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"FacebookPinterest\n\n Backstage at Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, all the greenroom doors swing wildly, guests popping out\u2014a beaming Kyra Sedgwick, honeysuckle-sweet; a burly reality-TV star hugging, loving\u2014everyone here is buzzed, juiced as if on a sugarcoated planet.\n\n Everyone except Ndamukong Suh. He's behind the middle door. Shut. Off-limits. There's a guy in a suit knocking, coaxing, holding a Subway sandwich. Come on out and join the party! Knocking again. Nothing. I'm standing with the suited man thinking, Well, good luck, buddy. Because this is how it's been all day with Suh. All day long I've been waiting. Ducking in and out of cars with him, shifting one hip, then the other, standing, just trying to make eye contact with him, having long given up on a smile, let alone words. Nothing. Shy? Rude? Mean? I have no idea.\n\n On the football field, Suh is fire, heat, a constant explosion of violent desire. He is science fiction; six feet four, 307 pounds, a speeding machine of humanity intent on devouring mankind, per the NFL-defensive-lineman mystique. Suh was second overall in the 2010 draft; signed with Detroit for $68 million; became immediately famous for demolishing quarterbacks; had ten sacks, more than any Lion, any rookie, any defensive tackle in the league his first year. His style is unmistakably violent, doing whatever it takes to get the job done and then some\u2014seemingly shoving a forearm into Jay Cutler's head during a tackle, throwing Marion Barber down by his hair. Midway through his second season, he was voted the NFL's \"dirtiest player\" by fellow players.\n\n And that was all before The Stomping. Thanksgiving Day 2011, third quarter, Packers 7, Lions 0, and Suh some kind of snorting bull out there, full of rage or testosterone or whatever else overcomes and compels a man. The whistle blew, pass in the end zone incomplete, but there back at the line of scrimmage was the drama, there was Packers lineman Evan Dietrich-Smith's head getting pounded by Suh into the turf; Suh bounces up and here comes his foot, his cleat, bam! onto Dietrich-Smith's arm. Constant replays on TV and everlasting replays online tell a simple story of raw temper, a burst of hot, spoiled-brat rage\u2014exploding out of a gigantic multimillionaire in spandex.\n\n Ejected from the game, suspended for two more, and docked those game checks\u2014adding to the $47,500 already levied by the NFL\u2014Ndamukong Suh has been flagged for more personal fouls than any other player since 2010. He's become a symbol for violence in sports, of crossing the line from fair to foul play. All those headlines about concussions. Young guys bashing their heads so hard they turn into middle-aged crazy guys. Suicidal. Terrible shit. With all those headlines, America has been ripe for an icon to push against, a guy who might stand for a reason to no longer tolerate spectacular sadistic hits\u2014and for the moment Suh is it.\n\n He finally has to emerge from his dressing room, because it's almost his turn to go on TV, and the Subway guy hands him the sandwich he has been paid to endorse. Cameras click, sputter, and twinkle. The Subway guys\u2014they have multiplied\u2014are all goofy smiles, and one of them is saying, Please, please try to get the word \"Subway\" somehow in there with Fallon, maybe he can slip it in, and Suh is nodding his big oblong head, standing over them like a sycamore in a creek full of scrawny cattails, and then one of the Subway guys whips out a photo of the bust they made of Suh, more than 1,000 pepperoni slices forming ears, nose, chin, countless black olive curls, provolone eyeballs, freshly baked bready shoulders. Would Suh sign a picture of the remarkable pepperoni likeness of his head? \"Uh, sure,\" he says, blinking studiously at the photo of his meat face, and this is when I feel something resembling compassion begin to grow inside me.\n\n On Fallon he throws some kind of switch and turns charming. \"I'm soft-spoken,\" he tells Jimmy, offering eyes of understanding and intellect. \"Where I am today isn't just because of my hard work and family and friends but from the village of people that have been around me and always taken care of me.\" Fallon lobs him easy ones, mentions the $2.6 million Suh donated to his alma mater, the University of Nebraska, the largest philanthropic gift ever from a former player. Suh smoothly shrugs it off, expert as a politician in his response until he turns it into a friggin' Subway plug, of all beautiful things, even though the donation had nothing whatsoever to do with Subway, and the Subway guys are back here high-fiving Russ, Suh's marketing agent, who told them so, because Ndamukong is good, is loyal, is always obedient.