “druggies” and “gun-waving thugs” the day after Garrett Reid passes due to a likely accidental drug overdose.
Garrett Reid wasn’t harming anyone but himself in that dorm room in Lehigh. Societally, we love to demean addicts with unconstructive labels like “druggie.” As in “throw that disgusting druggie in jail!” Maybe these guys don’t need jail, maybe they need professional help. Jail obviously didn’t help Garrett Reid recover. But I digress.
Marcus Hayes’ article today is equally strange. Hayes muses how Garrett Reid’s death could “modulate” fan resentment of his coaching tenure.
“You wonder how this will affect him in the coming years, coming back here, year after year,” said Wiley Edwards, 48.
Edwards wore an old Jeremiah Trotter jersey. A fixture at training camp, he sensed disaster Sunday morning.
“We always see Coach Reid’s car come by and drop him off,” Edwards said. “When it never dropped him off, we knew something was wrong.”
What was wrong was unimaginable.
In Hellertown, next door to the practice fields, Edwards raised his own son, Chris, 28.
“I cannot imagine what Andy’s going through, and his wife [Tammy], and the other kids,” Edwards said. “If something like that happened to Chris, I wouldn’t be able to function, mentally.”
Edwards is a typical Eagles fan.
He thrilled through Buddy Ryan’s regular-season runs then agonized as Ryan and Randall Cunningham stalled in the playoffs. He witnessed the Rich Kotite debacle, the regrouping under Ray Rhodes, and, finally, continual respectability of Reid’s reign.
Edwards knows how lucky the Eagles are to have Reid. Still, he remains critical of Reid and the organization simply because it has yet to win a Super Bowl.
And, typically, Edwards said he bristled as, over the years, Reid became more and more detached from the fans; dismissive or deflective of questions about performances; and, sometimes, downright rude.
“He always kept you at arm’s length,” Edwards said.
Surely, Reid’s loss of his firstborn will modulate fans’ resentment. In the future, Edwards admitted, he and others like him will be more empathetic.
“I think we will be easier on him,” Edwards said.
The beating Reid takes, sometimes weekly, long has stunned his coaching staff. Perhaps the beatings will end, a couple of assistants said. Perhaps, at least, they will be fairer, they hope. The assistants get bloodied by everything that happens to the boss.
Pretty callous sentiment if you ask me. ”Here’s the upshot Andy, at least fans will be less critical of you now that your son is dead!”
And finally, the last and (most bizarre) sentence of today’s article describes Juan Castillo’s ‘secret ‘emotional response to the tragedy:
None of the assistants ever will work at Lehigh again without wondering…how their worlds would collapse if one of their sons died.
Not defensive coordinator Juan Castillo, whose eldest of four boys, Gregory, 22, recently put his senior season as a cornerback at Iowa in peril with a strained hamstring. Today, as Andy Reid buries his own firstborn, Juan Castillo rejoices over a glorious, very temporary hamstring strain.
Inexplicably weird. I’m sure Juan Castillo is secretly rejoicing as he watches one of his closest friends bury his son. I’m dumbfounded.