The NFL (and the Nation) Needs Marshawn Lynch, Even If Its Teams Don't

Long ago, in the "before time," when Colin Kaepernick was just another starting quarterback and every detail of American life didn’t carry massive sociopolitical implications, Marshawn Lynch defied the NFL with the loudest silent protest in modern sports history. 

Lynch didn’t protest a president or policy. It can be argued—and it was argued—that Lynch was just being selfish when he refused to participate in the puppet theater grind of press conferences and pre-Super Bowl media spectacles.

But Lynch took a stance to protect one of the few things a person truly owns: dignity.

Lynch didn’t want to give blah-blah interviews. He wouldn’t spout boilerplate gibberish to fuel the NFL’s marketing machine. And the NFL couldn’t make him do it, no matter how often it fined him.

Lynch fought authority, and for once, authority didn’t win. He never uttered a word he did not choose to utter, and the NFL gave up trying to force him.

No wonder Lynch has attained folk-hero status as rumors of a possible return spread over the past few days. Even his musical playlists (some of them two years old) on social media are being combed for coded hints, as if he were Radio Free Beast Mode broadcasting secrets to the freedom fighters in the countryside. That was "Oakland Raiders" by Luniz, mes amis. The rooster crows at midnight. Repeat: The rooster crows at midnight.

Adrian Peterson is looking for a job. So is Jamaal Charles. If fans are just looking for a “bad boy” bruiser type to rally around, there’s LeGarrette Blount. The draft class is overstocked with running backs. None of them are generating Lynch-level enthusiasm among the masses. The rumor is spreading from village to village: The NFL's most notorious rebel still roams the countryside.

Beast Mode Mania isn’t about football. It’s about defiance. Or, to use a more loaded term, resistance.

Symbolically, Lynch protected our right to free speech, and to remain silent, when he made a mockery of the NFL's precious hype machine. A segment of America that felt powerless in the face of authority loved him for doing it. And this was before America got torn in half like an old love letter by political/cultural chaos.

Now, more than ever, we long for someone like Lynch: irresistible force with the ball in his hand, immovable object when he chooses not to budge from his principles in the name of playing along and not making waves.

Lynch’s silent treatment of the media seemed a little over the top in the bygone era of 2014 and 2015. They were just press conferences, after all, and Lynch had a lucrative contract that required him to participate. The media can be annoying in a hundred ways, but we usually don't bite. All Lynch had to do was say some nice things about Russell Wilson and we would have gone away.

But perhaps Lynch sensed something sinister behind those regularly scheduled cross examinations, something that's easier to recognize in this chillier social climate.

Being ordered to answer questions doesn’t sound like a big deal until someone orders you to answer questions. A press conference is more like the interrogation of a hostile witness than a discussion. Famous athletes get used to them and treat them as necessary evils. Lynch's decision to buck the system rattled the status quo. We all know how that goes over.

Like most humans, Lynch is usually happy to speak. He likes to joke, cuss, review luxury SUVs, discuss charities at home and abroad, cuss some more, tweak his image on television shows like The League and Brooklyn Nine-Nine and so on. Lynch wants to talk about what he wants to talk about.

Unfortunately, press conferences are rarely about what the player wants to talk about. They’re about what my colleagues and I want to hear from him, and what the NFL and teams want players to project. They're about getting players to read from a script of acceptable responses. They are exercises in conformity, and the institutional control that comes from it.

Christian Petersen/Getty Images

Back in gentler times, Lynch and other players knew that everything they said could and would be used against them in the court of buzzy headlines and sports-talk opinion. Being the latest subject of an obnoxious all-day sports debate might be no fun, but it's part of the job description of a famous athlete. 

We now live in #sticktosports nation, where Kaepernick cannot find work and even middle-aged rappers can become the subjects of hostile presidential tweetstorms. The stakes are higher, the consequences unnerving. You don't have to be very famous, powerful or controversial these days to say the wrong thing and find yourself fired, disciplined, sanctioned, or your funding pulled, your credentials revoked, your sponsors rattled, your social network blown to smithereens by hostile strangers, your name smeared.

Imagine being forced to speak in this environment, frequently and on the record. That's a job for political pundits and professional wordsmiths, not running backs. Yet the only greater fear than speaking your mind is the realization of being frightened into not speaking your mind. 

Enter Marshawn Lynch like a swaggering Western hero: The Man With No Bullcrap. He's no political firebrand. He took his stand in the name of self-interest and individuality. But if we can't stand for those things, there's nothing left to stand for.

Lynch's stoic, liberating, defiant silence was a form of passive resistance. It was rebellion on the most basic level: He refused to give his team or the NFL authority over him. 

The NFL fined him—heavily and frequently. Many of my colleagues hammered him. When the threat of six-figure fines finally prodded him into the Super Bowl XLIX media day cattle call, he outsmarted the entire system.

“I’m just here so I don’t get fined” is, technically, an answer to any and all press conference questions, one that fulfilled a contractual obligation and sent the NFL scurrying off to fight other ridiculous battles. It’s also a slogan, an anthem. My body is here, but my heart and soul are free. 

That's a last-ditch, all-hope-is-lost kind of message. But that's how a large segment of society feels. They need a hero who doesn't give a damn about fines, threats or appearances. They need a Robin Hood, an outlaw with a heart of gold who gets away with style.

Lynch cuts a more mythic figure when he’s an unseen presence on the outskirts of the NFL picture than he will make if he ever returns. An aging, paunchy real-life running back is no match for a mysterious Beast prowling just beyond the edge of town. The Lynch of our memories who dragged defenders across goal lines and made the NFL look silly is a legend. A mere mortal who gets stuffed for losses or (heaven forbid) chit-chats with reporters could never measure up.

But Lynch doesn’t belong to us myth-makers. That’s the whole point. He doesn’t belong to the media, the left, the right, the NFL, the establishment, the counterculture, the sneaker companies or anyone but himself. Silence—or more appropriately, his insistence on only speaking on his terms—is his fortress.

Marshawn Lynch plays when he wants. He retires when he wants. He will come back if chooses to, for the team of his choice. He says what he feels when he feels like it. And most important, most admirably, he will not be forced into line, not by the NFL, not by anyone.

The Raiders don’t really need Lynch. Nor do the Seahawks or any other team. But the NFL needs Lynch to keep it real. And the rest of us could use a little dose of Lynch to remind us that even the most powerful forces have their limits.

Mike Tanier covers the NFL for Bleacher Report. Follow him on Twitter: @MikeTanier.