This time the brothers Harbaugh will not have something to share. They won't be able to sit on a sofa and burn through a beer or two in reflective and animated conversation. This time they will have to live apart, forever, never to be together. John Harbaugh will have to stand alone, at the summit of his sport, without his brother Jim, and it was clear Monday this will be a necessity.
“I don't think there will ever be a time,” said Baltimore's coach, “we'll watch the game (video) together. Absolutely not.”
That statement carries much weight. NFL coaches live in film rooms. Replaying over and over the same play. Slowing it down. Speeding it up. Pausing it at critical junctures. Screaming at the damn projector. The film room is their coaching box. It is the place where they begin to do business. It is as close to a fixed address that nomad coaches have, where family and friends and other coaches can find them.
So it was a deep loss John Harbaugh felt Monday. He'll never be able to share that intimacy with his brother. He knows their competitive nature prohibits it. He knows it would be cruel to ask, “Hey, Jim, come on over and let's see the game together.” That would be like twisting the knife. Sure, brothers tease and torment each other all the time — when they are kids on a play ground.
As 50-year old adults, however, the knife is sheathed. Too much real pain already has left its mark, real or imagined.
So not in his wildest, meanest moment could John imagine raising his voice in excitement and say to his brother, “Jim, remember this? Boy, I didn't see this coming!” when the Ravens' Jacoby Jones ran back that kickoff 108 yards to start the third quarter.
Sharing film is male bonding to NFL coaches. It's how they figure out one another. How they determine if this guy remains on my staff or not. Away from the cameras with prying eyes, they can be open, honest, relaxed and entirely opinionated without fear of embarrassment. The person the Ravens' coach would most like to share that with, he can't.