There has been a lot of speculation on what drove KansasCity Chiefs linebacker Jovan Belcher to murder his girlfriend Kasandra Perkins,
and then to take his own life. If there
is one saving grace in this travesty, at least his 3-month old daughter and her
grandmother escaped the carnage, alive to be counted among those questioning
his actions.
A lot of what I've read this morning is focused on the
suicide, the final words exchanged with head coach Romeo Crennel and general
manager Scott Pioli. The coverage is all about the "...starting
linebacker", how difficult it must be playing on team with the worst
record in the NFL, and how Belcher was a "...great, great, great, great
teammate". None of it very
surprising, all of it nauseating enough to make you want to burp, belch, and
puke.
Jovan Belcher was mad, plain and simple. We've all been there. We've all been spit-fire mad. Mad enough to beat the crap out of
someone. Mad enough, we imagine, to
kill. What saves us? A modicum of restraint. That's what.
We suck it up and get a hold of our emotions and hope to hell there
isn't a kitchen knife, frying pan, or lethal instrument at arm's length. Seems pretty clear to me. In the final analysis it wasn't anger management or a steroid induced rage. This probably, unwittingly, had more to do with the NFL gangsta mentality. Owning a piece is seemingly just part of the deal. Part of being a professional athlete.
This is probably over simplifying things a bit, but it's the gun, stupid. Plain and simple. Jovan Belcher went and got it.
This is probably over simplifying things a bit, but it's the gun, stupid. Plain and simple. Jovan Belcher went and got it.
Later, out of extreme regret and remorse, he ended it.
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