Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m writing you another freaking letter about a sexual assault allegation.
What in the hell is wrong with you?
And please, I don’t mean that as, “What in the hell is wrong with you that you sexually assaulted a young college student,” which, if you did, may your penis shrivel up and fall off. No, I mean, “What in the hell is wrong with you that you do not take a stronger hold on the charmed life you have, but instead seem content to let it slip away as a result of your vices and/or gross stupidity?”
Am I saying you assaulted this girl? No.
Am I saying you DIDN’T assault this girl? No.
I don’t think at this point we can truly take a side on the veracity of the claim. There’s not enough evidence yet. It’s possible she’s crying wolf. It’s also possible that you are a perverted, sexually violent wolf. If you want us to look at her and say, “Maybe she’s lying,” then you must also agree that we should look at you and say, “Maybe he did it.”
We don’t know. We might never know.
But here’s what we do know. With a sexual assault accusation already hanging over your head, be it true or false, you never should have put yourself in the position to have this new accusation thrown at you. What this new accusation does is essentially take the first accusation, which was sinking under the weight of a less-than-stable seemingly opportunistic accuser, and shores that first accusation up. Strengthens it. Plugs some holes. Gives it just enough of an injection of air to make us look at it again as it rises above the surface of the water. Hey look at that thing right there. That thing I turned away from and said, nah, that’s just a crazy lady who wants money. Look at that thing floating on the water. It looks different now.
I don’t think there’s a one of us who isn’t looking at that thing with new eyes. That isn’t wondering if possibly, if maybe, just maybe, you have trouble taking no for an answer.
I get it. You’re a man. A wealthy young man. Then go out to the bars. Have a blast. Buy a round for everyone in the place if you’d like. Laugh. Shoot pool. Spend your money. Tip big. But for the love of God, don’t go anywhere alone with a woman you just met. Don’t disappear to the bathroom with a 20-year-old you spent the night bar-hopping with. Hire a chaperon to be with you at all times when you’re out partying. Don’t get drunk in public. Don’t be a douchebag. Don’t traipse around town with your posse like you’re Ed Hardy’s gift to our eyes.
You might ask, why do I have to live by these rules? Woe is me that I have a target on my forehead and all the opportunistic money-hungry girls are aiming for it. And who made me a role model? Why can’t I just do what I want and drink and have some sex with girls I just met? Why do I have to be so careful?
I’ll tell you why. Because you run a football camp for kids. Because you agreed to abide by the terms of the NFL’s Code of Conduct. Because you are paid millions and millions of dollars and that should be enough money to enjoy your vices in private. Because you have an entire football organization partially resting on your shoulders and it helps if you can keep those shoulders out of jail, or at the very least off of TMZ.
So what now? Do you hold that same press conference where you enter the room with a heavy sigh and tell us with a wavering voice and tears in your eyes that you’re sorry for the “distraction” and that these allegations are completely 100% false and that you’ll fight them until the truth comes out? I don’t speak for Steeler Nation, but I don’t want to hear it again. Save it for your family.
I don’t know. I’m like, kinda done with you. I can’t look at you the same. Before, you were just a fug, gross schmuck who I heard lots of nasty rumors about, but who seemed to have a generous heart and who, despite a knack for holding on to a football way too long after the pocket collapsed, could capably throw well enough to win two Super Bowls. Now, with this second accusation, you’re a fug, gross schmuck with less smarts than a dog turd and less self-control than a spastic colon, who might have actually sexually assaulted a woman and who hired Ray Lewis’ murder-rap lawyer to defend him.
Unless this accuser completely reverses course and admits you never non-consensually touched her, consider the rest of your public life asterisked and when we scroll down to the footnote it will say, “*Twice-accused of sexual assault. But he throws a hell of a fade.”
I can’t speak for others, but for me, no amount of football-tossing brilliance will ever erase the shadows this second accusation has cast over your character, or the very bright light it has shone on your stupidity, or the very permanent edits it will generate to your Wikipedia page.