\n\n I'm trying to square these: dutiful performer, dirty player, mute monster. He is a tangle of contradiction, or he is a man of deliberate calculation and design. After the show we ride the elevator in silence, except when he offers me the hoagie to take home.\n\n\u00B7\u00B7\u00B7\n\n Ndamukong (en-da-meh-kon) means \"house of spears\" in the language of the Ngemba tribe of Cameroon, the small country in Africa where his dad grew up. His mom is from Jamaica. His sister, Ngum\u2014\"giver of strength, giver of power\"\u2014came first, and four years later, Ndamukong, named after his great-grandfather who famously stood seven feet three. They were different from other kids in middle-class Portland, Oregon. Their parents, who divorced when the kids were still preschoolers, were strict rulers, demanding way more respect than other parents. Family tradition dictated that the older sibling make something of herself and then turn her attention to the younger, for whom she is responsible. At 29, Ngum is Suh's manager, scheduler, gatekeeper. He does nothing without consulting Ngum. No one gets to him without going through Ngum, who calls herself \"my brother's keeper.\"\n\n \"Everything off the field, I got it; that's the motto,\" she's saying. \"I didn't really have a choice. It's a family business, and this is my job.\" We're driving toward their dad's house in Portland, and she's showing me around the neighborhood, split-levels, small yards occasionally separated by chain-link dog fences, clematis vines, and short driveways with lying-down bikes. I make the point to Ngum that getting to know her brother is like trying to catch a cat.\n\n \"It can be taken as rude,\" she says.\n\n \"Yeah.\"\n\n \"But it's not\u2014\"\n\n She's wearing a haphazard braid down her back, a chiseled face, model-beautiful. \"He grew up quiet,\" she says. \"He would not talk. You almost wanted to start worrying. In middle school, I was like, 'What's wrong with you?' He just studies every situation before speaking. He was always that way. And then it turned out he had a photographic memory. His style of learning is just...sick.\"\n\n The house is simple, low, with green siding and a concrete stoop, and there's a blue van out front advertising Suh Son Mechanical LLC, their dad's heating-and-air-conditioning business. Suh's black BMW 750Li is parked next to it, the only sign that anything spectacular may be going on here at all. The garage door rises when she pushes the button, and she asks me not to mind the mess. \"He's probably in his room,\" Ngum says. \"Our rooms are across from each other. Our parents are like, culturally, there's no reason to move out unless you're married, you know?\"\n\n I mumble something polite about how a lot of people move home after college, so this is nothing...odd?\n\n Do I need to point out that her brother will earn $68 million\u2014and that's before his endorsements with Nike, Chrysler, and all the rest? Do I need to point out that her brother is fourteenth on the Forbes list of the world's hundred highest-paid athletes?\n\nFacebookPinterest\n\n _The Suhs (from left): sister Ngum, father Michael, and\n\n shy, quiet Ndamukong, whose name means \"house of\n\n spears.\"_\n\n The world's. \n\n Suh recently bought a house outside Detroit, where he and Ngum live during the season, and they have a place in Houston, but Portland is home during the off-season. It's comfortable. It's got that nice, big training facility at the Nike headquarters nearby. It's home, and returning to it is a sign of respect. Just like, she says, not drinking in front of your parents is a sign of respect. And not cursing in front of your parents. \"I think he curses on the football field,\" Ngum says, holding her lips tight. \"I can see it.\" One time he called her and told her he got a tattoo. \"I was getting ready to throw up,\" she says. \"I'm like, 'How am I going to hide that from Mom and Dad? They are going to see it!' I was almost in tears. And then he's like, 'Just kidding.' I was going to kill him. That was not a funny joke at all.\"\n\n I make the point that he's a 25-year-old filthy-rich feared monster athlete who can bench-press 475 pounds. He can't get a tattoo?\n\n \"Oh, my gosh, no!\"\n\n Ngum makes Ndamukong come out of his room and eat lunch with us, and at the restaurant he stays buried in his BlackBerry, then his iPhone, then his BlackBerry again, but after he finishes a heaping mound of pad thai, she looks at him and says, \"Well?\" and makes him talk to me about his approach, each week, as he prepares to crush quarterbacks.\n\n \"Mondays I sleep,\" he offers. He's dressed in black workout gear, and he takes up so much space at the table everything around him looks miniature. \"I go in at ten, do my lift, watch the game from the day before. Tuesday is off, but I go in, lift, watch film. Then I have French toast with my sister.