My pet peeves are people touching me a lot. Random dudes

Hear, O seekers of respect and dignity, the words of Rob Gronkowski, the warrior of the field, who declared with both weariness and candor: “My pet peeves are people touching me a lot. Random dudes grabbing me and slapping me across the back. They're not doing it on purpose, but it's like they forget I'm a person. But you can't do anything about it. What are you going to do?” Though spoken with simplicity, these words carry a truth heavy with meaning: that even those celebrated by the world long to be seen not as symbols, but as men.

For in this lament lies a deeper cry: fame may crown a person with glory, but it often strips them of humanity. When men grab and slap without thought, they do not honor the champion—they reduce him to an object, a thing to be handled, a statue to be touched for luck. In their excitement they forget that beneath the armor of strength beats a heart that longs for the same respect and gentleness as any other. Gronkowski’s frustration is not merely about touch—it is about being unseen in his full humanity.

The ancients too spoke of this burden. Gladiators, who were adored by the masses in Rome, were often treated not as men of flesh and thought, but as living idols. Crowds would cheer, feast their eyes upon their strength, and yet never ask who they were beyond the arena. Many a warrior left the sands of the Colosseum with victory in hand but emptiness in soul, for the world honored their bodies yet forgot their personhood. Gronkowski’s pet peeve is but a modern echo of this ancient tragedy.

Consider the tale of Achilles, praised endlessly for his power in battle. To his comrades, he was nearly divine, yet even Achilles longed to be seen for more than his rage and his spear. When Briseis was taken from him, his wrath was not only about possession but about being treated as though his feelings were of no account. Just as men forget Gronkowski is a person when they slap his back without thought, so too did the Greeks forget Achilles’ humanity in their rush to use him as a tool of war.

There is, however, a note of resignation in Gronkowski’s words: “But you can’t do anything about it. What are you going to do?” This reveals the paradox of public life—that the one elevated becomes also imprisoned. The crowd sees the glory, but rarely the discomfort. The hero is trapped between his need for boundaries and the world’s inability to honor them. It is a reminder to us all that strength does not erase the need for gentleness, and that power does not make a man immune to the sting of disrespect.

The lesson here is clear: see every person as fully human, no matter their station, their fame, or their appearance. Do not let excitement or admiration blind you to dignity. The athlete is more than his muscles, the actor more than his role, the leader more than his title. Before you touch, before you assume, remember that behind the image lies a soul equal to your own, deserving of care and respect.

Practically, this means tempering enthusiasm with consideration. Admire, but do not intrude. Celebrate, but without overstepping. Ask before entering another’s space, and remember that fame does not cancel the need for consent. In our own lives, whether with the celebrated or the ordinary, let us be mindful of how we honor the boundaries of others. In this way we restore humanity to those the world has objectified.

So let these words endure: fame does not erase the need to be seen as human. Gronkowski’s lament is a call to remember that every person, no matter how mighty, longs to be treated with respect. Let us then be gentle in our admiration, thoughtful in our approach, and ever mindful that behind the champion’s armor beats a heart like our own.