Tom E. Curran • E-mail

Sports Illustrated once told me Jim Brown was preparing to make an NFL comeback the age of 50.

It also told me once that a Massachusetts kid named Joe Dudek was the “Thinking Man’s Choice for the Heisman”.

It even told me on April Fool’s Day 1985 about a pitcher named Sidd Finch who threw 169 mph.

So when I got my SI on September 26, 1994 and saw the words “Hand Him The Heisman” plastered across the front of some kid wearing a gold helmet and white, No. 9 jersey with the word “BRAVES” across the chest, I pretty much figured he wouldn’t be handed the Heisman. And, given the kid was from Alcorn State, even more remote was the chance he’d ever be handed the keys to an NFL team.

Except it was pretty much spot on.

And Steve McNair — who in that article was proclaimed to be “on the same level as …Testaverde, Bledsoe, Shuler, Mirer and Dilfer” by an NFL personnel director — had a career that trumped them all.

On this Independence Day, 2009, Steve McNair — one of the most talented, respected and iron-willed quarterbacks of the Super Bowl era — died.

The unpleasant particulars of how that came to be will be uncovered piece by traumatic and grisly piece. And those details will, inevitably, be quickly recalled when we hear his name from this day forward.

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But for all the days before today, back to that time in 1994 when he first invaded the nation’s sporting consciousness, he was something else entirely. Something beautifully foreign. He was the first black quarterback to really be accorded the respect that his physical ability, leadership skills and mental toughness demanded.

McNair didn’t go undrafted like Warren Moon did 17 years earlier. He didn’t sit on the board because he went to a predominantly black, Division I-AA school as Doug Williams did when he became the first black quarterback drafted in the first round (17th out of Grambling back in 1978). He didn’t get a “don’t bother” vibe like Heisman winner Charlie Ward did coming out of Florida State in 1993.

No, McNair went third overall in 1995. He went to the Houston Oilers. He stood up to the pressure of his draft position. He made good on the promise. And in so doing he paved the way for franchises to not double-clutch when considering black quarterbacks with exquisite talent who would come next.

Williams was hailed as a trailblazer when he won a Super Bowl with the Redskins. Yet McNair cleared a more difficult obstacle. He was the first black quarterback that a team built itself around and tethered its fortunes to from Day 1. It probably isn’t a coincidence that, once it became clear McNair was the real deal, quarterbacks like Donovan McNabb, Akili Smith, Michael Vick and Vince Young were suddenly top five selections.

Yet, McNair may have paved the way for other black quarterbacks to be “franchise quarterbacks,” debate about his ability was never laced with racial undertones. The timeworn “grit vs. style”, “efficiency vs. explosiveness”, “scrambler vs. pocket passer” schisms didn’t exist with McNair because he was truly all of those things.

Steve McNair (1973-2009) Getty Images Friends, family, fans remember slain McNair Girlfriend shot McNair as he slept, police say McNair's wife didn't know about affair Shooting reveals different sides of McNair Curran: McNair never asked to be superhuman PFT: Boyfriend sent media e-mail on McNair Public viewing, memorial set for Thursday Florio: 10 moments that helped black QBs Curran: McNair paved path for other black QBs   Images: Highs, lows of McNair’s career Discuss: How will you remember Steve McNair?

There was never any debate about McNair’s grit. His ability and willingness to absorb and then play not with just pain but INJURY was part of his legend. He brought a linebacker’s mentality and enthusiasm for contact to the position that was rare. He had the kind of jaw-dropping athleticism — just find a tape of the 1999 Super Bowl against the Rams and watch him once more on the near game-winning drive — that could never be coached.

In the middle of his career, back in 2003 when he was 30, he shared the NFL MVP with Peyton Manning. He was at the height of his powers then, a nightmarish combination of smarts, strength, leadership and ability.

By the end of his career, after he moved from the Titans to the Ravens, he became a pinpoint, pocket passer, and consummate on-field general. By then, the years of abuse and scrambling had sapped his legs and weakened his arm, but he still got Baltimore to a 13-3 record in 2006.

Know what’s strange? I’m realizing today that I’ve only known of Steve McNair for 15 years. That he was only 36 years old.

Seemed longer. And he seemed older. And maybe that’s because he wasn’t fleeting.

How he played the game, who he was and — as much as anything — what he meant on the timeline of the NFL is not fleeting. He was everything they told us he’d be. And everything they hoped he’d be. And everyone doesn’t get to say that.

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