\"\n\n \"We love French toast,\" she says.\n\n \"French toast Tuesdays,\" he says. \"Then I study. I understand the whole plan by Thursday. Friday I memorize it. Then I cut my brain off from football. That's how I treat it: Don't let your brain get overheated. Saturday night I eat by myself, go over it, like final exams. Take a picture of it with my brain, like. It gets imprinted on my brain. Then, when that week is over, I slash it out and start putting the new stuff in.\"\n\n He pauses, looks at her, shrugs.\n\n \"That's basically it during the season,\" she says. \"That's about it.\"\n\n He says he has to go. She invites me to come to the house later for dinner to talk more. But he blows off dinner, disappears, and she can't find him, so she checks her Twitter feed, because that's the easiest way; some fan just spotted Ndamukong Suh at Costco looking at TVs.\n\n\u00B7\u00B7\u00B7\n\n The stomping. Every time I bring it up, people here seem vaguely startled. Why are we talking about this again? \n\n \"This is sports,\" says his dad, Michael. \"Sometimes you go out there and you're going to stomp on somebody.\" He himself is a soccer man, a star back home in his village. That's what his kids were supposed to play. \"I'm behind in American football,\" he allows. \"Even now, I'm not all the way up on it.\" He's a slight, tidy man\u2014only five eight\u2014with a round face encircled with unapologetic fuzz. He's sitting at a desk in his basement, where he just finished a bid for a job installing a furnace.\n\n Ndamukong started out playing soccer, like his sister before him. She excelled at it, played for Mississippi State, made the Cameroon national team. He was different, clearly an athlete but so damn big, an oaf out there rumbling down the pitch, knocking kids over, helping them up, lifting them with one hand by the shorts. Like the Jolly Green Giant on the TV commercials. He was good at basketball, too, but it was always hold back, hold back, his body pushing him to go bigger, wider, broader, the world telling him: No. You'll hurt somebody. He tried shot put, threw sixty-one feet, four inches, state champion. So that was easy. But football\u2014now, football looked interesting. His dad said no way. Football was scary. His mom said no way. Football was violent, and don't forget academics comes first. \"Then one day he came home and said, 'You gonna come watch my game?' \" his dad recalls. \"I said, 'What game?' He said, 'Football.' \"\n\n Coaches had been begging him to play. A kid that big? That nimble? His first year trying, a sophomore, he played varsity. A prodigy. He had always been \"a fine-tuned kid,\" teachers said; he could be a surgeon the way he focused, the way he would lock into any task you gave him, and when football came along he locked all of himself in there. Physically the game was a liberation. Suddenly his size, his muscle mass, were assets. It was like coming out of the closet. He was encouraged to hit people. \"It's okay, Dad,\" he said. \"The position I'm playing, they're scared of me. I don't get hit. I hit them.\" He said, \"It's okay, Mom. Come see.\" He had maintained a 3.0, as she'd demanded, and he'd all but solved the issue about getting hurt, so there was nothing his parents could do.\n\n In a blink he was at Nebraska, cementing his name in the record books, then Detroit, where Lions coaches saw in Suh what Husker coaches had so readily seen. \"Cerebral,\" former Nebraska defensive coordinator Carl Pelini used to say. \"Hungry.\" One of the strongest guys he'd ever seen play the game, coupled with the focus and discipline of a nerd. Suh used to meet with Pelini separately, weekly, talk about every defensive position on the field, study the possibilities and combinations like a chess player, turning plays over and inside out and over in his mind. His rookie year in Detroit, he was the same. On the field, on the line, it was the same. \"Suh plays super intense and super emotional,\" says Packers offensive lineman Josh Sitton, who knows what it's like to breathe his steam. \"He definitely plays violently. And with a few things he's done, that line becomes very thin between playing violent and playing nasty.\"\n\n Suh's dad was at Ford Field on that Thanksgiving Day when his son got ejected for stomping Evan Dietrich-Smith (who would go on to hate having his career defined by two seconds of airtime\u2014the guy who got stomped). \"I saw it,\" Suh's dad recalls. \"I thought, it's part of the game. A lot of violent things happen. Referees always read the reaction. They do not see the action that started it.\" Context, he says. Everything in context. \"It did not look like a stomp to me, it looked like somebody grabbing you and you trying to shake him off.