Some have wondered how Vikings RB Adrian Peterson could play on Sunday in the same week he found out a son of his had died in the most horrible of ways.
If you are a parent, which we are not (yet), perhaps you have some window into this. But grieving is an intensely personal thing landing squarely with the individual. That is to say: unless the person grieving is doing him or herself harm, we have no business telling them how to deal with such raw emotions.
As such, we are still trying to understand this column from the New York Post. We gave it a full day, gave it another read, and we're still stuck.
It’s sickening the NFL’s latest MVP, hours after his son died — allegedly murdered — declared he was “ready to roll,” ready to play football.
Me? I’d be fighting for breath, my knees weak with grief, demanding to know why, who, how. Then, I suspect, I’d seethe with rage, swearing retribution. I even think I’d take off a day or two from work. Maybe a week.
The suspect in the beating murder of Peterson’s 2-year-old is the boyfriend of Peterson’s “baby mama” — now the casual, flippant, detestable and common buzz-phrase for absentee, wham-bam fatherhood.
The accused, Joseph Patterson, previously was hit with domestic assault and abuse charges.
With his resources, how could Peterson, the NFL’s MVP, have allowed his son to remain in such an environment? Did he not know, or not care? Or not care to know? Or not know to care?
Peterson couldn’t have provided his son a better life, a longer life?
Money can’t buy love, but having signed a $96 million deal, he could not have provided his child — apparently his second from a “baby mama” — a safe home?
The implication that Peterson should grieve in some pre-ordained way ... and particularly the notion that he is somehow culpable in any of this ... well, the former is misguided and the latter is just vile.
End of story.