My lasting memory of Steve McNair isn’t a snappy throw or a thunderous plunge to beat the yardstick, or him flinging his chinstrap in disgust after a heavy moment. It’s a drawing I once saw.

This was back in the winter of 2002, around the time of the AFC title game, Titans at Raiders, and in the local paper there was an anatomical outline of the Tennessee quarterback’s injuries … knees … ribs … back … shoulder … ankle.  Pick a spot, McNair was taking a needle there, in voodoo-like fashion. Yes, eerily enough, when considering his violent end in Nashville, it looked an awful lot like an autopsy sketch.

The accompanying story from that day in January 2003 quoted his wife, saying she didn’t know how her husband could keep playing, how the pain made it impossible for him to handle everyday life, basic moves like sliding out of bed or taking the stairs or bouncing around with his babies. Oh, how she wanted him to retire. The fallout from a man who chose to sacrifice the one possession he has had since arriving on earth — his body.

Football is littered with players who have endured hellacious beatings. It’s the game’s debris. And no one takes it worse than the quarterback, it seems. Self-preservation says throw it away, son. But the bravest ones, those who ignore the slashing, clawing hordes, tie themselves to the pillar, waiting for a downfield opening that may never come. A throw … a collision … and then darkness. Repeat, over and over, for a career. McNair, based on that description, was among the bravest.

For this breed, it’s the call of duty, though their postgame reflections rarely discuss it. It’s more like the old French commander, Vicomte Turenne, his clean, little missive back to Paris after the Battle of Dunen: “The enemy came. He was beaten. I am tired. Goodnight.”

I saw defenses tear apart Buffalo’s Jim Kelly. Not so much early on, but in his later days. He had that thick linebacker physique, steady footing, and for years he could absorb more punishment than other QB types. And while things were clicking in Buffalo and he had all his young firepower, well, there was other business to address for opponents than just hammering on No. 12.

But the years went on and Thurman Thomas slowed and Andre Reed couldn’t get open anymore and free agency ate away his line. That’s when the vultures came. The official contract on Kelly’s head.

Another human sacrifice was Bernie Kosar. Bernie couldn’t dodge much to begin with. He couldn’t beat a flashing “Don’t Walk” signal. Defenses always knew where to find him, and the Browns never had great protection in those years, so he was steadily mashed to pieces. There was Bernie, all crooked and battered and moving slowly. One day they just cleaned out his locker.

I remember reading a piece of psychology from Bill Parcells, on how age affected the quarterback position, and what signs to look for when the final days are setting in.

“I think what happens as quarterbacks get older,” he said, “is that they just won’t pull the trigger. It’s not that they don’t know what to do, but they want it to be perfect before they throw it. They’re torn between the turnover — which they don’t want to make because it’s a killer — and throwing the ball when the separation between the receiver and the defender isn’t quite enough. They’re not the confident throwers like they were when they were younger. That is one of the first signs of a quarterback not being able to do the job well anymore.”

I’m not so sure that notion applied to McNair. He never seemed unsure back there, even in his later days, after management ran him out of Tennessee and he hooked on with Baltimore for a couple of seasons. He never seemed to lose the passer’s confidence, the attack instinct, despite the fact that his overall skills were breaking down. I think a lot of that had to do with that physical fearlessness, his unending ability to dismiss pain. To accept the pass rush as the matador accepts the horns. Volunteers to take the hill.

It’s a rare gene, this dismissal of pain, and a helluva mixed blessing. For the quarterback, toughness inspires his men. It creates disciples, followers, a winning huddle.

But to his body, it’s the steady drip of novocaine. It deadens the nerves and numbs the mind. The bills, the heavy debt, are to be paid later in life.

But not in McNair’s case. They won’t get paid. You’ve read the stories. You know the details. And you’ll find no castings of stone here, no moral report card.

Let’s just say he was one of the roughest of his kind, admirable in that way, and leave it at that. 

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