Outside the Lines

Disappointment over Reid not getting his much-needed big win gets lost when a foe is murdered.

by Brian Hickey

For the time being, police are calling him John Doe. They don't know much about him beyond the fact that, at 7:11 a.m. Monday, EMTs assigned to Medic 3 found him fatally stabbed in the throat on the 1200 block of S. Napa St., just off Grays Ferry Avenue. He was declared dead at the scene when most people were heading off to their post-holiday workweek.

As of Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Doe represented Philly's latest homicide. Chances are, he won't hold that title very long, if he even still does. That's just the cold reality of living on a morally deficient urban island within a state that fancies itself a hunter's paradise, wholly controlled by the NRA's cold, live fingers.

Michael T. Regan Andy Reid (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

Truth be told, I never would have heard of Mr. Doe either hadn't I called the police Public Affairs office on Tuesday seeking a list of those who'd been murdered here since 1:45 a.m. Monday. That time was selected by design. Much like when Barbaro went down, I wanted to know whose murder would be lost in the groundswell of attention that comes when someone, or something, famous meets its maker.

When America's favorite pony lost its life after a long fight with complications from injuries sustained during the Preakness Stakes, I wrote about Damon Edward Heggs, a 32-year-old cleaning-business owner with a 3-year-old daughter. He died after getting shot during a drive-by in the 2500 block of N. Napa St., a side street in a cemetery-buffered sliver of Strawberry Mansion. His mother, Marcia, was utterly heartbroken both by the loss and the silence that met investigators, who assured her it was case of "wrong place, wrong time." But the horse got all the attention [Philly Blunt, "The Faces of Death," July 20, 2006].

This Tuesday, when America learned that a Pro Bowl-caliber NFL player had succumbed to the bullet wound he suffered during an apparent home-invasion robbery in Miami, it was Doe's turn to get lost in the never-ending shuffle. Even though he played for the rival Washington Redskins, Sean Taylor's tragic, untimely demise — he was 24 — was sure to garner much more local attention. Another cold reality.

This time around, though, I'll spare you the extended rant about how we need to pay attention to every killing in town, even if we're instinctively drawn to the high-profile cases; that doing so is the only way to respect our shared humanity. That's no longer a point worth arguing, especially when you consider the fact that the news of Taylor being shot was trickling north right about the time Andy Reid wrapped up his noon day-after-game press conference down in South Philly. And instead of looking into the Doe murder, I was at that press conference to write a piece about how sometimes, athletics transcend the sports pages, and explain why the previous night's game was one of those times.

As Coach ambled into the NovaCare Center's auditorium, sporting shorts, an occasional smile and a blinged-out ring from when he was an assistant coach on the Super Bowl-winning Green Bay Packers, here's what I was thinking:

What really sucks about the Eagles losing to the Patriots is that an upset of such historic proportions would've done wonders to help soothe the pain of what's been an absolutely hellish year for Reid. Much more so than for the players or the fans, he deserved it on a human level. (If you've ever suffered a loss or tragedy in your family, you know that any little smile-inducing diversion is welcomed.) But then it slipped away and all that was left were questions about whether the franchise QB would be going bye-bye, as if the future of the free world dangled in the balance. (This, mind you, is coming from someone who called for Reid's head well before America learned he was distracted by sons who were so addiction-addled that one managed to hide prescription pills from the prying fingers of the body-cavity-search specialists at prison intake.)

It broke my heart to see Reid come so close to jubilation, yet have to take solace in a moral victory. But before I could even sit down to write, a player listed in the packet of league leaders — Taylor was tied for the conference lead in interceptions — was already on his death bed. Never before has the line between sports, entertainment and reality felt more blurred.

Because now, regardless of Reid's close call, what really breaks my heart is the fact that it took Taylor's murder for me to learn that a John Doe was found dead in the middle of a Philadelphia street, with what sounds like a Colombian necktie, on a Monday morning.

Even worse is the fact that, like with Heggs last year, I still can't tell whether anybody cares.

(hickey@citypaper.net)