Now, in the looming brain wars, the NFL’s insurers were warning that the league could face $2.5 billion in damages if it lost its battle with the players. After a federal judge ordered the two sides to mediation, a settlement was announced just one week before the start of the 2013 season. The league agreed to pay $765 million, plus legal fees that were expected to run another $200 million. It was seen by many as a victory for the NFL. There would be no public vetting of what the league knew and when it knew it. No Paul Tagliabue testifying in open court about why on earth he had appointed a rheumatologist to lead a concussion committee. No Dr. No. And that $765 million? It was widely regarded as chump change. As Kevin Mawae, the former president of the NFLPA, tweeted: “NFL concussion lawsuit net outcome? Big loss for the players now and the future! Estimated NFL revenue by 2025 = $27 BILLION.”
It had been three years since the NFL’s chief spokesman had said it was “quite obvious” that football-related concussions “can lead to long-term problems.” No one from the league had uttered a word about that since.
In December 2012, Goodell gave a lecture at the Harvard School of Public Health. He was introduced by the dean, Julio Frenk, who noted that the dangers of secondhand smoke were first identified at Harvard. For 37 minutes, Goodell hit on the NFL’s new talking points: Safety is its number one priority; concussions are not confined to football; the league has made rule changes to reduce concussions and is promoting “independent and transparent medical research.”
The commissioner emphasized the need to rely on “science and facts, not speculation.” He cited a recent study by the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH) debunking the myth that NFL players had shorter life spans than the general population. He did not, however, note another NIOSH study suggesting that NFL players were four times more likely to develop Alzheimer’s or Lou Gehrig’s disease.
As he ended his day at Harvard, Goodell took a few questions from the media before being whisked away.
“Is the league’s position clear that football has the potential to cause long-term brain damage?” he was asked.
The commissioner hit replay: “What we are doing is making sure that we do everything to make sure that the game is safe. Those conclusions have to be drawn by the medical community.”
Seven months later, as training camps prepared to open for the 2013 season, incoming rookies attended a three-day symposium staged by the NFL. On the second day, Cleveland Browns team doctor Mark Schickendantz gave a presentation about health and safety. In a 2011 incident that drew national attention, Schickendantz, an orthopedic surgeon, was among the medical professionals who cleared quarterback Colt McCoy to return to action without receiving a sideline concussion test, despite taking a brutal helmet-to-helmet hit from Steelers linebacker James Harrison. Now, Schickendantz was educating the 2013 rookie class about the dangers of concussions. According to a story in the Washington Post, he said, “It’s never an insignificant injury.… Don’t hide it.” He discussed the league’s new assessment protocols, including the addition of independent neurologists on the sideline.
But as he wrapped up his presentation, Schickendantz told the young players, “Right now, we’re learning a little bit more about long-term brain damage.” And he added, “No direct cause and effect has been established yet.”
Jim Otto wears a silver-and-black sleeve with the Oakland Raiders’ logo over his prosthetic right leg.
Otto played center for the Raiders for 15 years. When he first arrived in the San Francisco Bay Area in 1960, he was still carrying around the leather football helmet he had worn at the University of Miami, which couldn’t find a plastic one big enough to fit over his size 8 head. Back then, Otto was just 205 pounds and had been passed over in all 20 rounds of the NFL draft. Only the Raiders, the eighth and final team cobbled together to form the American Football League, the newly created rival of the NFL, gave him a shot.
By the time Otto retired, in 1974, the two leagues had merged and the modern NFL had been born. Otto had established himself as one of the finest offensive linemen in the history of the game. “Double O”—his nickname and his number—was the ultimate Raider, at one point starting 210 straight games. He came to see himself as a descendant of the Roman gladiators and “proudly wore the scars of a gladiator.” When his helmet cut a gash in the bridge of his nose, he let the blood trickle down his face and smeared it on his jersey. Off the field, Otto was a pleasant-looking man with a crooked smile and a shock of blond hair that he grew longer with the times. On the field he was terrifying: He seemed to age 10 years just cramming the helmet onto his head. Wayne Walker, the Detroit linebacker, said peering through Otto’s face mask was “like looking at a gargoyle.” Otto got his bell rung so often playing center, his legs churning like pistons as he drove his head into his opponent, that his teammates chanted ding, ding, ding when he staggered back to the huddle. By the time he was 28, Otto’s teammates were calling him “Pops,” partly out of deference to his seniority as an original Raider and partly because of the quickening destruction of his body. He titled his autobiography, written with Oakland Tribune columnist Dave Newhouse, Jim Otto: The Pain of Glory.
