Bill Lyon: Thoughts on Andy, Kobe, Beano and Alex

His face popped up on the screen and you were struck with this thought: Cap'n Andy is wearing his years. Out on the range, they would say he looks like he's been rode hard and put up wet.

So whatever became of that apple-cheeked, roan-maned, walrus-mustached, naive NFL wannabe? Fourteen years, that's what. Fourteen years of family turmoil and unspeakable tragedy to endure with grace and courage. Fourteen years of palace intrigue and ruthless purging in the darkened hallways of Fortress NovaCare. Fourteen years of unrelenting arrogance and dictatorial intractability. Fourteen years of we-do-it-my-way, and if-it-turns-out-my-way-isn't-working-then-we'll-blame-you. Fourteen years of the Greek chorus of critics reminding you that it's fourteen years, going on fifteen, and still no Super Bowl.

So then, in an idle moment do you suppose Andy Reid ever entertains this thought: "I don't need all this grief. There are plenty of places out there that would welcome me with open arms."

And you know what? There are.

And you suspect that, with his team now spiraling in free fall, the thought of a new start must hold some appeal. There is no reason to think that this season isn't going to end badly. The coach is already making moves that reek of desperation and panic.

(Nor, it says here, will the Eagles ever win a Super Bowl with the extravagantly talented but hopelessly flawed Michael Vick.)

So then, as we finish Bye-Bye Week, this is the disheartening math: The Birds have to win a bare minimum of six of their remaining 10 games just to finish with a winning record, and an unremarkable one at that.

Anything less, if we are to take the owner at his word, is unacceptable. And you can, presumably, take that at face value.

Wasn't it just yesterday, just yesterday, that he was sitting there in that high school gym, announcing for all the world that he was - how about the unmitigated brass, that cocksure smugness - "taking my talents to the next level"?

Wasn't it just yesterday, just yesterday, that Kobe Bean Bryant, a child of privilege and a certified prodigy, was announcing that he was skipping collegiate competition and going directly into the NBA?

Wasn't it just yesterday, just yesterday, that the Big Boys agreed that that mouthy kid needed some serious putting in his place?

And wasn't it just yesterday, just yesterday, that the Big Boys discovered you can't put down what you can't catch?

He's 34 now, readying for his 17th season, and any listing of the greatest players in history has to include him in the top five. And in a sport where sneakered nomads flit from town to town, here's the really unique part - all of it, every minute, has been with the same team. His minutes have passed 50,000, and there is some speculation this might be the Last Hurrah.

The Lakers have loaded up. Never has he been protected by such diversified talent - the best center (Dwight Howard) and the best setup man (Steve Nash) and an all-star inside man (Pau Gasol). Is it possible to have too much talent? But who gets the ball for the last shot? That doesn't change.

He needs one more championship, one more gives him six and ties him with MJ, and that has always been the motivation, back there when he first came into the league, and he was relentlessly compared to Michael Jordan.

And wasn't that just yesterday?

It's been a few days since his passing, but they're still telling Beano stories. As colleague Dave Kindred correctly nailed it: "Beano Cook was every sportswriter's best friend."

You needed a great quote, see Beano. Funny story, see Beano. A one-liner, see Beano. He was rumpled, like an unmade bed, and his wardrobe was a repository for newspaper clips and cookie crumbs, but he was falling-down funny. He lived to 81, and it was a good run. He served in various capacities with college teams and pro teams, with college football his abiding passion.

He was a bit of a sidewalk philosopher, tossing out such bon mots as: "You only need to bat 1.000 in two things: flying and heart transplants."

With Beano you were never quite sure where reality left off and the legend began, but the story we all told and retold went like this: Beano was the PR man for Pitt football when a female caller asked him for a complete roster. It was, she said, her intention to sleep with each player.

Beano, without missing a beat, replied: "Going alphabetically, then: Cook, Beano. No. 62. Right guard."

He was moonfaced and with glasses on looked vaguely professorial. At the line of scrimmage, though, defensive tackle Alex Karras was a one-man wrecking crew, the better part of 300 pounds when that tonnage was considered noteworthy.

He's gone now, at 77, having done yeoman work for the Detroit Lions, where he and Roger Brown, also roughly the size of Rhode Island, were a staple of Thanksgiving Day games.

Mr. Karras turned out to be a facile actor, on both large screen and small, and he was frequently a guest on The Tonight Show, his dry wit and straight face convulsing Johnny Carson.

For instance: "I invited this comely young lady up to my room and offered to show her our game plan for tomorrow.

"And she said, 'I'm sorry. but I'm a lesbian.' "

Here, Mr. Karras paused, said he mulled this bit of intelligence, and then asked: "So how are things in Beirut?"

Carson fell out of his chair.

RIP, Alex.