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Last of the Duke Street Kings
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Football’s price?: Mackey’s mind is lost in the fog of dementia
Thursday, February 1, 2007
By Shaun Powell Newsday
At some point on the Amtrak from Baltimore to Miami, a passenger might feel a gentle tap on the shoulder and see a large man balling a fist, ready to hit him with a bit of nostalgia.
"See this?" John Mackey will say sweetly to the stranger while flashing a striking piece of bling. "This is my Super Bowl ring. I scored the 75-yard touchdown to beat the Dallas Cowboys."
This is what he tells people - on the streets, in the malls, wherever - not just because the memory of his thrilling catch in Super Bowl V gives him bragging rights. It's also because, in his condition, the touchdown is almost all he remembers about the past.
And the ring. He wears two of them, actually, a Super Bowl ring on one hand, a Hall of Fame ring on the other. Always. He sleeps with them. He rarely removes them. Which is why he's taking the train to Miami for Super Bowl XLI, and not a flight.
A few years ago, while headed to St. Louis for an autograph signing show, he approached airport screening. Security ordered him to remove the rings and place them in the plastic bins. He refused. They told him again. He said no.
Then he noticed these weren't the same friendly strangers on the street who listened patiently when he told them about the touchdown. That's what dementia does. It makes its victims suspicious and also very protective of their possessions, especially the precious ones.
Therefore, Mackey followed his football instincts, which took him from Hempstead, N.Y., to Syracuse to the NFL and allowed him to cover 75 yards on that touchdown run 35 years ago. He elbowed past security and headed toward the gate. He was then, and now at age 65, a firm 6-foot-2 and 240 pounds with giddyap. In his mind, he was still the man who starred for the Colts and revolutionized the tight end position.
It took four security jackets to tackle Mackey.
YEARS OF SACRIFICE
In a post-Sept. 11 world, that was enough for his wife, Sylvia, a flight attendant.
"If he could've gotten away and run down the corridor, they weren't going to catch him," she said Monday. "They'd have to shoot him. And I'm not going to put him up against that."
So they'll ride the train to Miami to watch his old team, the Colts, play in the title game for the first time since their Mackey-inspired 16-13 win in 1971. The trip will take a while, but it's nothing compared with Mackey's long and draining journey to get financial help from the NFL to cover his soaring medical costs.
His situation is not unique among former players who came before the big salaries, who now pay the physical and sometimes mental price for laying the foundation for a league that generates billions in revenue.
Mike Webster, the great center for those Super Bowl-winning Pittsburgh teams, suffered brain injuries and was homeless before dying five years ago from heart failure. Andre Waters recently committed suicide at age 44 after being depressed, perhaps a result of brain damage after playing 12 years as a hard-hitting safety. Those are just two examples.
One report recently claimed that of the 7,500 former players covered by NFL disability, less than 200 receive football disability benefits. These players must prove their disability is a direct result of football injuries in order to collect. The league estimates it shells out $60 million a year in pension benefits; others say the figure is closer to $15 million.
Regardless, it's a cruel coincidence for Mackey. As an outspoken player, he fought for free agency and benefits at great risk to his career. And where did this sacrifice get him? He was snubbed by Hall of Fame voters until 1992, his final year of eligibility. And the NFL players' union, the weakest in team sports, sits under the thumb of the owners.
For many years after his career, Mackey had thriving business interests and successfully raised a family when, about eight years ago, his wife noticed changes. He became forgetful about little things.
Then she overheard a conversation in which Mackey told someone: "I don't have a sister." Sylvia pulled him aside.
"You do have a sister." "No, I don't." "Are you kidding? You have a sister." "Well, what's her name, then?"
"That's when I knew something was wrong," Sylvia Mackey said. "He went to a bar once, which is something he rarely did, and began singing karaoke with someone. Then he announced they were taking their act on the road. They were going to Vegas. And he was serious."
NFL STILL REGISTERS
His condition decreased, the bills increased. Sylvia Mackey, a retired fashion model, had to return to work as a flight attendant. They moved from Southern California to Baltimore partly to stimulate his memory. He began spending his days in an adult day care center, where the monthly costs almost equaled his NFL pension.
On a whim, his wife wrote a heartfelt three-page letter to outgoing Commissioner Paul Tagliabue, urging him to take action. She told him about John's behavior, which became child-like, and the financial and emotional drain his condition had on the family. She explained how his memory was running on empty, except for the rings and the touchdown run.
Tagliabue was moved. Within weeks, the NFL created the Number 88 Plan, named after Mackey's uniform number, which provides up to $88,000 a year for institutional care to ex-players suffering from dementia.
"I expected his reply to be along the lines of, 'We're working on it, thanks for your letter, good luck,' something like that," said Sylvia Mackey. "Paul felt everything he saw in my letter."
Other events in Mackey's life seem hazy. Only the NFL still registers strong. Seizing the chance, his wife strategically puts his medicine in a box with an NFL address, which makes Mackey anxious to take it.
Since dementia destroys a person's hygiene habits, she also taped a fake sign in their bathroom from the NFL, telling him to wash his face and brush his teeth. She signed it Paul Tagliabue.
"Works like a charm," she said.
Football was his life, and after a brief separation, is back in his life again. He stays sharp by watching film of old games, including the two Super Bowls in which he played. He never tires of the 75-yard touchdown run, or showing the Super Bowl V ring. But football does have company for Mackey's affections.
"Before this disease, John was a person who had a hard time saying, 'I love you' to his wife," said Sylvia. "But now, I must hear, 'I love you' 10-15 times a day." She laughed.
