We are, of course, forced to do it. Compelled as sports fans to view and compare, as if failing to do so casts some doubt on the accomplishments themselves.
And so Barry Sanders cannot merely be a great running back and one of the best of his time. He must be the greatest back of all time. More elusive than Eric Dickerson, quicker than Jim Brown, more explosive than Walter Payton, players whose images now only get dimmer.
Sanders cannot even escape comparisons with himself. He is running better now, they say, more purposeful, not getting caught from behind as he once did. It is a characterization that makes Erik Kramer laugh.
“I don’t remember him getting caught from behind when I was with the Lions,” he says.
Somehow, however, Sanders must be better today than yesterday, just as Payton must be reduced. And only the most unlikely of fans resists the temptation.
William Sanders, Barry’s father, still insists Brown was the greatest running back he ever has seen. And even his son seems to understand.
“Who am I to argue with my father?” he shrugs.
But mostly it’s Payton’s turn to be analyzed. Consistently he comes out on the short end. His feet could not possibly have been as quick as those of Sanders, who starts and stops so effortlessly that supposedly nimble linebackers are made to look like kickers frozen at midfield while trying to confront an oncoming returner.
Surely Payton was not as slippery as the 5-foot-8-inch Sanders, who routinely shakes off defenders left swatting at polyester.
And can anyone be as graceful as Sanders, who spins and sashays through open seams, his fingertips grazing the turf as he eyes the end zone?
No, Payton could not possibly have done that. And besides, athletes continue to get bigger and faster with time, so Sanders’ accomplishments must be placed on a higher plane.
Except that it is all nonsense.
Like William Sanders’ reaction to Jim Brown, who no doubt first exposed him to the unlimited possibilities of carrying a football, sports fans are not impartial judges. With a nod toward hometown loyalties and the innocence of youth, we see only what we want to see.
And that is how it should be.
If we must measure and rank greatness, however, there are easier ways to do it. Like Sanders, Payton did something that elevates him even further perhaps than the records he set.
On even the dullest of Bears teams, in the most hopeless of seasons, on the most inviting of crisp Sunday afternoons, we watched him. And not merely watched him but were transfixed, not daring to turn our heads or leave the screen lest we miss something.
This is what defined Payton, what characterizes all of those we insist on comparing. And to forget that as we pause to appreciate the gifts of Barry Sanders is to diminish all of them.
Before us is Sanders scooting and cutting upfield, sidestepping his pursuers and turning one more seemingly modest gain into a 40-yarder. And in our mind’s eye, we see Payton, breaking tackles in the backfield, stiff-arming his way down the sideline, churning into a pack and popping up from the bottom of the pile, ever ready for the next carry.
To question any of that now is to imagine one day criticizing Michael Jordan’s passing abilities for the sake of likening him to the NBA’s newest superstar.
When asked, Sanders, as always, was humble in discussing his chances of usurping Payton’s all-time rushing mark.
“I’m grateful to be where I am,” he said, “to be closing the gap at the pace I am. But this game has no guarantees. I don’t know where I’m going to end up, so I’m just going to enjoy the ride.”
Despite some casual retirement talk, at just 29, and 3,407 yards short of the record, it is certainly conceivable Sanders will catch Payton. And when he does, the former Bear will drop again in the estimation of football observers.
It is, after all, what we do.
