Champ Bailey was excellence personified

It’s pretty funny the most famous moment in Benjamin Watson’s career was an inconsequential effort to stop Champ Bailey from returning a touchdown. Bailey picked off Tom Brady in the end zone during the 2006 AFC Divisional playoff game, and Watson ran the entire field to catch the cornerback at the one-yard line, only to watch the Broncos score on the next play. The Broncos would go on to win the game 27-13.

Bailey set an NFL record for the longest non-scoring play, but where that moment would go to define Watson, the effort and never-say-die attitude he had, it barely registers in Bailey’s legacy.

At that stage in his career, Bailey was already known as one of the best cornerbacks in the league. The play showed what was obvious: throwing to Bailey’s side in those days was a big risk, even for the top quarterbacks. Bailey, who was as cerebral as he was physically talented, changed the coverage before the play. You don’t become one of the greatest corners of all time on pure instinct.

For most of my football fandom, Bailey’s greatness was a constant. His ability to shut down receivers was as expected as breathing. Not that it was taken for granted, but it was part of life. Quarterbacks would test him, and he would make them regret it. In that 2006 season, before he punished Brady for tempting fate, Bailey didn’t give up a touchdown.

I remember in the fall of 2007, a friend and I spent countless days playing Madden. Just the two of us, playing through season after season. We would each select a team, trade for our favorite players, and then for every one of his games, I would play as the opposing team, and he would likewise play as the team facing mine.

My friend would always choose the Colts, because Peyton Manning allowed him to throw anywhere on the field, and I would go with the Ravens, because Ed Reed’s ability to read plays and cover three-fourths of the field allowed me to blitz hyper-aggressively.

Regardless of how many seasons we played, my friend always traded for Bailey at the beginning. Facing Bailey in the game was one of the most frustrating aspects of my youth. You simply couldn’t throw to your best receiver. I mean, you could, if you wanted to waste a play or increase your interceptions for the season, but otherwise it was ill-advised.

I quickly got used to winning games with defense and running, becoming comfortable with my best receiver being a decoy, and throwing the occasional tantrum whenever I tested Bailey because I couldn’t reconcile that he was impossible to beat. It’s frustrating to think you’ve come up with a brilliant play to nullify Bailey, only to have him see through your plan and change his coverage to match.

If I had been in Jesus’ shoes when he was being tempted by the devil and was asked to throw to Bailey’s side of the field to prove that I was the Son of God, I would have surely failed. Rather than saying, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test,’’ I would have launched that ball on that vertical route, and thrown the controller violently as the camera turned after Bailey got the pick and threatened to return it for a touchdown. God would have then laughed at me for challenging His power and Bailey’s ability.

Deion Sanders is probably the most famous shutdown corner, and while I got to watch him excel in some of his prime, Bailey’s dominance was a bigger part of my formative years. He’s one of my favorite types of players: those who are so skilled at their craft, and for so long, that they become synonymous with the position. When I think of the best cornerback, my reference point is Bailey.

Bailey didn’t have the personality of Sanders (who does?), and such prolonged greatness can become so normal that it’s not marveled at in the way that it deserves. Bailey had many standout moments, but he was also consistently great for a long time. Being dominant for more than a decade makes it hard to pinpoint a few moments or games that define him. It’s almost a disservice to make an attempt, especially when he exerted so much of his influence by discouraging plays to his side of the field. Bailey simply existed, and that existence was excellence personified.

That’s why I always laugh at the play with Watson. It means so much to everyone outside of Bailey, yet it seemed so normal for him. He seemed to assume greatness the moment his career began. There was no need for that play to become part of a myth. Champ Bailey was Champ Bailey, and that was all anyone had to say.