Counting the Days While My Mind Slips Away

by Ben Utecht

  “Please, Daddy!” she finally cried. “Please! I don’t need to go!”

  I yelled back, “Don’t you cry! YOU DO WHAT I TOLD YOU TO DO!”

  At that moment I happened to glance toward the mirror. There I caught a glimpse of the angry monster I had become. All I could think was, Is this who I am destined to be? Is this the man my daughter will remember all her life? I immediately left the room even more frightened than my little girl.

  Oh, God, help me. What is happening to me?

  Shortly after the bathroom scene, Karyn took Elleora to see a doctor about her digestive issues. She asked Elleora, “What are you feeling when you have to go potty?”

  Elleora responded, “Scared of Daddy.”

  When Karyn told me this I was crushed and broke down. From that moment I vowed that that monster would never return, and it hasn’t. I’ve committed to try to never allow the effects of concussions to change my behavior. Even now as I look back at what happened, I think the thing that scares me most is how out of control I felt. It was as though I could not help myself. Something took over and I just went along for the ride. I wondered if this was the result of concussions. Was the outburst a symptom of potential CTE growing in my brain? Or was it simply the end result of all my frustrations, with Elleora unfortunately being at the wrong place when they all came pouring out? I still don’t know. And it frightens me.

  Something else happened that scared me as well. One night I was sitting down in my man cave in the basement of my house, watching ESPN SportsCenter, when a story broke from San Diego. Junior Seau, a legend of the game, a man I played against in the wars the Colts fought against the Patriots, had shot himself in the chest and died. The way he killed himself fit a growing pattern in former players. He shot himself in the chest so that his brain could be tested for CTE. According to the news reports, Junior Seau’s behavior had changed over the previous few years. He separated himself from those who had known and loved him while also engaging in more and more risky behaviors. He’d always been a man who found great joy in life. Now he was dead by his own hand at the age of forty-three.

  I sat and watched the story in stunned silence. I could still see him across from me in a game. For me, it was a huge honor just being on the same field as him. Everyone in the game had the greatest respect for him, not only because he was so talented but also because he played football with a youthful enthusiasm that marked his entire career. He played like he loved the game. Now he was dead. Forty-three, he was only forty-three, I repeated to myself over and over. Is this me in ten years? I wondered. But he played twenty years, I reminded myself. I now found myself hoping the injuries that cut my career short might have protected me from even greater brain damage. Even so, the story of Junior’s death shook me. It shook everyone connected to the NFL. The thinking was, if it can happen to him, it can happen to any of us.

  And of course, I discovered more missing memories. The story of Matt’s wedding was the big turning point, but moving back to Minnesota, my land of memories, brought so much more to light. Writing this book has been one discovery of loss after another. Many of the most important stories you’ve read, including some key moments that shaped me as a man and in my faith, came from my mom and dad and Karyn, not me. I don’t remember catching passes from my dad in the backyard when I was a boy. I also don’t remember my mother running down on the field when I had my first injury and asking me, “Do you trust Jesus?” That question shaped this entire book, it has shaped my life, but I don’t remember her asking it. I can’t believe I don’t. There have been more. It seems like with every chapter I call my coauthor and ask him, “Did that really happen? Was I there?” Now, I do not mean to imply that my entire mind has been wiped clean or that I remember nothing. I still have a vast treasure of memories to which I cling. But I don’t know how many I have lost. Let’s be real: how do you know when you have lost a memory? You can’t.

  In the months after the Brickman tour the new reality in which I now lived became very clear to me, along with growing fears about my future. I found myself in fear of losing all my memories, of waking up one day and not recognizing Karyn or Elleora or Katriel or Amy. The fear fed my depression, which fueled my frustration and my anger, and I knew I had to do something to break this cycle before I snapped. I had to decide how I was going to live with this.

  Honestly, the easiest thing for me to do would have been to get really angry at football and the NFL and let that anger consume me. Some days that’s exactly what happened to me, but at the end of the day getting mad didn’t solve anything. Anger only made me more distant from my wife and daughters, and that’s the last thing I wanted.

  I also could have easily fallen into a victim’s mind-set and found a way to blame every poor decision I made going forward on my brain injury and on football and on the doctors who let me keep playing when I probably shouldn’t have. Nothing would be my fault. Playing the victim also meant I could feel sorry for myself without guilt. Poor, poor me. Why did this have to happen to me? Again, some days I feel like this, but I try to snap myself out of it as quickly as possible. Self-pity doesn’t accomplish a thing.

  Another option for me was to shrink back and try to hide and deny my problems. Few things are as uncomfortable as the looks I get from people when my memory fails me. When I played football, especially with my size, fans looked up at me in awe. Now I found people staring at me with a mixture of fear and pity. Honestly, hiding my problem sounded much better than enduring those looks.

  As I wrestled with all these thoughts, I kept coming back to the question: Do you trust Jesus? As I seriously considered this question, my mind went back to the parade of injuries I suffered playing football, all the way back to that broken pelvis in high school. I’ve bruised or broken or somehow injured every part of my body, from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. Every injury, every single one, always came at a time where my faith was put to the test. Now I found myself living with the lasting effects of the most serious of my injuries. If all the injuries leading up to this one were tests of my faith, why did I think God had any other purpose for this one as well?