\" Bam! The foot. Dietrich-Smith's arm. Slow it down. Look at it again. Slow it down. That's what happened, Suh's dad says. Anybody looks at anything long enough, they'll see what they want to see. They wanted a villain, and they picked his son.\n\n The stomping was not something anyone in the family recognized as Suh's fault. At most, an accident. So it was not, \"Oh, we have to rein in that wild child.\" Or, \"tame that evil demon.\" He was never a wild child, had no more demons than the next guy. To them the stomping was simply bad luck. Just three games on TV that day, not much else for people to talk about. A bit of bad PR for the Suh brand. You mean people aren't over that yet? \n\nFacebookPinterest\n\n __\n\n \"You want to come out to the driveway and see my van?\" his dad asks. Suh Son LLC. He put \" Son\" on the van when Ndamukong graduated from college, because that was always the plan. \"He got his degree in construction management,\" he points out. A family business, another option for Ndamukong to go into someday, his dad thinks.\n\n Suh's mother, across town, is no different. The bubble. The sister, the father, the mother, everyone in this family seems to be in some bubble distinctly removed from the American culture of celebrity, a situation that is not necessarily terribly odd, except they have an American celebrity in it. I'm not yet convinced Ndamukong is complicit in creating the kind of fame he's selling, feeding an audience hungry for violence week after week.\n\n \"On the TV they're saying my son is angry,\" Suh's mom says. She's lanky, somewhat nervous, a schoolteacher for thirty-two years who still walks down the block to the classroom each morning from her small clapboard house. \"They're building it up that he's an angry man,\" she says. \"What does this child have to be angry about? This child is blessed. He has nothing to be angry about. So I don't know where they're getting that.\"\n\n She talks to me from her doorway. \"You know, I came to the conclusion last year, after he got that suspension, that maybe he just doesn't need to give 200 percent when he plays football,\" she says. \"Do you know it's being perceived as a bad thing?\"\n\n I tell her yes, I know that.\n\n \"You want to see his room?\" she asks, leading me through the bright blue dining room she painted well before her son started wearing Lion blue. His bedroom\u2014tiny, jammed with football stuff\u2014is not a shrine so much as something to show the neighborhood kids who come knocking. \"I need to update it. I've got way more Nebraska stuff than Detroit. Popcorn bowls with his name on them, a Lions tail, ticket stubs, a Lions toothbrush, look at this, just stuff. Stuff, you know? I lead the kids back, and then at the end I show them...it.\"\n\n It? Apparently, there's a logic to the collection, a purpose.\n\n She walks up to his black Husker graduation gown hanging on the closet door, reaches to straighten a fold at the top. \"I just leave it hanging right here, kind of like the grand finale.\"\n\n I tell her frankly that I don't think the neighborhood kids are coming by to see Ndamukong Suh's graduation gown.\n\n \"I don't know what he did with the cap,\" she says. \"I wanted that, too, but I'm just kind of satisfied with the gown.\"\n\n\u00B7\u00B7\u00B7\n\n Nothing happens that makes Suh decide to talk to me, nothing particular or funny or unusual, but when he decides to talk, he comes on like a truck.\n\n We're in the training facility of the Nike headquarters, a sprawling campus of flowering ornamental trees lined up just so in front of rows of towering evergreens. Hushed, like a holy place, where fog settles between office buildings connected by garden pathways. Inside, the training building is all blond wood and black, vast, vaulted ceilings, photos of sweating determined faces blown up huge and towering over us like stained-glass windows in a cathedral. Sports may be the last institution of deference left in America\u2014the body, the will, the fight\u2014here's what irony and cynicism cannot yet touch.\n\n Trainers love Suh because he does what he's told. It's refreshing. Like when a teacher gets a kid who does all his homework without once whining. \"It's easy with Suh, because he buys into it,\" says trainer Keith D'Amelio. \"He sees the big picture. Athletes in general don't really understand why they're training. Just going in throwing weights isn't gonna do it.\" He tells me about Suh's assessment plan, everything monitored, every movement, even his sleep\u2014how much REM? Can we improve it? They work on range of motion, patterns of motion, muscle combinations. \"Suh's going to be a monster no matter what I do; he's as strong and powerful as they come. So what we do here is: Use it. Enhance it.