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SN: Concussions create living hell for NFL retirees
‘Ticking time bomb’ may grow worse as today's NFL players get stronger
By Matt Crossman
The Sporting News
Updated: 8:39 p.m. CT June 20, 2007
What good is glory if you can't remember it? While with the Bears, Larry Morris played under legendary coach George Halas and alongside Dick Butkus and Mike Ditka. In the 1963 Bears-Giants NFL championship game, Morris, a linebacker, intercepted a Y.A. Tittle pass and returned it 61 yards before being taken down at the 6. Chicago scored a momentum-changing touchdown moments later and went on to win, 14-10. Morris twice leveled Tittle that day, knocking him briefly from the game and otherwise diminishing his effectiveness. Morris was named the game's MVP.
He remembers none of it.
He can't sign his name, can't complete basic hygiene tasks and sometimes struggles to dress himself.
About 15 years ago, Morris, now 73, started showing signs of dementia — and today it is full-blown. The cruel disease appears to be the price he is paying for having suffered multiple concussions playing football. His neuropsychiatrist has linked his disease to his playing career. His family says he played through at least four concussions in the NFL, and his college teammates say he had numerous concussions while playing at Georgia Tech. He wasn't called the Brahma Bull because he shied from contact.
George Morris (no relation) played linebacker with Larry at Georgia Tech. Both are in the College Football Hall of Fame, and they remained friends postfootball in the Atlanta business community. Last fall, the two walked on the field together at a Georgia Tech game in which former All-Americans were honored. Larry remains a strapping man, and his demeanor and appearance seemed normal. But George knows better. Though the two walked side by side on the very field on which they had played side by side, George knows if Larry recognized him at all, it was for a fleeting second. Even that is doubtful.
George's heart broke that day.
"You're writing about a man who is one hell of a man," George says. "He's honest to a fault. Some people say he was too good to too many people. One guy told me, 'If he wants to be a good, good guy, he needs a devil on his shoulder. Why don't you be the devil?' "
Larry Morris never could be the devil. Now, he's in a living hell.
Poof.
All that glory, gone.
Hip replacements, knee replacements, gnarled hands. All have long been a part of life for retired NFL players. If the cost of a few years of glory is a lifetime of pain, most would do it again. But a troubling trend has emerged: the scary long-term effects of concussions. Former players are suffering from dementia, early onset Alzheimer's disease and depression. The price of glory is much higher and more profound than fans of the game have ever realized — or the NFL is willing to admit.
Nobody knows the extent of the problem. A new benefits program for players with dementia drew more than 100 applicants in its first three months — though it's impossible to say how many of those cases are related to concussions. That number no doubt will rise as the plan gets more publicity. On top of that, many players are unwilling to admit their struggles. A lifetime of pride is getting in the way of asking for help.
The future could be worse. As today's players are bigger, faster and stronger than yesterday's, many experts expect their injuries to be that much more severe.
"I've called it a ticking time bomb," says Leigh Steinberg, a longtime NFL agent who has pushed the league to make the game safer. "If it's not addressed adequately, we might be consigning a whole generation of players to consciousness problems 30 years from now."
The data today is scary enough.
According to a 2005 study by the Center for the Study of Retired Athletes, former NFL players who suffered three or more concussions are five times more likely to have mild cognitive impairment and three times more likely to have significant memory problems than players who do not have a history of concussions. The study found no link between multiple concussions and Alzheimer's, but there appears to be a link between multiple concussions and the early onset of Alzheimer's. The study's disturbing conclusion: "Our findings suggest that the onset of dementia-related syndromes may be initiated by repetitive cerebral concussions in professional football players."
A recent study by the University of Michigan showed retired players suffer depression at roughly the same rate as the general population. But the Center for the Study of Retired Athletes, which is affiliated with the University of North Carolina and partially funded by the NFL Players Association, reports in a third study that a player who suffers three or more concussions is three times more likely to suffer from depression than a player without a history of concussions, says Dr. Julian Bailes, the CSRA's medical director. Bailes says the depression study should cause a paradigm shift. He now sees three concussions as the threshold that players do not want to reach.
