Phills, thirty, the father of two small children, lost control of his car and died in the ensuing crash, but not before he'd hit another car and injured its driver. Wesley, who, according to police, had reached a speed of one hundred and ten during the adventure, did not have a valid driver's license. Competitive, of course. Some wrong-headed commentators have even regarded the Porsche race as an inevitable if inglorious manifestation of his competitive nature. The nature of sports encourages this kind of oversimplification.
People regard athletes as winners or losers.
Strivers or quitters. Beyond that, they are accomodating fellows just like us who stick around to sign autographs with a smile, or they are selfish, self-aggrandizing bums who duck out the back. The celebration of athletes, which is certainly not peculiar to our culture or our time, encourage lots of athletes to regard themselves as entitled and immortal. Bobby phills was thirty and married, with two children, but in one critical respect, apparently, he was about sixteen going on seventeen. That doesn't mean he wasn't a great guy to be around, but he wasn't a great guy with whom to share the road.