Lamar Jackson is apparently learning a lesson the hard way: at the moment, there’s not a pro football team anywhere in existence that wants to pay him $230 million over 10 years, any more than the Baltimore Ravens want to pay it.
In Sunday’s Sun newspaper, the page 1 sports headline reads, “Market for Jackson Oddly Quiet Thus Far.”
How could this be happening? The drop-head explains, “Apparent lack of outside interest in QB stokes collusion talk.”
Collusion, huh?
In other words, conspiracy theorists believe, NFL owners have secretly agreed to lowball Jackson, not because they don’t value the Ravens quarterback but because they want to show the rest of their players that financial order must be maintained, and players’ contracts are already preposterously high.
Here’s another thought.
Maybe they’ve watched Jackson over the length of his career and don’t think he’s ever going to be as good as he was in that breathtaking season of 2019.
And maybe that’s why, as Jackson shops himself around rather than stick with the Ravens, he’s reportedly stunned to find nobody lining up to sign this fabulous athlete who plays the most important position in his sport.
There are some of us around here, who have watched ballgames since the dawning of the “modern” era in the 1950s, who believe Jackson is one of a mere handful of truly electrifying athletes we’ve ever seen in a local uniform.
I’m not talking about a John Unitas, whose toughness and grace under pressure made him immortal. Or a Cal Ripken Jr., whose work ethic and steadiness and attention to detail lifted him above most mortals.
I’m talking about magic.
I’m talking about such gifts to make special things happen that these individuals can seem electrically charged.
I can think of only a handful of athletes who have come our way over the past three-quarters of a century who fit that bill:
Lenny Moore in his glory days, running and catching the football for the Baltimore Colts.
Earl Monroe of the Baltimore Bullets, who helped transform an entire sport controlled by coaches and referees into a combination ballet and jazz riff in which players could truly strut their stuff.
Manny Machado, so good at third base that he nearly made some of us commit blasphemy by comparing him to Brooks Robinson.
And Roger Staubach, in his Heisman Trophy year down the road at the U.S. Naval Academy.
You can add Lamar Jackson to that list.
For a while, but not forever.
In his glory year, Jackson put up numbers that surpass language to describe them. We hadn’t seen zigzag running like his since Lenny Moore’s days 60 years ago.
But his short-term greatness becomes his long-term liability. Every time Jackson runs with the football, 11 large, gargantuan killers are trying to knock him down with all the power and rage they can muster.
It takes a toll on the human body. And Jackson, for all his running ability, is unlike almost all other NFL quarterbacks. They drop into the pocket, where they’re protected from full frontal violence by modern league rules protecting quarterbacks.
But Jackson runs and runs, far more than other quarterbacks. And when he runs, it’s open season on his every ligament and muscle.
His body’s already reacting to that. Maybe not in major ways, but enough that it shaves off a little speed here, a little elusiveness there. Now opponents are making tackles they used to miss. It’s three seasons since his season of magic, because his body isn’t the same as it was in 2019.
And as a quarterback force, that leaves passing. And Jackson has never been a top-flight passer.
So maybe it’s not collusion that’s making NFL teams slow to sign Jackson. Maybe they’re just seen the future, and it’s not worth the staggering amount Jackson’s asking of it.
Michael Olesker’s latest book, “Boogie: Life on A Merry-Go-Round,” was recently published by Apprentice House. It’s the life story of Baltimore legend Leonard “Boogie” Weinglass, an original “Diner” guy who grew up to create the Merry-Go-Round clothing chain and contribute millions to charity.
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