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IMMORTALS |
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Anthony Carter, 1979-82,
WR
Detroit Free Press
Quiet Anthony Carter calls it quits after brilliant career
by Mitch Albom
PONTIAC, Mich. Wherever you go in football, fans stick up their fingers and yell,
``We're No. 1.'' They wave at TV cameras, at passing cars, at each other. Over and over.
Their favorite digit, high in the air. ``We're No. 1!''
In this part of the world, only one man is actually No. 1. His name is Anthony Carter.
He wore that number during his brilliant college career at Michigan and he wore it again
for two years with the Michigan Panthers, a team that won the USFL championship. When he
jumped to the National Football League, he would have worn that same number again_ except
the league had a rule: all receivers must wear uniforms in the '80s. So Anthony Carter
became _ ta da! _ No. 81.
He was always quiet. Not rude. Just quiet. One time, after helping Bo Schembechler win
his first Rose Bowl, Carter snuck into the coaches locker room while the media waited
outside. `Anthony, what are you doing in here?'' Schembechler said. ``All those people
outside want to talk to you.'' Carter sat down. ``Coach, they talk to me enough. If I'm
not out there, they'll have to give some of my teammates credit.''
That was Carter. A team player. Despite enough speed and hand magic to rate a pedestal
all his own, he simply wanted to blend in.
So it comes as no surprise that Thursday morning, the day Anthony Carter decided to
quit football, after 13 years as a pro, he barely told anyone. He phoned his Detroit Lions
coaches, because he had to, but he didn't want to bother his teammates. Several of them
called his house when he didn't show for practice. They thought he might have overslept.
The truth was, Carter had spent the night in agony, both physical and emotional, knowing
that the sharp pain in his 35 year-old shoulder was not getting better, it was only
getting worse. He had broken the collarbone last year, reinjured the shoulder last Monday
Night, and he would wake up at 2 a.m. and have to reach behind his head and grab the
bedboard just to get the thing to loosen. ``If I can't deal with it sleeping, I can't deal
with it playing,'' he would say.
By morning light, he was ready to say goodbye.
Quietly, as usual.
But pro football is a public game, and so the good people in the Lions PR office
convinced Carter to speak to the press, if just for a few minutes. He arrived shortly
after the players' lunch. He did not want to make a fuss.
``I have decided to retire from the NFL,'' Carter mumbled into the microphone. ``I know
it was quick to you, but it wasn't quick to me ... ``When I couldn't move my arm, I knew I
couldn't take a hit. The next hit could paralyze me. That's how it feels... ``It's tough
to leave the team when it's 1-3, but I know they're gonna win, and when they're winning,
I'll be winning ... ''
He stopped. He began to cry. Light tears, soft and barely unnoticeable, much the way he
ran his routes all these years, a cat running on clouds. How many times did he slant over
the middle and catch a ball without seeming to flinch? He would glide across the field,
outracing everyone to the end zone. He was Jerry Rice without the quarterback.
None of that mattered now. His playing time had been sliced. He was hurt and
ineffective. And he had too much pride to show up if he couldn't contribute. ``I promised
myself I wouldn't cry,'' he said, even as he did, ``when you care about something ... like
I do about football ... ''
He stepped back. Enough, he figured. Without mentioning his Pro Bowl appearances, or
the receiving records he still holds in Minnesota, or the famous freshman touchdown that
beat Indiana in a call that has been played a million times over Michigan radio, or the
fact that Schembechler still calls him ``the best player I ever coached,'' Anthony Carter
simply whispered, once again, ``I'm retiring.''
At that moment, the door opened, and in walked the rest of the Lions receivers, in
uniform. Herman Moore, Brett Perriman, Aubrey Mathews, all of them. They stepped up, one
more time, and hugged him.
He's No. 1.
There's a story about Carter. When he first showed up at Michigan, the coaches ran him
in practice, and the quarterbacks could not out-throw him, no matter how hard they tried.
He was so fast, he had to come back for the ball. ``Can you believe this?'' Schembechler
squealed.
The next day, Carter was gone. He got homesick for Florida, so he packed his bag and
headed home. One of the coaches caught him at the airport and called Bo. He put Carter on
the phone. ``Anthony, you weren't going to quit the team without talking to me, were
you?'' Schembechler said. ``No, no, I'll come talk to you,'' Carter said. ``Good, you come
talk to me.'' They hung up. And Carter ran onto the plane anyhow! He went home. And only
after his mother told him to did he finally come back.
His mother won't intervene this time. As Carter left the Silverdome, he looked up, and
there was a familiar face, Johnny
Wangler, his old college quarterback from Michigan. He
had heard the news and had rushed over from work. The two men shook hands and promised to
call each other.
``He was the best,'' Wangler said.
And as everyone nodded, Carter disappeared, up the hill, towards his car, no fingers,
no waving, no noise.
Then again, the guys who are really No. 1 don't need to tell you, do they?
(Mitch Albom is a sports columnist for the Detroit Free
Press. Write to him at: Detroit Free Press, 321 West
Lafayette Boulevard, Detroit, Mich. 48226.)
Copyright, Detroit Free Press; all rights reserved.
10/6/95
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