Otto’s retirement ushered in an era he referred to as his “middle-aged horror show.”
He got his first artificial knee two years out of the game. His shoulders were replaced. Doctors fused and re-fused the vertebrae in his back. His knees caused him a kind of perpetual torment: The replacements wore out or failed to take; horrible infections developed. By the mid-1990s, Otto’s right knee had been replaced six times, his left knee twice.
In 2007, doctors concluded that Otto’s right knee would probably end up killing him. They decided to remove his leg below the thigh. On the first attempt, they failed to catch all of the infection and decided to amputate further, taking off another chunk of his thigh. Otto spent most of the year in a Salt Lake City hospital. The pain was unbearable: He cried and begged for stronger medication, which made him delusional. He saw people dancing outside his window. One night he woke up and became aware he was standing naked in the hallway on his remaining leg. Another time he fell between the toilet and the wall and screamed in vain for help. Doctors strapped him to his bed, and monitors were assigned to his room. His wife, Sally, brought a plaque that said “Miracles Happen,” and Otto believes that’s what saved him. The plaque now hangs in the bedroom of their sprawling ranch-style house in Auburn, California, on the way to Lake Tahoe from San Francisco.
At 75, Otto is still blessed with an ornery resilience. “If I had a leg, I’d still be out kicking ass,” he said one afternoon. He experienced “tremendous” headaches that felt like someone had hit him with a bat. “I had a spike go through here just a minute ago,” he said at one point. Like dozens of other players, he was getting treatment for his brain injuries at the Amen Clinic in Southern California, which he thought helped. People had approached him about joining the lawsuit, but he refused. As he wrote in Jim Otto: The Pain of Glory: “I’m not a wimp-out. Nobody told me I had to play every week. So I’m not going to sue my former team like other retired players. I’m simply not made that way.”
“I take responsibility for everything that happened to my body,” he said, falling into a chair in his den one afternoon. When Otto first began in professional football, he made $300 a game. One of his first Raiders paychecks bounced. The NFL, he said wistfully, is “the greatest success story ever in sports. I mean, I would have played for a pat on the back and a bottle of Budweiser after the game and a sandwich, you know? The only thing I’m regretting is that nobody in the NFL has even recognized the fact that I’ve lost my leg. Nobody has even called me. Someone could have said, ‘Boy, Jim, I’m sorry that happened to you.’ ”
Otto grew up in Wausau, Wisconsin. His father ran deliveries for a meat company and operated the Tidee Didee Diaper Service with Otto’s uncle. Otto had viewed football as a means of recognition for a poor boy—“little Jimmy Otto really cleaned somebody�
�s clock”—an escape from the harsh northern Wisconsin winters and the life he foresaw for himself as a welder.
When Otto was established in the NFL, he made a trip back home to rural Wisconsin. One day a high school player came up and introduced himself. He told Otto that he was from a little town near Rhinelander, about an hour north of Wausau. He said he wanted to be just like him. The boy was small for a lineman, stocky and blond. He could have been Otto’s little brother. The boy asked Otto for some tips and told him that he, too, planned to play in the NFL someday.
“Great, I’ll be looking for you,” Otto said.
Now, several years later, in one of his final games as a Raider, two of Otto’s linemates, Gene Upshaw and Art Shell, started razzing him.
“Mr. Otto! Oh, Mr. Otto, there’s somebody looking for you!” they said.
Upshaw and Shell pointed over to the opposing sideline. A player was trying to get Otto’s attention. It was the same boy, now dressed in black and gold.
