On the football field, Dallas Cowboys linebacker Ð?t Nguy?n made a career of being elusive, squeezing through holes and sneaking up on unsuspecting running backs with body-crushing tackles.

Early this month, Nguy?n retired from the game of football the way he played: Stealthily, with little fanfare and media coverage.

In his stellar career, Nguy?n was one of the most decorated football players of all time. During his senior season of college, he was named an All-American and the Big 12 Defensive Player of the Year, and won the Lombardi and Bednarik Awards, for best lineman and best defensive player, respectively.

But Nguy?n was so much more than his athletic achievements. The most important Asian American athlete ever has left the game with little analysis of what he meant to sport and race in America.

And yes, I said ever. E-V-E-R.

Asian America
Nguy?n is the most significant Asian American athlete ever because of his gender, ethnicity and sport. Male. Vietnamese American. Football.

More significant than golfer Tiger Woods and tennis player Michael Chang because he played in America’s toughest, most masculine sport.

More critical to Asian America than Chinese basketball player Yao Ming and Japanese baseball player Ichiro Suzuki, because unlike them, Nguyeãn was born and raised in this country, which meant that he had to negotiate a system of sport and race that was not meant for him.

For the Asian American male, Nguy?n is the modern-day Bruce Lee, a model of strength and masculinity in the face of the ever-constant emasculation of the Asian American male (remember the disaster that was William Hung from “American Idol”?)

There he was in his maroon Texas A&M jersey making tackle after tackle, becoming a legend at linebacker. He wasn’t some wimpy kicker or punter, or some runt receiver, but a middle linebacker in the thick of all the action: sacking quarterbacks, popping running backs, causing fumbles and intercepting passes.

Linebacker, the toughest position in football, where legendary names like Taylor and Singletary are now joined by Nguy?n.

After college, Nguy?n was drafted by the Dallas Cowboys, one of the most storied franchises in sports. He proved all his doubters wrong, the ones who said he was too slow and too small, to lead the team in tackles four times, to have the second-highest total of tackles in a season for a Cowboy, serve as team captain, and be named All Pro in 2004. He played seven seasons for the Cowboys before injuries that limited him to just eight games last year forced his retirement at age 30.

In an Asian America that often focuses on China, Japan or Korea, there was a Vietnamese American man on “America’s Team,” sacking Peyton Manning and tackling LaDanian Tomlinson. The 5-foot, 11-inch, 238-pound linebacker was “representing” and in doing so, making all those Long Duk Dong images (from “Sixteen Candles”) a little less embarrassing.

Vietnamese America
Even within Asian America, it’s different for us here in America. That’s the truth for Vietnamese Americans.

We came as refugees, not immigrants, and with the trauma that accompanies forced displacement. And we came as allies in a lost war, a war that divided this country bitterly.

When you tell people you are Vietnamese, individuals often frown and mention war and a relative who is a veteran. Our identity as Americans can be precarious, and we sometimes wonder if we truly belong here.

In Nguy?n’s hometown of Rockport, Texas, there were clashes between white and Vietnamese shrimpers, trouble with the Ku Klux Klan, and even a shooting incident. After Nguy?n’s success as a football player, tensions have lessened. It’s unfortunate that it took fame and riches to create some tolerance, but that’s a human condition, not a racial one.

For Vietnamese America, Nguy?n is a root in this country, a sign that we are here and can make contributions at various levels. He is a symbol of perseverance and talent.

Not that we have arrived or are accepted, but simply, that we exist. And for a war-torn people living in exile, that means everything.

The refugee
Nguyeãn and I have a very special connection. Both of our mothers escaped Vi?t Nam while they were five months’ pregnant with us. We were even neighbors at the same refugee camp in Fort Chafee, Ark.; I imagine our moms discussing name choices outside the cafeteria. We were born 19 days apart in September 1975, though I was born in Alabama and he came into the world inside the camp.

It’s a miracle either of us are alive. What are the odds that we could withstand those travel conditions in the womb and that our mothers didn’t miscarry? It makes me feel so lucky and drives me to live a significant life. I’m sure it did the same for Nguyeãn, too.

The athlete
Our ties are strengthened by athletics. I remember seeing a small feature on Nguy?n in Sports Illustrated and then watching him play in college in 1994. I am not exaggerating to say that he was spectacular in that game. He seemed to be everywhere, making every tackle and even causing and recovering a fumble.

Most of all, I remember the cameras showing his mom cheering in the stands and the announcers talking about the Vietnamese refugee kid who was starting as a redshirt freshman. That was epic for me. There was somebody who not only looked like me participating in sports, but excelling to the point of domination.

I grew up playing basketball in the urban confines of Long Beach, Calif. I even made the team at Long Beach Poly High School, which was named the best sports high school in America by Sports Illustrated, so you know the teams weren’t a joke.

I remember the fear and anxiety I felt trying out for the squad, the only Asian American in the gym and what felt like the ZIP code for that matter. I have many team pictures where I am the only face that is not African American.

I remember playing league games in Compton and off-season all over the ‘hood. I am amazed at how I dealt with that fear, not the fear of race, but the fear of being only 5 feet 7 inches and 140 pounds, the fear of being too “soft” for the city game, the fear of being different.

When I saw Nguy?n playing, Nguyeãn making plays, Nguy?n becoming an All-American, I knew there was at least one person in the world who knew exactly how I felt in those days. To see him become a professional, to make “the show,” well that was like watching my pro basketball dreams come true. I followed Nguy?n with delight.

Sports media
There is a song and poem by Gil Scott-Heron that says that “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” and I accept that the media is too corporate to tell the truth about politics. But couldn’t it at least get it right once and discuss Ð?t Nguy?n for what he was and what he meant to sports?

Over the years, Nguy?n has been featured in Sports Illustrated, ESPN the Magazine, the Sporting News, and Esquire. But, always as a human-interest story, the novelty of being a refugee and Asian American. Never what he meant. Never his social impact.

But let’s be clear: Nguy?n was a modern day Jackie Robinson and Jesse Owens, breaking color lines with his talent and successes.

And let’s be realistic here. Race in America works on a black and white dynamic. When Tiger Woods and the Williams sisters dominate traditional “white sports” like golf and tennis, it’s news. But if you’re outside that model, it’s hard to crack the news.

So what did the American media do with a U.S.-born, Vietnamese American football player whose family fled a country known mostly through the lens of war? Not much. We —  the viewing public — had Nguy?n for 11 years, and it’s a shame we didn’t appreciate him more.

In America’s limited frame on people of color, Nguy?n was like the platypus, an animal that defies traditional animal categories because it is a mammal that lays eggs. He didn’t fit into its image of the Asian American man. He was too masculine, not a scrawny nerd with glasses. And yet ironically, he was not foreign enough, being born here and not speaking with an accent.

Unfortunately, Nguy?n was not only ahead of his time as an Asian American athlete, he was too complex for it, as well.

Dear Ñaït,