Lateral movements, spry agility and peripheral vision, along with the explosive speed of an endzone seeking missile, all the while dodging psychotic individuals mimicking submarines is as daunting as it comes. The life of an NFL running back is usually a short lived one, due to the physical pummeling extolled on those that wear jerseys numbered in the late 20's to early 30's. Some running backs are massive behemoths with steel pistons for legs. Larry Csonka actually went out of his way to hit a few linebackers rather than elude them. But pound for pound, he was not the best. Nor was Sweetness, Walter Payton. They are numbers 2 and 3, respectively.

Split second decisiveness is an attribute held by a scant few. Making the decision while under a blitzkrieg chills the bones. Following the wide load paving the path for you is not always the play that will result in optimum yardage, which is the goal of any great runningback. And thus, these gentlemen sometimes tread outside of those established parameters and into the land mines known as the open field. Eleven men with overactive pituitary glands are pursuant of you and the spherical object you tightly hold in one evasive arm.

The running back requires speed, elusiveness, quick thinking and a reckless abandon. Barry Sanders had all of these, and displayed them, much to our delight every time he pulled on his jersey. Barry Sanders could turn any broken play into a massive gain, rather than the expected loss of yardage that should rightly have occurred. Sanders was a mere mortal, but on the gridiron, his legend rose to the precipice of perfection.

Barry Sanders was not only the most skilled running back, dazzling viewer's with each touch of the pigskin, he was also the game's penultimate superstar, deferring glory with each flip of the ball into the referee's hands. Sanders would score a touchdown to win the game, and he would simply turn toward the referee and hand him the ball. He did not celebrate ridiculously. He did not seek out the spotlight. He thanked his linemen. He praised everybody else, humbly taking a back seat. He just went out and did what he was asked to do. And he did it better than anybody else who ever played the game.

In an age where showmanship began to overshadow the game, Barry Sanders just stood up on his majestic legs and walked away from the game. This was his greatest single move. There will never be another Barry Sanders. The world just flat out does not deserve one.

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