“Mr. Otto! Mr. Otto!” yelled Mike Webster. “I made it!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Mental illness has the perverse effect of silently transforming the very identity of the people it afflicts. This book wouldn’t have been possible without the help of dozens of NFL families—players, wives, parents, children—who agreed to share their painful stories with us. To them we extend our heartfelt thanks. We are especially grateful to Team Webster—Pam Webster, Colin Webster, Garrett Webster, Brooke Webster, Sunny Jani, Bob Fitzsimmons, Charles Kelly, and Jim Vodvarka—who spent countless hours recounting the life and death of Mike Webster, recognizing that, even more than his Hall of Fame career, Webby’s greatest legacy may be to advance the search for the truth about football and brain damage. A special thanks to Julian Bailes for sparking the idea for this book.
We are especially grateful to our wise and courageous editors, Dwayne Bray and Chris Buckle, our colleagues at Outside the Lines and ESPN.com’s Enterprise/Investigative unit, and others throughout the empire. Particular thanks to Greg Amante, John Barr, Willie Weinbaum, Dave Lubbers, Arty Berko, T. J. Quinn, Vince Doria, Jena Janovy, Patrick Stiegman, Rob King, Don Skwar, Tim Hays, Bob Ley, David Brofsky, Steve Vecchione, and, yes, even Carolyn Hong. Special thanks to Greg Garber, Craig Lazarus, and Christine Caddick, who described the origins of their early reporting and provided critical material; and to Peter Keating, who did the same. Chad Millman plied us with contacts from his fine book (written with Shawn Coyne): The Ones Who Hit the Hardest: The Steelers, The Cowboys, The ’70s, and the Fight for America’s Soul. Rayna Banks gathered enormous amounts of archival material that proved critical, as did Simon Baumgart, Jenna Shulman, and Lindsay Rovegno. Chris Mortensen graciously emptied his bulging electronic Rolodex for us, a gift that kept on giving. Shaun Assael kindly dug out some of his old reporting and provided material and insights.
Phil Bennett, the outgoing managing editor of Frontline and former managing editor at the Washington Post, turned our modest project into something vastly more ambitious: not only a book but also a two-part documentary film and a yearlong reporting partnership, with stories published simultaneously by ESPN and Frontline. Phil also read drafts of the manuscript and made improvements in every chapter, a kind of editing magic he generously has performed on Steve’s copy for nearly 20 years. We also are immeasurably grateful to Sabrina Shankman, whose reporting for the film and the book thoroughly enriched both. Thanks also to Frontline’s Michael Kirk, Jim Gilmore, Mike Wiser, Lauren Ezell, Colette Neirouz Hanna, Raney Aronson, David Fanning, Pam Johnston, Patrice Taddonio, Tom Jennings, Travis Fox, and Caitlin McNally.
Alan Schwarz blew open the concussion story with three years of relentless reporting in the New York Times. Alan embraced our book from the beginning and shared some of his previously unpublished research, along with his own backstory. Julie Tate constructed a database of all the plaintiffs in the growing lawsuit against the NFL, excavated useful documents, and, in the end, held us accountable. Kevin Fixler and Jordan Conn provided dogged research on a variety of topics, including the history of the helmet and the marketing of NFL violence. David Maraniss gave us one huge research tip early on that made our lives considerably easier. The esteemed photographer Brad Mangin somehow managed to make us look presentable, and he also provided two superb shots for the insert. We are thankful to all.
Matt Chaney’s indispensable listserv, which he fills with biting commentary and the latest articles on concussions, repeatedly alerted us to material we hadn’t seen. We’re also grateful to Irv Muchnick (Concussioninc.net), Dustin Fink (TheConcussionBlog.com), and the lawyer Paul Anderson (NFLConcussionLitigation.com), who also enhanced our understanding of the issue. Chuck Finder helped us navigate the concussion research community in Pittsburgh; his Steelers Encyclopedia also proved invaluable. Many thanks to Tim Gay for translating the physics of football. Thanks also to Marcy Thorne and her colleagues at “A Better Type.”