\"\n\n When I got here this morning, Suh was on the ground pouring with sweat, doing push-ups with chains draped over his back and neck, chains as thick as my arm, doing what he's told, all obedience\u2014to his trainers, to his coaches, to the NFL, to America. We did, after all, ask for this. The biggest kid, the toughest kid, the kid who doesn't hold back, uses his gifts, develops them, fine-tunes them, becomes the machine. He's a masterpiece of our creation. And now, if he's run amok, well, shame on...him? For America to take any responsibility is to take the fun out of football, so forget that. Forget all the chatter about concussions. We're not supposed to think about any of that stuff when it comes to our most successful sports league ever. We're supposed to buy into the new narrative that the NFL cares. Crack down on hits. Fine players who can't stop their bodies at eighteen miles an hour in the split second before impact. It's a truce. We know it's pretense; they bank on our willingness to deny our own hypocrisy.\n\n I was thinking about this stuff when Ngum called, asked me if Suh had talked to me yet, and I said no. Then Suh finished the workout and walked up to grab a towel, came so close to me I could feel the heat off him, and I smiled as anyone would smile to begin a conversation, but he took a towel and without once looking at me passed by and headed to the locker room. A few minutes later I got a call from Ngum saying he'd meet me in the cafeteria. He was going to talk. She told me he was definitely going to talk.\n\n\u00B7\u00B7\u00B7\n\n He has eggs. He's sitting across from me, and the cafeteria is closed, no one else here at all except the people in the kitchen who were kind enough to cook the eggs. \"A lot of people don't know truly who I am,\" he tells me. \"And at this point in time, there are not a lot of people I let close enough to find out.\"\n\n I tell him I noticed. I decide it's not my place to tell him his evasiveness is extreme to the point of creepy.\n\n \"I don't want anybody in my circle that's a cancer to what I'm trying to create,\" he says. \"So stay on the outside and make your opinions. They're going to be meaningless to everything in the circle. The boundaries are up for me to keep, and a responsibility of my family, too. That's why, like, I guess you've gone through a good screening process.\"\n\n Apparently, there's a compliment in here somewhere. (Cancer?) I ask him about being named the dirtiest player in the NFL.\n\n \"It's not the norm, I guess, to see someone as aggressive as me being more or less very athletic. You see me running, having a big, violent hit, it's going to look bad, but that's the natural ability I've been given. Why would I let it run to the wayside and not use it?\n\n \"Football is a violent sport. Somebody's going to get hurt. It's the game. Just hopefully, you're on the good side of it. So I don't, I really don't get the controversy. It's the game.\"\n\n \"You play it dirty,\" I say. \"Dirty is wrong.\"\n\n He says no. Emphatically no. He's not dirty. \"A dirty player is somebody who ultimately is trying to hurt somebody. There's a huge difference. There's no gray in that. Like, you have no conscience, no nothing, no guilt. I don't have that mean streak in me. I don't play angry. It's not anger.\"\n\n He's not, notably, jabbing his food like an angry person. In fact, his movements are gentle; his eyes scan the room as he thinks.\n\n \"When I first started playing, I was surprised at the fact that I was allowed to hit people as hard as I could and not get in trouble. Because in soccer, when you get to a certain level, you can slide-tackle and take them off their feet, but you have to always hit the ball first and then take that person out. But in football, that's not true. You can run as hard as you can into somebody else and take them down. Thumbs up!\n\n \"But as far as I know, I've never hurt anybody through playing the game of football.\"\n\n I ask him about concussions, all the headlines now about guys like Junior Seau killing themselves, likely as a result of what football did to their brains.\n\n \"I think concussions are really important, but I don't think if you look back at any of my hits, there's nothing in the hit that would cause concussions. Maybe whiplash. That's not because of me, that's because somebody doesn't know how to take a hit. I'm not doing helmet-to-helmet hits. I might hit somebody under their chin because I hit them in their chest and I rise up, because that's how we were taught to play football. Hit them and run your feet through. Eventually you're going to come up through the person. Concussions, I don't think, really fall into my category.