But that’s an argument that can’t be proved.

Five men were involved in the burglary and shooting. Apparently, the shooter fired when accosted by Taylor. If Taylor had a gun, there’s no guarantee things would have gone any differently. He still accosts the burglars and he still probably gets shot. Maybe he gets one of his assailants, maybe not. But he’s still dead.

This doesn't make much sense because guns aren’t about sense. They’re about fear and twisted concepts of manhood and being a real bad expletive.

We’ve read of dozens of athletes who have gotten into trouble because of guns. The old Nets and St. John’s star Jayson Williams was one of the best people I ever met. But he had this thing about guns, and when he got into his cups, he had to show off with them. Despite some occasional close calls, he started twirling a shotgun in his home one night, showing off to his buds and the limo driver who had taken them on an outing. The gun went off in the driver’s face, and two families were destroyed in that one awful moment. I still have no idea why Williams felt he needed to keep a loaded shotgun in his house. He’s probably wondered the same thing countless times since that tragic evening.

What should stand out to athletes is that you never read about a jock whose life or property are saved because he had a gun. I’m sure it’s happened, but I can’t find a reference or remember an incident.

But this is logic, and Burress and other players have never been overly fond of clear thinking. They’re driven by image and foolish notions of what it takes to be a man. One dumb belief is that a gun makes you tough. 

I keep getting this mental picture of Plaxico Burress going through his mental checklist last Friday night as he left his palatial home in New Jersey and headed for the bright lights of Manhattan: aftershave, check; wallet, check; credit cards, check; wad of cash, check; Glock, check.

The item that never comes up on his checklist no matter how many times I replay the image is a license to carry the gun. “License?” he’d probably ask in amazement if anyone had suggested it. “I’m Plaxico Burress. I don’t need no stinking license.”

He’d be right, because even if he had the license, he’s still have a hole in his leg and he’d still be on his way out of New York. That’s because of the other thing he doesn’t think he needs — a brain.

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