Bill Poteat
Lunch, or a portrait of former Carolina Panthers quarterback Cam Newton?
Former Carolina Panthers ‘Superman’ Cam Newton.
If I’m having lunch at Silver Creek Restaurant, I like a hot dog.
An “all the way” hot dog with chili, onions, slaw, and mustard.
A real hot dog.
If I’m watching a sporting event, I’d rather the hot dogs be confined to the concession stands on the concourse.
Or wolfed down in the seats.
Things get messy when those hot dogs make their way onto the field.
Trouble is, we live in the era of the on-field, on-court, on-the-basepaths hot dog.
The bat flip.
The snail-paced home run trot.
The long hang on the rim.
The choreographed dance moves in the end zone.
All the sort of crap that Vince Lombardi, or Tom Landry, or Bobby Cox, or dozens of other old school coaches would never have put up with.
Of all the hot dogs who have played on the national stage in the 21st century, none has been bigger than one Cameron J. Newton.
Not enough yellow stuff in the entire French’s factory to cover that guy.
After a brief but unsuccessful career as a purveyor of stolen goods (the profits went out the window) and a “pay for play” scheme gone bad, Cam brought his circus act to Charlotte as quarterback of the Carolina Panthers.
Johnny Unitas was famous for his powerful arm and the grit and determination that he harnessed to play through minor injuries.
Bart Starr was famous for his pinpoint accuracy and ability to deliver in high-pressure, big-game situations.
Fran Tarkenton was famous for his agility, often leading the teams for whom he played in both passing and rushing yards.
Cam the Scam was famous for “The Dab,” no drug reference there, “The Swim,” and, of course, the Superman pose in the end zone. (I’m assuming Clark Kent was no fan.)
Neither was I.
I prefer sports heroes who act like professionals both on and off the field.
Think Hank Aaron.
Think Greg Maddux.
Think of the football stars and coaches I named above.
Excellence is a language best spoken quietly, not broadcast through a bullhorn.
I gathered to watch Super Bowl 50 with a group of friends, all of whom were pulling for Carolina. I wasn’t pulling for Denver so much as I was pulling against Cam Newton.
And in the clutch, in the biggest game of his career, he did not let me down.
Superman was sacked six times by the Denver defense.
Superman completed only 18 of 41 pass attempts with no touchdowns.
Superman carried the ball six times, gaining all of 45 yards.
Superman fumbled not once, but twice. And the second time was a career-defining moment. The ball scooted away, but Superman remained rooted to the spot, making no attempt to recover it.
At the end, Denver had an easy 24-10 victory. I felt bad for the Panthers. But I felt great for Cam.
But the legend in his own mind was not done yet.
The postgame press conference gave Cam a chance to be professional, to take responsibility, to be a man.
Instead, he acted just like a spoiled child. Hoodie pulled over his head. Mumbling answers. And, in the grand finale, he stood up abruptly and stomped out of the press conference — forever cementing his status as a loser.
I stood up and cheered.
The hot dog was eaten — and destroyed — by his own hubris.
I’ll watch Super Bowl 60 on Sunday evening, pulling for Carolina boy Drake Maye and the New England Patriots.
But win, lose, or draw, it won’t be nearly as much fun as was Super Bowl 50.
Maybe that makes me old-fashioned. I can live with that.
I’ll take Hank Aaron over hashtags, Greg Maddux over gimmicks, and quarterbacks who act like they’ve been there before.
Let the hot dogs dance in the stands. The field should belong to professionals.
Bill Poteat is editor emeritus. He may be reached at 828-445-8595 or bill@thepaper.media.