\"\n\n It's odd to me that the guy with the rap as the dirtiest player in the NFL isn't more up on this stuff. I thought the NFL was on a campaign to explain brain injuries to its players, to warn them. It's not just about concussions. It's the subconcussive hits, the constant bam, bam, bam that linemen like Suh give and receive. Those are the hits scientists say cause the lasting damage to the brain, the kind of injuries that made guys like Mike Webster, Terry Long, and so many others go crazy. The subconcussive hits\u2014every single play.\n\n \"Go hard every single play,\" Suh says. \"That's how I've been taught. So now, when they see that and that correlates to big plays, things that aren't in the norm, for them to justify it, they can't just say, Oh, it's a different person, it's a different breed of player, so they say, Oh, he's just dirty. That's their easy scapegoat.\n\n \"It's like, I open the throttle too much? I get in trouble for opening my throttle...just like being on a jet. Like, you know, when they're starting a plane, you just gradually, gradually throw it into full throttle. I'm always in full throttle. But they tell me now I need to be at three-quarters of a throttle.\n\n \"The NFL, I don't know what their role is. I guess they have to punish. But at the same time, when I see the big Jay Cutler hit that I had in my rookie season, I supposedly hit him in the back of his head. I hit him in his nameplate. I got a fine for that, but yet you see on the NFL network or NFL.com it's publicized, it gets played millions and millions of times. So it's like a good thing, but it's a bad thing.\n\n \"I don't want to snap anybody's neck off. I was brought up to treat others like you want to be treated.\"\n\n And yet he stomps on a guy\u2014after the whistle is blown.\n\n \"If you slow down and analyze anything, it's going to look worse in my opinion. It was not intentional. If it was intentional, it could have been a lot worse.\n\n \"If I wanted to go out there to hurt somebody, I could hurt somebody. I don't want any part of that.\" Hurting is too easy. Too obvious. A yawn, in that regard. Beating someone is different from hurting someone. Beating someone, he says, that's the game.\n\n \"I mean, if I wanted to hurt you, I'd go for your quarterback. Because me stopping your play is going to frustrate you more than me physically hurting you. Because I'm just that much better than you. That's how I look at it. It's like killing somebody with kindness.\"\n\n Kindness. I promise him that kindness is not the word I expected to be considering when talking to Ndamukong Suh. I tell him I'm not getting kindness. He says irritating might be a better word. He knows he's irritating. He's proud of that.\n\n \"It's mind games. A lot of mind games,\" he says. He describes a play, like so many plays: trapped by two linemen, dodging one, throwing the other off, reaching the quarterback with all he had. \"All you hear is the wind being taken out of him, and he's, like, Oh sh\u2014. I get enjoyment out of that. I like big hits because I impose my will.\n\n \"Getting an interception or a fumble or a recovery or a touchdown, that's out of this world, that's an amazing feeling,\" he continues. \"But to be honest with you, it's more rewarding for me to get a sack. There's luck that goes into creating an interception, scoring a touchdown, but there's no luck in a sack.\n\n \"I love hitting Aaron Rodgers, Jay Cutler. Ben Roethlisberger, I would like to go against him, because they say he's one of the hardest to take down. I see that as a challenge, so I would love to take him down multiple times. Peyton Manning, oh, I would love that. I think Michael Vick, I did sack him, one of the most elusive quarterbacks to ever play the game. I took him down with one arm.\"\n\n He goes on. The guy who would not speak now can't be interrupted, talking hits, hits, the joy of hits.\n\n The stomping, he says one last time, was not intentional. He knows it. His family knows it. He is going to protect that mythology no matter what. He will ignore the people who say otherwise. He will stay inside the bubble and refuse to let any of that cancer in.\n\n \"For me personally? It's over,\" he says. \"That's something that happened in the 2011 season. Will it follow me? I think it will follow me because of the outside world. It won't follow me because of me.\"\n\n It occurs to me that whatever role American celebrity has assigned him, and no matter how complicit he is in that transaction, he remains a 25-year-old young man who grew up painfully shy and obedient, and he isn't all that different today, except now we've turned him into a pepperoni head.\n\n \"I'm quiet,\" he says. \"I'm very quiet. I'm a very good observer. That's just the way I am. If I'm speaking, it's because it's meaningful.\""^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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