Dallas Cowboys legend Larry Allen’s sudden death a sobering reminder of mortality 

It makes sense that an avalanche of grief follows the death of a mountain of a man. Such is, perhaps, the only way to describe the death of Dallas Cowboys legend Larry Allen on Sunday at 52 while on a family vacation in Mexico.

The news of Allen’s death sent ripples throughout the football universe. The impact of his death is three-pronged: his massive legacy on the field, in Cowboys lore and a deeply personal connection extending far beyond football itself. Few résumés ever resembled Allen’s, a man known leaguewide as “The NFL’s Strongest Man,” who once benched 700 pounds. The 1994 second-round pick symbolized dominance in a game with no shortage of real-life demigods in its century of existence.

By many metrics, Allen is the greatest offensive lineman the NFL has ever seen, with All-Decade honors in the 1990s and 2000s and 11 Pro Bowls. His six consecutive First-Team All-Pro nods solidified him as one of the game’s nearly unstoppable forces — as did his average of 3.2 sacks allowed per season and only 13 holding penalties in 207 starts.

That, though, only taps into statistical dominance. In the days after his death, clips have sprouted across the internet detailing Allen’s respected ferociousness from Hall of Famers such as former defensive tackle John Randle and former teammates such as former tight end Delanie Walker. The most beautiful (and hilarious) stems from an interview with former New York Giants defensive lineman and two-time Super Bowl champion Justin Tuck.

“If you look on the sideline and see people like [Michael] Strahan and the coaches, and they’re like, ‘Good job!’ ” Tuck said years ago, in an appearance on sportscaster Dan Le Batard’s TV show, Highly Questionable, what were considered “victories” against Allen. “Like this man just got five [or] seven yards, and you telling me, ‘Good job.’ But they didn’t score. You’re still alive.”

Allen’s lore is unrivaled. Former teammates such as Troy Aikman and Emmitt Smith immediately expressed their grief. Team owner Jerry Jones released a statement through the team, calling Allen a “legend” and an “inspiration.” Cowboys fans understood the same reality. Allen is a foundational tenant to the 1990s era of the Dallas Cowboys, changing the franchise and the NFL as a machine.

Philosophically, he was a wall of a man who could not be scaled by even the game’s greatest rushers (sans Reggie White during Allen’s rookie season). Yet, Allen’s dominance, grace and strength are almost Marvel-like. Famously, he spoke few words, and his actions became soundtracks. They continue to define success that seemed like a birthright for a franchise that won its third of three Super Bowls with Allen as the conductor of its trenches. But he also became a cherished relic, a pristine symbol of sustained excellence during the years when postseason success became everything but a guarantee.

Allen’s death is a direct reminder of what the Cowboys are in constant pursuit of. That dominance is equal parts obsession and homage. And, now, a tribute. The line Allen anchored paved the way for Smith’s NFL career rushing crown — a record that will never be broken as the game has fully dedicated itself to the passing game first and running game maybe. Allen was the first point of attack for fullback Daryl Johnston’s blocking for Aikman’s passing, which gave wide receiver Michael Irvin and tight end Jay Novacek the time to find cracks in defenses.

The NFL is an indomitable factor of American culture. Telling the league’s story without the Dallas Cowboys is equally disingenuous and inaccurate. This means Allen is as consequential a tour de force as the NFL has seen. Offensive linemen rarely get much credit, yet a dominant offensive line is often the difference between eternity and afterthought. It makes sense that Allen now represents another of the game’s heavenly, spiritual figures. Concerning his impact on football, however, comes the even more brutal realization of the humanity his death brings.

Growing up a Cowboys fan, Allen was a player who seemed much older than he was. The truth is Allen was only 14 years my senior. It could be looking at his death through the frame that we would’ve lived in the same household had we been siblings for at least a few years. But really, it’s been how I view time and aging and how that’s changed so dramatically recently. When I’m 52 years old, my son will be 15 and his sister 13. Death isn’t scary. It’s normal. The thought of those left behind to pick up shattered pieces is crippling. This reality is more than the blocks that gave me some of the greatest football moments of my life.

Nevertheless, this is why these guys — modern-day gladiators — matter. In a way far more embracing than antagonistic, our DNA consists of sports. They’re family heirlooms. My mom recalling memories of going to summer camps sponsored by former Cowboys coach Tom Landry replays on repeat. Before his death in 2008, my grandfather, a former college football coach, would do much of the same and proudly declare how one of his former players at Elizabeth City State College, Jethro Pugh, was drafted by the Cowboys, thus beginning a family fandom portal. Sports define times, moments and relationships. Only a few things in life provide invaluable currency like this. Allen is one of those guys who makes deposits possible.

Allen dying at 52 while on a family vacation is a sobering keepsake of his 2013 Hall of Fame speech. His words that day in Canton, Ohio, were far more than a love letter to football. Allen’s focus on family throughout the 16-minute speech was a letter of appreciation for their motivation and sacrifice. He nearly died at birth and later survived multiple stab wounds while defending his younger brother during an altercation with a neighborhood bully in Compton, California. Allen was one of those guys who clearly valued family far more deeply than a prestigious speech or flashy photo opportunity. That commitment to family is palpable. Wanting to do right by them and knowing they’re protected by someone who loves them is, too.

His death marks far more than an iconic football player leaving what we deem “far too soon.” It’s proof that superheroes are mortal. It’s further proof that memories are merely a collection of the experiences we are fortunate enough to have. And it’s proof grief is a part of life none of us can escape, no matter how strong or fast we may be.

Allen’s football lore will live longer than he ever intended to. But his death is piercing and a reminder of a lifetime ahead that will never be. What cannot be denied is this: Heaven just received one of its biggest angels — literally.