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Posted on Wed, May. 07, 2003
A career -- and life -- unfulfilled
COMMENTARY / GREG COTE
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What happened to David Woodley reads like the lyrics of the saddest country song you ever heard, disappointment the relentless refrain. So much so it seems almost fitting when, in the last verse, the hard times end quietly in a half-life of only 44 years.
It wouldn't seem right to now apply posthumous makeup to Woodley's 1980s Dolphins career and make it appear other than it was. His time in Miami, as on Earth, was too brief, and mostly marked by what might have been.
Woodley, who died back home in Shreveport, La., on Sunday, 11 years after a successful liver transplant, led an eventful, interesting life of notable accomplishment but too much heartache, his Dolphins years a perfect microcosm of an imperfect man.
The historic timeline of this NFL franchise notes Woodley as the temporary quarterback who bridged the careers of Hall of Famer Bob Griese and Dan Marino -- the fallible human being between the football gods.
Woodley might have been so good in his four seasons here that the drafting of Marino never would have occurred at all. But Woodley wasn't.
He might have become not only the youngest QB to start in a Super Bowl, in January 1983, but also the youngest to win one. But he wasn't.
Things never worked out quite like that for Woodley.
This is a country song, remember?
Heavy on the slow twang of a steel guitar, and straight out of a quarter jukebox close to closing time. And bring us another beer, would you?
That's why Woodley began that Super Bowl with a 76-yard scoring pass for a Dolphins lead . . . but ended it 4 for 14 and watching the Redskins rally to be champions. Marino was drafted a few months later. The rest is, well, you know.
Woodley was traded to Pittsburgh, played two unhappy seasons there, then retired at 27.
Six years later, after his college sweetheart divorced him and he went bankrupt, Woodley found himself yellow with jaundice, his distended belly bigger than a woman nine months pregnant, his ankles swollen to four times their normal size.
They gave him maybe a month to live, on account of cryptogenic cirrhosis, when a transplant saved his life. Doctors couldn't say what caused his own liver to shut down but could tell you Woodley's lifestyle as a heavy beer drinker didn't help.
His was supposed to be a storybook life all along -- the good-looking quarterback who became an NFL star -- but somebody got a hold of the script and made some changes that weren't real pretty.
Woodley was a Shreveport high school star who signed with Louisiana State and might have been the local-kid-turned-state-college-hero. But he wasn't. He split time with a QB named Steve Ensminger, who was from Baton Rouge and much more popular with LSU fans.
Woodley heard plenty of home-crowd booing and then, on draft day, heard mostly silence. Don Shula at last made him an eighth-round draft pick, in 1980.
Woodley might then have won over Dolfans but -- despite a club-rookie-record 176 completions and later a Super Bowl appearance -- he never did. The more popular Don Strock was called upon to bail out Woodley so often it gave rise to the ''two-headed quarterback'' nicknamed Woodstrock.
Marino's arrival meant the still-youthful Woodley had a fresh chance to establish himself, in Pittsburgh, as a premier NFL starter. He might have, too. But he did not. He heard the booing of Steelers fans, shades of LSU, and ended up splitting time with Mark Malone.
Dejected, Woodley quit way too soon, quite literally booed out of football.
He had been a loner, a private man playing sports' most public position. His retreat from celebrity might have been his remedy. But it wasn't.
Nothing got better. The country song played on.
After abandoning his career, Woodley lost his wife, his business (a Davie racquetball club), his cars, his beloved horses. He fought depression. Smoked heavily. The IRS chased him, while he chased too many beers with bottles of NyQuil in order to fall asleep.
At last Woodley returned to Shreveport in 1990, two years before he nearly died. He might have found, in his hometown, a satisfying, steady job that made him happy. But he didn't. This past fall he was announcing his alma mater's high school games on local radio. At least he seemed to enjoy that.
David Eugene Woodley is survived by six brothers and sisters, and the family plans a private service Thursday.
The country song is finished.
It's one of those sad ones. The kind you find a little bit hard to forget.