The word manly wasn’t spoken much during my formative years. The “manosphere” was not yet a thing, and American monoculture seemed terribly uninterested in examining what men were for. When people said “manly,” they seemed to mean “cave-manly”: boorishly horny and/or stupidly macho. At the same time, facile feminist rhetoric proclaimed, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” and our pop culture educators played into that narrative pretty agreeably. The Man Show (1999-2004) presented a celebration of the indulgent life of beer, masturbation, football, flatulence, fishing, and “juggies” on trampolines; Carola and Kimmel did nothing to convince one that a Turn of the Century Man was worthy of respect. Sitcoms, in a less direct way, had long depicted the American dad as a lovable but also unserious and unformidable fellow. Tim Allen of Home Improvement was probably the most endearing iteration, and his “manliness” was mostly about his love of muscle cars and his mental density. He was always in need of the wisdom of his wife or his eccentric neighbor.
Manliness, I was told, was a form of mediocrity. These were a strange times to be a sensitive young man.
The Real Education Begins
It was exactly twenty years ago today—April 22, 2004—that my eyes were opened to other possibilities. Pat Tillman had died in Afghanistan, and it was all over the news. His demise was sad of course, but I was more stunned by the fact that such a man had lived—an NFL player who walked away from football, fame, and money to join the Army Rangers after 9/11. Who does that? The more they told his story, the more I was captivated. And he looked the part too—wild eyes, blonde surfer hair, and the world’s most heroic jawline. What other word could describe someone like Pat Tillman but manly? I suddenly had to be manliness-maxxing.
What exactly was manliness? I still didn’t really know, but I was pretty sure it had something to do with a capacity for bold decisiveness. Our bold decisions might not be as dramatic as Tillman’s, but they could still come from the same spirit. Physical excellence and a willingness to fight had something to do with it too. (As much as we like to tell ourselves that “violence never solves anything,” that claim can only be made by people living in atypically safe societies, often falsely or unsustainably so. Sooner or later, fighting men prove irreplaceable.) Add to this picture a manly concern for honor and loyalty and things that couldn’t be measured by money. This combination demands admiration, and more than that it inspires aspiration. The manly man’s capacity for being shows you what is possible.
In the months that followed, the celebration of Tillman’s life gave way to a bitter controversy over the Pentagon’s handling of his death, which we learned was not the result of a firefight with the enemy but a sad mishap involving friendly-fire. Questions remain about exactly what happened and why. You can read about those elsewhere. The least outrageous conclusion is that the Department of Defense wanted him to remain a posterboy for the Global War on Terror—and thus made his death seem more epic. Others argue that it was a staged assassination of a high-profile soldier who had developed grave misgivings about the war effort.
But like I said, those questions about what happened on 4/22/04 are not as interesting as the man’s life—the simple fact that he was real.
A Man in Full
I want to look at a few lesser-known points from Tillman’s story which give away his character. These more understated anecdotes are just as interesting as his decision to walk away from football—largely because they are not influenced by the emotional charge of a world-historical event. They show who he was every day.
Tillman had a disregard for the self-promotion. In May of 2002, after he made his fateful decision, Tillman told his coach Dave McGinnis that he would not be returning to the team for the upcoming season. McGinnis was surprised but understood; he probably admired his safety even more. When he asked Tillman how he would handle the media’s interest in his story, Tillman responded, “I’m not.” He held no press conference and gave not a single interview. His decision spoke for itself, he said. He would continue to turn down interview, book deals, awards, and cereal box covers.
Tillman was walking away from a 3-year contract for $3.6 million and taking a pay cut of about 98%. And that wasn’t the first time he left money on the table. The previous time involved more money, too.
A little backstory is necessary. Though Tillman excelled in college, leading Arizona State University to the Rose Bowl and winning Pac-10 Defensive Player of the Year, most professional scouts thought him too small to play linebacker in the NFL and too slow to play safety. Few teams were interested in taking a chance on him. But the Arizona Cardinals figured that drafting a hometown hero might make for nice PR, so they selected Tillman in the final round of the 1998 NFL draft.
Then Tillman surprised everyone—not just outperforming expectations but shattering them. In his third year as a Cardinal, this formerly overlooked prospect broke the franchise’s single-season record for tackles and somehow became one of the best safeties in the NFL. Now that his rookie contract was up, it was time for Tillman to get paid like the stud he had become.
Unfortunately the Cardinals were a notoriously cash- strapped and/or stingy franchise. They offered a one-year deal for the league minimum of $512K. But the St Louis Rams offered $9.6M over five years—making the choice an absolute no-brainer for most of us. Take the money and run.
For Tillman it was a no-brainer in a different way. He wanted to stay with the team that had taken a chance on him when no one else would.
A strong case could be made against the decision, as Tillman’s incensed agent told him. NFL careers are short and punishing, which means players need to get paid while they can. And though the Cardinals did him a good turn years ago, the franchise would surely cut him loose the moment they found someone more useful. Nobility would get a man exploited. All good reasons to take the money. But Tillman had other reasons—he lived according to old school principles, rather than the teachings of economists. By some measures, the decision was irresponsible. By others, it was breathtaking.
The critics are not wrong to mention the costs of nobility. They just don’t understand that certain men are willing to pay them.
Shortly before his death, Pat Tillman was offered a chance to exit the Army and return to the NFL. By this point he had become disenchanted with military life—for several reasons. The Seattle Seahawks had discovered that Tillman, already having served a tour in Iraq, could file for a discharge which would likely be accepted. It might even be a boon for the Army to get Tillman back into the NFL and back on national television. Every time he took the field, he would be a walking advertisement for the Army. So Tillman’s agent brought the news to him—only to be rebuffed.
“I enlisted for three years,” Tillman said. “I owe them three years. I'm not going to go back on my word. I'm going to stay in the Army.”
His biographer adds: “As much as Pat hated being in the military and forcing Marie [his wife] to endure all that his enlistment entailed, breaking the commitment he made to the Rangers would've violated principles he considered inviolable … It was absolutely out of the question.”
That decision would seal Tillman’s fate, and the rest of his story is dark. I don’t know quite what to do with it myself, other than be moved by the tragedy that befalls a manly man in unmanly times—and to regret that he didn’t find a more worthy cause. Prudence demands that we not sacrifice ourselves unnecessarily for an unworthy Regime, and yet an excellent man cannot make certain compromises with mediocrity. These are the makings of a bitter and complicated end.
But that’s not always the end of the story. Though Pat Tillman by all accounts went to his grave an ardent atheist, his example still suggests the power of martyrdom. A magnificent life moves people, but sometimes only death can drive the point home. “The tyrant dies and his rule is over,” Kierkegaard wrote. “The martyr dies and his rule begins.” It proved true for me: my own destiny was certainly altered by Tillman’s example, which I might never have learned about but for his death. He became the focal point around which I could begin to articulate my longings for something better than what the public schools and pop culture intended for me. Tillman alerted me to grander possibilities.
Rest in peace, Patrick Daniel Tillman Jr.
To give one's live for others is the flowering of the Bushido, but to throw one's life away is merely to throw one's life away.
I choose to believe Tillman died heroically, even if it was friendly fire. His death was merely an end; his life-choices left everyone wide-eyed.
Many thanks for sharing Tillman's story -- and his inspirational impact on you and others.