We are grateful to Mauro DiPreta, editor in chief at Crown Archetype, for his passion for this project and his unwavering support. Also from Crown/Random House, thanks to Tammy Blake, Ellen Folan, Carisa Hays, Min Lee, Lisa Buch, Elizabeth Rendfleisch, Mark Birkey, Meredith McGinnis, and Christina Foxley; and to Deborah Bull for helping us nail down all the photos. Maury Gostfrand was exceedingly patient and steadfast in helping us navigate our relationship with Frontline. Scott Waxman was bullish on this book from the moment we first discussed it, and we have benefited from his magic touch.
We are blessed with incredibly supportive families who endured more than their share of tedious updates on “the book.”
Mark: Unending thanks to my wife, Nicole, and my kids, Max and Ella. I will never be able to fully express how lucky I am to be living amongst such a loving, supportive, smart, and funny family. Also, I’m grateful to all my in-laws and nephews and nieces—Sylvie, Oliver, Amelie, Isae, Doug, Duncan, Ariel, Luanne, Kyan, and Jocelyne. Thanks to Glenn Schwarz and Ron Kroichick, who endured book talk for months on end during our regular “mayo” lunches and never wavered in their interest and support. Thanks to my dear friend Michael Heenan, who ushered me through my internal challenges with a remarkable sense of understanding. Thanks to Lance Williams, who taught me so much about reporting and whose friendship I cherish. Thanks to T. J. Quinn, who understands it all. And thanks to my hermano, an extraordinary journalist, for this incredible journey; the ride has been wild yet fulfilling, and I’m so grateful we took it together.
Steve: Thanks to my wife, Maureen, and my son, Will—my family, my everything—for filling my days with love, happiness, support, and understanding. Thanks also to my wonderful new in-laws: Bob and Doreen Fan, Elliot Fan and Elaine Grace Chu, and Coby and Jenna. Thanks to our amazing lifelong friends Bud Geracie and Donna Kato, residents of the Budonna Wing, who introduced us to a new world of joy and contentment. Thanks to Karl Vick, whose friendship spans oceans. In loving memory, thanks to Anthony Shadid, Green Bay Packers fanatic, who lost his life reporting in Syria last year but continues to inspire journalists around the world, including and especially me. Thanks to my coauthor, my amazing brother, for bringing me along for this ride and all the others.
To our accomplished and wonderful mother, Ellen Gilbert, our hero and inspiration, thanks for supporting us—again—like all the other messes we’ve gotten ourselves into.
SOURCE NOTES
This book was built on a foundation of more than 200 interviews conducted in 2012 and the first half of 2013. The interviews took place throughout the United States; one or both authors made six separate reporting trips to Pittsburgh, the epicenter of the NFL’s concussion crisis. Among the principal characters who agreed to participate, most were interviewed on more than one occasion.
We also benefited greatly from thousands of documents, including previously unpublished medical records, NFL memorandums, letters, and personal e-mails that were provided to us by various sources. We also reviewed court records, congressional testimony, me
dical journals, and a large body of research on the NFL and concussions that preceded our work, in some cases by several years.
A handful of journalists provided critical early reporting that raised awareness of this issue and highlighted the struggles of retired NFL players facing mental disabilities. They include Alan Schwarz, whose reporting for the New York Times forced the NFL and the medical community to confront the urgency of the concussion crisis; Jeanne Marie Laskas, whose stories in GQ provided the first documentation of the league’s efforts to stifle Bennet Omalu; Greg Garber, whose ESPN stories foreshadowed the crisis by nearly two decades; Michael Farber, whose 1994 piece in Sports Illustrated was similarly prescient; and Peter Keating, whose stories for ESPN The Magazine and ESPN.com revealed how Elliot Pellman’s Mild Traumatic Brain Injury Committee understated the seriousness of concussions.
Those journalists all made our work easier; in addition to his insights and earlier reporting, Schwarz generously provided audio recordings of previously unpublished interviews with Pellman and Ira Casson. We are deeply grateful.
We made numerous requests to interview the NFL officials who figure prominently in this story, including Commissioner Roger Goodell; his predecessor, Paul Tagliabue; and the previous leaders of the Mild Traumatic Brain Injury Committee. The NFL, still embroiled in a lawsuit involving thousands of its former players, denied those requests and declined to cooperate.
League of Denial Page 41
