Super Bowl Sunday was going to be a great day. Football fans would have the privilege of watching Peyton Manning, an undisputed expert at his craft, perform on the biggest stage.
Super Bowl Sunday turned out to be a terrible day, and it had nothing to do with football. For nearly 20 years, watching Philip Seymour Hoffman practice his craft on the big screen was a similar privilege. It appears addiction has robbed us of ever those remarkable talents.
I am not going to wax poetic about my favorite PSH performances or the incredible range of talents that made each possible. There are plenty of writers more talented and familiar with the nuance of his craft who will do his career justice over the next several days.
As I processed the news, the real gut-punch was learning he had three children under the age of 11 – and still put a needle in his arm. Anyone who knows the strong pull of parenthood knows that says more about the strength of addiction than the weakness of Philip Seymour Hoffman.
I am sad for all of us who loved watching him perform. I am heartbroken for his children. I am hopeful the demise of such a vibrant talent will convince someone in a similar battle to cease going it alone.
Rest in the peace that alluded you here, Mr. Hoffman. Thank you for the memories.