From the Bucs to USF, Lee Roy Selmon has meant nearly everything to the community.
By GARY SHELTON
Published January 13, 2004
Around here, we do not have much in the way of mountains. Around here, we do not have enough in the way of memories.
For Tampa Bay sports fans, for the longest time, Lee Roy Selmon has been both.
Stand and gaze toward the stars, up toward the ridges where the icons live, and on a clear day, you can see Paul Gruber. Climb a little higher, and you get to John Lynch. A few more ledges, and you come across Warren Sapp. Then it's a short trip up to Derrick Brooks.
From there, you can finally see the top of the mountain and the friendly, familiar face of Selmon.
You know. Tampa Bay's first sports legend, and still its best.
Times such as this call for such an accounting. Selmon has health problems. No one wants to say out loud exactly what his troubles might entail, perhaps, because Selmon has asked for privacy. If that is all Selmon asks from a community he has given so much, so be it.
Still, in a place that has loved Selmon for more than a quarter of a century, it is a time for concern. The less you know about an illness, the more you fear. The greater the silence, the more solemn you feel.
Lee Roy Selmon is sick.
How can Tampa Bay not feel bad itself?
Selmon announced Monday he is taking a six-week sabbatical for health reasons and that it is "highly unlikely" he will return to his role as athletic director at South Florida. It was news that rocked us all because Selmon has spent most of his time in Tampa Bay looking as if nothing could ever harm him.
Who doesn't love Lee Roy Selmon? Over his time here, a million people have met him, and all of them have shared a single response. What a nice man. And wherever did such a quiet, peaceful man muster the fury to play defensive end with such force?
That was always the darndest thing about Selmon. He doesn't look like a former defensive end, and he certainly doesn't sound like one. He is quiet, courteous, elegant.
He was this uncommon blend of intensity and integrity, of danger and dignity. The only other athlete I've ever been around who managed to hide his ferocity so completely was the late Walter Payton. If Payton had been a defensive end, he would have been Selmon.
Selmon came to Tampa Bay as an athlete, but he has become much more. Perhaps it is because one of the few things more rare than his ability was his perspective. Too many athletes seem to believe the bodies around them are merely fans to be tuned out like a bad song on the radio whenever the game concludes.
Selmon has always been different. He cared about the place he lived, and he cared about the people he met.
Is it any wonder, then, so many people care about Selmon today?
What did he mean to the Tampa Bay Bucs? For the longest time, he meant everything. As a player, he was a diamond in the dust, a knight in a clown show. He was tougher than 0-26. He was better than Ron Yary. Fiercer than Dan Dierdorf, more relentless than Art Shell. He was mean enough for Sunday and nice enough for the rest of week.
In the middle of all the wretchedness, Selmon was a symbol that things could be better. He represented the excellence of the Bucs' first, and for a long time only, success.
What has he meant to the South Florida Bulls? Again, he has meant a great deal. He shared his credibility, his validity, his celebrity. When no one knew who the Bulls were, or where they were from, he provided a face. When money needed to be raised, he gave his efforts. When scandal spread across the university, he shared his reputation.
He came to the Bulls at the worst of times, which was the problem. Three years ago, USF had been charged with institutional racism, an ugly, awful allegation. There was anger and accusations, and the school didn't quite seem to know how to respond to a smudge of this magnitude. Largely because of Selmon, and his reputation, the school has managed.
Estimates are that in a decade's worth of fundraising, Selmon has helped USF raise some $20-million, half of that in the past three years. Last year, the funds raised doubled from the year before. That wasn't all Lee Roy. On the other hand, he didn't hurt.
There were times the athletic director's job didn't seem like a perfect fit with Selmon. It's a stressful job, and given the growth of the football team and the climb through Conference USA and into the Big East, it came at a particularly stressful time in the life of the school.
How much does South Florida owe Selmon? That's as immeasurable as how much Tampa Bay owes him. Ask yourself: How many defensive linemen have highways named after them?
Today, Selmon is in all of our thoughts. The concern is as genuine as the man's handshake, as widespread as his reputation. If you're worried, you might want to keep this in mind.
When this town could not win a football game, the player everyone believed in was Lee Roy.
When this university had tarnish on its reputation, the administrator everyone believed in was Lee Roy.
Now there is an illness that needs to be fought.
I don't know about you, but still, I believe in Lee Roy.