The NFL has criticized both CSRA studies as scientifically invalid because they were at least initially based on surveys of players rather than more rigorous medical analysis. The CSRA argues that follow-up medical exams were more stringent and yielded the same results.
The NFL will conduct its own $2 million study of the issue, and the CSRA authors predict the results will mirror theirs. But strong adherence to the scientific method is irrelevant to the 266 retired players who told the CSRA their concussions had a permanent effect on their thinking and memory skills.
The lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel in the Buckhead section of Atlanta teems with conventioneers on the first weekend in June. Participants greet one another enthusiastically, hug necks and perform elaborate, nerdy handshakes. Some of the men are dressed like they just left a boardroom. Some are dressed like they came off a golf course. And some, such as the fire hydrant with arms wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops, are dressed like they fell out of a frat house. They all carry freebies — in this case, two duffel bags, one blue, one white.
These are not ordinary men. Many are huge. A lot of them walk funny, almost shuffling, as if they couldn't stretch their legs all the way out even if they wanted to. Once they sit down, they stay down, unless they absolutely have to stand up — an arduous task from which the snaps, crackles and pops are audible. This is not an ordinary convention. It is a gathering of the NFL Players Association Retired Players, roughly 220 strong, and concussions are a hot topic.
Ken Burrow, a wide receiver for the Falcons from 1971-75 who is active in retired players circles, says he suffered one concussion in his football career. He says the concussion issue first came under discussion about 15 years ago. "In the last five years, it's been absolutely nonstop, with guys dying and getting disabled," he says. "Because of the sport, our life span is going to be less. I think about that. Of course I do. When you're younger, you think you're invincible. I did."
So do many current players. Football's rise to the top of the American sports world is built on the toughness of the players and the violence of the hits. Sitting out is for wimps who don't want their jobs badly enough. Walk it off, tape it up and get your butt back in there, Sally!
There's an old saying in the NFL, and it still applies today: You can play hurt, but you can't play injured. For years, a concussion either wasn't considered an injury or was misdiagnosed.
Many retired players suffering today were ignorant about concussions while they played. "We didn't know ..." is a common refrain in the Intercontinental. Today's players are better educated, yet many still willfully ignore the risks. In pursuit of glory, fame and fortune, they err on the side of danger.
Ricardo McDonald knows that attitude. He lived it in the NFL for eight years as a linebacker for the Bengals and Bears, and he sees it in players today. Standing in the lobby of the Intercontinental, McDonald still looks like he could play, though he hasn't since 1999. Intelligent, well-spoken and wise, he has enjoyed a successful postfootball career in business. Yet as a player, he succumbed to the pressures of the game by coming back too quickly from concussions — decisions that put him at risk.
He estimates he suffered "in the neighborhood of 20-plus" concussions in his career — at least seven times Bailes' threshold number. He says he once played in a game the same week doctors said his brain was 60 percent swollen — and then suffered a concussion on top of that.
He had an MRI recently, and the doctor told him he had the brain of an 80-year-old. He has headaches and memory loss. McDonald is 37.
Now McDonald, like many experts, says one key to avoiding long-term problems with concussions is not returning to action too quickly. Some say a player should never return to a game in which he suffers a concussion. But a six-year NFL study found 52 percent of players who suffer concussions return to play that day — including almost 25 percent who are knocked unconscious. According to the NFL's study: "Return to play does not involve a significant risk of a second injury either in the same game or during the season."
That conclusion counts only players who were cleared by a medical professional. But it still draws criticism from other experts, who say returning to action too soon has frightening consequences. There is evidence that returning too quickly from one concussion makes a player up to six times more vulnerable to suffer another. There also is evidence that a second concussion on top of a first that hasn't healed equals far more than just two concussions. Second Impact Syndrome can be fatal. "From 1980 to 1993, the National Center for Catastrophic Sports Injury Research linked 17 deaths in football to (Second Impact Syndrome), and many more deaths have occurred since then," writes Chris Nowinski in Head Games: Football's Concussion Crisis.