  Do I trust Him? I had to decide. The question is not do I trust Him to take my problems away. Both Karyn and I experienced what we can only describe as miracles, but those were rare and not something we believed we should expect God to deliver anytime we asked. Yes, I believe He can heal my brain, and believe me, I’ve asked Him to do so. But the real question I had to come to grips with was whether I will continue to trust Him even if my mind gets worse, not better. Am I willing to surrender my condition to Him and allow Him to use it however He thinks is best?

  In the end I realized I had no other choice. No other option led me anywhere except back to my bedroom, huddled under the sheets, staring out the window, unable to move. I surrender, Lord, I prayed, I give my brain injury over to You. Do with it whatever You think best.

  Something changed when I first prayed that prayer. I do not mean to imply I never struggled again and never had another day where I had trouble pulling myself out of bed. But when I surrendered my condition to God and gave Him permission to use it for His purposes, He set me free from the anger and self-pity that threatened to drown me. He also opened my eyes to the people and moments around me. I could not take anything for granted again. From that moment forward, every time I take my wife’s hand I grab hold of the memory and treasure it. Every time I read a bedtime story to my girls or wrestle on the floor with them, I savor the moment. Yes, I might one day forget all of it. But, until I do, I will hold on to the memory as my greatest treasure.

  I started forcing myself out of bed in the morning. I made a choice to start getting up before Karyn and the girls. Early in the morning I got up and went down into my office, which sits just off our living room. There I sat down in a big, comfortable chair, opened my Bible, and spent time alone with God. Not long after I got back into this habit, my door opened one morning. A little face peered around the corner. “Daddy
?”

  “Yes, Elleora.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Reading my Bible.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  The door opened a little wider. Elleora walked slowly in, still dressed in her pajamas. Her hair looked like she had just crawled out of bed. She came over close and I reached down and pulled her up on my lap. She laid her head on my chest and snuggled close. “After you finish reading the Bible would you read to me, too?” she asked.

  “I sure will,” I said as I wrapped my arms around her. “Do you want to pray with me first?”

  “Okay,” she said in that soft, little girl voice.

  After we prayed I read a story to her. Then another. And another. Neither one of us was in a hurry to move. At one point she raised herself up and said, “Are you going to be in here tomorrow morning?”

  “I sure am.”

  “Can I come back then and we do this again?”

  Tears filled my eyes. “You sure can.”

  This is now our daily routine. I never take even one moment of it for granted. These are the memories I will treasure as long as I can.

  CHAPTER 23

  AT LONG LAST

  IN THE SPRING OF 2013 I laced up my cleats for the first time since my last play with the Bengals. The agent for MarQueis Gray, a star quarterback and wide receiver for the University of Minnesota Golden Gophers, called me and asked if I might be willing to work with MarQueis. Although he played wide receiver in college, all the scouts thought moving to tight end gave him his best chance to play in the NFL. “Would you come over, work out with him, and teach him the position?” they asked.

  “I would love it,” I said. I’d stayed in really good shape. The thought of going out on a football field again excited me.

  However, the first time I put the cleats on and walked out on the U of M practice field, I got surprisingly emotional. I flashed back to when I was the star receiver with dreams of playing in the NFL. But I pulled myself out of that place when one of the coaches introduced me to MarQueis. “I grew up in Indianapolis,” MarQueis said. “Man, I remember when you played for the Colts. Super Bowl champion. Wow. I really appreciate you coming out here and helping me out.”

  “My pleasure,” I said. “Where in Indy did you go to high school?”

  “Ben Davis,” MarQueis said.

  “Ben Davis. They always have great teams,” I said.

  “I was a quarterback then. Halfway through my time here they made me a wide receiver. Now I guess I’m going to become a tight end,” he said with a laugh.

  “I made the move from wide receiver to tight end,” I said. “The biggest difference, besides the types of routes you run, is going to be the blocking. Let’s get to work on that.”

  Over the next couple of months I worked with MarQueis several times a week. We focused primarily on the fundamentals of blocking. Throughout my career, both in college and the pros, I had some great teachers, especially in Indy with Howard Mudd. MarQueis caught on quickly because he’s such a great athlete. I also went over some of the routes that tight ends run and wide receivers don’t. He picked those up quickly, too. I didn’t just tell him the routes. I ran them with him. Working with him got my competitive juices flowing, so we ended every workout with a catching competition. I never lost. Not even once. The coaches out on the field with us noticed. “Wow, Tech, you haven’t lost a step,” one said. “You still have those great hands. Man. You can catch anything,” another said. I just grinned and took it all in. Honestly, it just felt good to be on the football field again.

  After about a month of running routes and catching passes again, I started to wonder if I could still play at a high level. I was still only thirty-two. I hadn’t played in four years, but I’d kept myself in great shape. I wonder . . . I kept thinking.