"I knew something was wrong when he started saying that."
http://www.cantonrep.com/index.php?ID=333590&Category=16&subCategoryID=0
Thursday, February 1, 2007
By Shaun Powell Newsday
BACK IN CANTON Despite his deteriorated mental state, John Mackey remains a fixture at Hall of Fame events in Canton — including the 2006 enshrinement ceremony. repository SCOTT HECKEL
At some point on the Amtrak from Baltimore to Miami, a passenger might feel a gentle tap on the shoulder and see a large man balling a fist, ready to hit him with a bit of nostalgia.
"See this?" John Mackey will say sweetly to the stranger while flashing a striking piece of bling. "This is my Super Bowl ring. I scored the 75-yard touchdown to beat the Dallas Cowboys."
This is what he tells people - on the streets, in the malls, wherever - not just because the memory of his thrilling catch in Super Bowl V gives him bragging rights. It's also because, in his condition, the touchdown is almost all he remembers about the past.
And the ring. He wears two of them, actually, a Super Bowl ring on one hand, a Hall of Fame ring on the other. Always. He sleeps with them. He rarely removes them. Which is why he's taking the train to Miami for Super Bowl XLI, and not a flight.
A few years ago, while headed to St. Louis for an autograph signing show, he approached airport screening. Security ordered him to remove the rings and place them in the plastic bins. He refused. They told him again. He said no.
Then he noticed these weren't the same friendly strangers on the street who listened patiently when he told them about the touchdown. That's what dementia does. It makes its victims suspicious and also very protective of their possessions, especially the precious ones.
Therefore, Mackey followed his football instincts, which took him from Hempstead, N.Y., to Syracuse to the NFL and allowed him to cover 75 yards on that touchdown run 35 years ago. He elbowed past security and headed toward the gate. He was then, and now at age 65, a firm 6-foot-2 and 240 pounds with giddyap. In his mind, he was still the man who starred for the Colts and revolutionized the tight end position.
It took four security jackets to tackle Mackey.
YEARS OF SACRIFICE
In a post-Sept. 11 world, that was enough for his wife, Sylvia, a flight attendant.
"If he could've gotten away and run down the corridor, they weren't going to catch him," she said Monday. "They'd have to shoot him. And I'm not going to put him up against that."
So they'll ride the train to Miami to watch his old team, the Colts, play in the title game for the first time since their Mackey-inspired 16-13 win in 1971. The trip will take a while, but it's nothing compared with Mackey's long and draining journey to get financial help from the NFL to cover his soaring medical costs.
His situation is not unique among former players who came before the big salaries, who now pay the physical and sometimes mental price for laying the foundation for a league that generates billions in revenue.
Mike Webster, the great center for those Super Bowl-winning Pittsburgh teams, suffered brain injuries and was homeless before dying five years ago from heart failure. Andre Waters recently committed suicide at age 44 after being depressed, perhaps a result of brain damage after playing 12 years as a hard-hitting safety. Those are just two examples.
One report recently claimed that of the 7,500 former players covered by NFL disability, less than 200 receive football disability benefits. These players must prove their disability is a direct result of football injuries in order to collect. The league estimates it shells out $60 million a year in pension benefits; others say the figure is closer to $15 million.
Regardless, it's a cruel coincidence for Mackey. As an outspoken player, he fought for free agency and benefits at great risk to his career. And where did this sacrifice get him? He was snubbed by Hall of Fame voters until 1992, his final year of eligibility. And the NFL players' union, the weakest in team sports, sits under the thumb of the owners.
For many years after his career, Mackey had thriving business interests and successfully raised a family when, about eight years ago, his wife noticed changes. He became forgetful about little things.
Then she overheard a conversation in which Mackey told someone: "I don't have a sister." Sylvia pulled him aside.
"You do have a sister." "No, I don't." "Are you kidding? You have a sister." "Well, what's her name, then?"
"That's when I knew something was wrong," Sylvia Mackey said. "He went to a bar once, which is something he rarely did, and began singing karaoke with someone. Then he announced they were taking their act on the road. They were going to Vegas. And he was serious."
NFL STILL REGISTERS
His condition decreased, the bills increased. Sylvia Mackey, a retired fashion model, had to return to work as a flight attendant. They moved from Southern California to Baltimore partly to stimulate his memory. He began spending his days in an adult day care center, where the monthly costs almost equaled his NFL pension.
On a whim, his wife wrote a heartfelt three-page letter to outgoing Commissioner Paul Tagliabue, urging him to take action. She told him about John's behavior, which became child-like, and the financial and emotional drain his condition had on the family. She explained how his memory was running on empty, except for the rings and the touchdown run.
Tagliabue was moved. Within weeks, the NFL created the Number 88 Plan, named after Mackey's uniform number, which provides up to $88,000 a year for institutional care to ex-players suffering from dementia.
"I expected his reply to be along the lines of, 'We're working on it, thanks for your letter, good luck,' something like that," said Sylvia Mackey. "Paul felt everything he saw in my letter."
Other events in Mackey's life seem hazy. Only the NFL still registers strong. Seizing the chance, his wife strategically puts his medicine in a box with an NFL address, which makes Mackey anxious to take it.
Since dementia destroys a person's hygiene habits, she also taped a fake sign in their bathroom from the NFL, telling him to wash his face and brush his teeth. She signed it Paul Tagliabue.
"Works like a charm," she said.
Football was his life, and after a brief separation, is back in his life again. He stays sharp by watching film of old games, including the two Super Bowls in which he played. He never tires of the 75-yard touchdown run, or showing the Super Bowl V ring. But football does have company for Mackey's affections.
"Before this disease, John was a person who had a hard time saying, 'I love you' to his wife," said Sylvia. "But now, I must hear, 'I love you' 10-15 times a day." She laughed.
"I knew something was wrong when he started saying that."
http://www.cantonrep.com/index.php?ID=333590&Category=16&subCategoryID=0
