I’m sick right now.

No, my sickness is not that of the mind, body or spirit (unless Freud, Van Austren, or John Paul would diagnose otherwise). I’m sick because I have recently given quite a bit of thought to a pair of, what will be seen historically as (as opposed to sportsfanically), unrelated tragedies.

I’m aware that the word “tragedy” carries some pretty serious connotation: wars, murders, natural disasters…the last two presidential elections. However, I think tragedies can fall into a variety of categories, and one of those categories is sports.

On January 13, 1991, in a playoff win over the Cincinnati Bengals, Bo Jackson played in what would be his last professional football game. After what seemed like a routine hit by Bengals linebacker Kevin Walker, Jackson walked off the sideline with a slight limp and didn't return. It seemed like a precautionary decision at the time. We all thought Bo would return the next week for the AFC Championship, and with a win over Buffalo, the Super Bowl.

Well, unfortunately, we were wrong. We had no idea that when Jackson walked off the field after the game with his son, it would be for the final time in a Raider uniform. Or any NFL uniform.

Bo Jackson was amazing. He was a two-sport star (baseball and football) who could have excelled at either. Instead of choosing one and leaving the other, Jackson kept his schedule busy and thrilled sports fans with exciting careers in both. He was the rocket-armed franchise player for the Kansas City Royals and the fuel behind the passion of Raider Nation. And L.A., with its glitz and glamour, was a perfect city for Jackson to play in. His personality, physique, looks, and smile made him a perfect Nike poster-boy, and his series of "Bo Knows" commercials swept the nation into a phase of "Bo-Mania."

But Bo Jackson was much more than his commercial hype. He was a “shooting star” before the term was associated with needles. Ex-Negro League star Buck O’Neil says that the sound of Bo Jackson’s bat hitting a baseball can only be compared to that of two other players: Josh Gibson and Babe Ruth, both Hall of Famers.

So it goes without saying that when I think of all of the games left un-played, all of the kids he influenced, and all of the moments that he amazed even the unamazable, I can’t help but feel sick.

A sidebar to this sad piece of history is that Jackson’s final game was the last time the Benglas, prior to Sunday’s loss, had played in the post-season. Bengals fans with too much time on their hands like to call the 15-year playoff drought “The Curse of Bo Jackson.” I like to call it the “Curse of Pathetic Upper-Management.” Bo Jackson has nothing to do with the fact that the Bengals have stunk for over a decade.

Until Marvin Lewis chose to accept the 'Nati job, the Bengals were the worst franchise in professional sports. An embarrassment. They took a young man who cried when he didn’t get a Bengal-playoff birth for Christmas in 1989 to an unenthused NFL zombie that refused to let Sunday afternoons affect his mental stability like they used to. Bengals fans, for health reasons, had to accept and expect a performance level that was consistently far below mediocrity. But when Marvin took over, Sundays meant something again because the young Bengals were finally shown the opportunity that they could be competitive again. Deep down, that’s all we ever really wanted.

After two adventurous 8-8 seasons, 2005 had arrived. This was the year. The Bengals were playing like it was 1988, and we were partying like it was 1999. We weren’t wasting any time thinking about how badly we are in need of a new song title to “party like,” seeing how the non-existing Y2K effect is 7 years outdated. Nobody (except me) was thinking (or ever has thought) about that at all because Marvin’s 'Nati boys had brought electricity back into our lives. The Bengals were ready to light up scoreboards and take on the AFC elite. Well, Pittsburgh ruined all of that.

Kimo von Oelhoffen, which is French for “fat, uncoordinated slob,” unintentionally blew out the knee of Carson Palmer, the Bengals franchise quarterback. Palmer may never be the same. He was carted off the field after the collision and he took a decade and a half of sports misery along with him.

Just when you feel safe to have hope again, a fat guy named Kimo rips your heart out and tears your MVP's knee ligaments. But I don't blame Bo Jackson.

So that’s why I’m sick. Deep down, I know it’s only sports. But sports do impact lives—players and fans. I suppose my sickness might just be that I miss the joy and innocence of the 1988 football season. But more accurately, for what it’s worth, I guess I just miss 1988.