  Then one evening I turned on SportsCenter and saw images of Patriots star tight end Aaron Hernandez being led away in handcuffs. The scroll across the bottom of the screen said, “Hernandez charged with murder.” Aaron Hernandez was one of the two tight ends the Patriots drafted after I tried out for them in the spring of 2010. It was now June 2013. The draft had already passed. Most of the impact free agents on the market had already signed with other teams. That meant the Patriots were going to have to find another tight end, and fast.

  The next morning I called my sports agent, Chris Murray. He hadn’t heard from me since I retired except for the occasional call asking if he’d heard anything on my still-unresolved grievance. “Hey, Chris, Ben. Listen, I wonder if you would do me a favor. I just saw where Hernandez was arrested for murder. That means the Patriots need a tight end. Would you contact them for me and see if they are interested in having me come in for a tryout?”

  A long pause followed. “Are you sure about this, Ben?” Chris asked with a very hesitant tone of voice.

  “I think it’s worth a phone call,” I said.

  “Okay,” Chris said with the tone of a man being forced to do something against his will. “I don’t want to put any time into this if you’re going to change your mind. But if you are serious about it, I’ll call.”

  “Great. Thanks,” I said. After I hung up the phone I was immediately gripped with second thoughts. I knew the risks, but I also kept thinking about how I had never really reached my potential. Besides, the Patriots already had one star tight end. I wouldn’t be the main guy. And the thought of catching balls from Tom Brady excited me. Well, let’s see if they’re even interested before getting too worked up over it, I told myself.

  A week or two later Chris called. “I put out a feeler to the Patriots and a few other teams,” he said. “The Patriots didn’t show any interest, but the Seahawks did. They want to bring you out for a tryout if you are really interested.”

  “Seriously?” I said, surprised. “Okay, uh, let me talk to Karyn, then I’ll let you know.”

  When I went to Karyn, I explained to her what was on my heart. “I think I will always be haunted by the fact that I never really reached my potential. Maybe this is my chance to do something about it,” I said. Believe it or not, Karyn was open to my playing again because she never wanted to keep me from my pursuing my dreams. “But we should talk to your parents, too,” she suggested.

  I thought it a good idea. I called my mom and dad and they came over later that evening. Karyn and I sat them down and I told them the whole story. I explained how I had been working out with MarQueis Gray and how I still had the speed and the hands that made me successful the first time around. “The Seahawks are interested in me coming out for a workout,” I said. “Pete Carroll seems to really be a players’ coach, and they have an exciting young quarterback in Russell Wilson. I think it could be a good fit. So what do you think?”

  My parents sat there without saying a word for several moments. They exchanged a glance, then my dad spoke up. “Ben, you are a grown-up man and I’m not going to try to tell you what to do. But, if you do this, because of your concussions, I will never watch you play. I will not watch a single game.”

  His response settled it. I called Chris. “Thanks for going to so much trouble, but I’m going to stay retired,” I said. Football began with me and my dad in the backyard. His words that night ended any thoughts I had of making a comeback.

  When I tell people this story they always ask how I could possibly even consider playing again after the toll concussions had already taken on me. I really cannot explain it. Sitting here, right now, typing this chapter, I can tell you that I am very glad I did not try to play again, even though if I had made the team, I would now have a second Super Bowl ring, since the Seahawks won it all that year. Even so, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I should never play again. I wish I had not played as long as I did. However, there’s something about this game that just gets a hold of you and does not let go. It is violent and dangerous and takes an unbelievable toll on your body, but it is also a beautiful game that I love. Even with all it has cost me, I s
till love it, although I would probably never let my son play it, if I had a son. My girls better not even think about playing.

  •  •  •

  Around the time training camps opened in the summer of 2013, I went to a different kind of training camp, in Mount Laurel, New Jersey, just outside of Philadelphia. Every year the NFL holds a four-day broadcasting boot camp for players and former players interested in making the jump from the field to the broadcast booth. I signed up. What did I have to lose?

  After the second or third day I went back to my hotel for the night. My cell phone rang. Tim English’s name showed up on the caller ID. I let out a sigh before answering. Tim and I talked on a regular basis and the conversations always revolved around why the arbitrator in my grievance still had not delivered a decision. “Hey, Tim,” I said without much enthusiasm.

  “We won,” he replied.

  I could not believe my ears. “What?” I asked.

  “We won, Ben. The arbitrator ruled in your favor. The Bengals have to pay you the rest of your contract for the 2009 season, with interest.”

  Tears filled my eyes. I could hardly hold myself together. “I can’t believe it,” I said.

  “Believe it, buddy. This is a huge win. Enjoy it.”

  “Thank you so much, Tim. Thank you for fighting so hard for me. This never could have happened without you and the NFLPA,” I said.

  “That’s why I do what I do,” Tim replied. “This is a great moment for me, too. Congratulations, Ben.”

  I hung up the phone and lay back on the bed in shock. I’d waited for this day for three and a half years, and now that it was here I didn’t know what I felt. After what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes, I called Karyn. “Tim called,” I said. “We won.”

  Karyn reacted exactly the way I did when she called me to tell me we were having twins. After complete silence for a few moments I asked, “Are you there?”