Kevin Guskiewicz, CSRA research director and a co-author with Bailes of the CSRA studies, told the Boston Globe: "It's a problem with the axons (of the brain) breaking down. If they don't get sufficient time to heal properly, they deteriorate to the point where they can't send the proper message from one axon to the next axon. It's like a series of extension cords. You're plugging them all together and one of them has a fray. There's electricity escaping from it, so the brain loses regulation of its blood supply, and there can be catastrophic injury from a second blow to the head."
What good is glory if it robs you of your past?
As impressive as Morris' NFL career was — he was named to the league's All-1960s team — his college days were better. He was captain of the football and baseball teams, started all four seasons in football, claimed a co-national championship as part of Georgia Tech's famed 1952 perfect-season team and went 4-0 in bowl games. The team's record during Morris' years: 40-5-2; he didn't lose a game until the second half of his junior season.
But dementia has robbed Morris of far more than sports glory. His wife, Kay, says she's most saddened by the loss of his relationships with their four children and 12 grandchildren. And what tales he could tell them. There's the one about how he amassed a fortune in the real estate and insurance businesses, lost it because of skyrocketing interest rates in the 1970s, rebuilt what he lost, then lost it again when, his wife says, he made a series of bizarre decisions fueled by his increasing dementia.
There's the one, for the older kids, about the January 1, 1953, post-Sugar Bowl trip to a New Orleans bar that, well, maybe he wouldn't remember all of, anyway. "You can use your imagination about that evening," George Morris says.
There's the one about the fact he's the only independent ever elected to the Georgia Legislature from DeKalb County. He served one term, didn't want to dirty his hands in partisan politics and never ran for office again — despite pleas from the highest-ranking Republicans in the country.
There's the glory of being married for 50 years to Kay — though their engagement had a less than romantic beginning. In the mid-1950s, Larry and Kay and their group of friends had a Christmas party every year at which they would exchange gag gifts. One year, an obviously dense man in the group gave his girlfriend a mock engagement ring. The next year, as Larry tried to propose, Kay, only 18 and in awe of the hulking NFL star courting her, thought she knew better. She thought he was kidding. "Where did you get this ring, a Cracker Jack box?" she asked.
Only he was serious. Seven months later, they were married. That will be 50 years ago on July 13. He doesn't know his golden anniversary is coming.
Kay shows unwavering grace in caring for her husband day in and day out. She feels no bitterness for her husband's fate or the strain it has put on her life. Instead, she's grateful for the time they had together, their family and the material blessings they enjoyed throughout their marriage. Without her Christian faith, she says she would not have made it through the struggles. "Larry was such a wonderful husband, it's a privilege to take care of him," she says.
What good is glory if it takes your future? Former Steeler Mike Webster was homeless before dying of heart failure at age 50 in 2002. Former Steeler Terry Long committed suicide in 2005 by drinking antifreeze; he was 45. Former Eagle Andre Waters, 44, committed suicide last November by shooting himself. A neuropathologist who examined the brains of all three men found they had postconcussion syndrome. In Waters' case, the doctor reported he had the brain of an 80-year-old with Alzheimer's and said the trauma was the cause of his depression and therefore his suicide.
Ted Johnson, the former Patriots linebacker who retired before the 2005 season, has estimated to the media that he endured more than 30 concussions. He suffers from depression so severe he spends days not leaving the house and has shown signs of early Alzheimer's disease. He is 34.
Those are extreme examples, and there are many more former players struggling with comparatively minor but still difficult issues who can't help wonder what darkness the future holds. Imagine Frank Wycheck, 25 years from now, unable to lie about his forward pass being a lateral because he can't remember the Music City Miracle. Wycheck -- who retired in 2003 because of concussions and now works in radio and TV in Nashville — fights headaches and depression. "It's a constant battle," says Wycheck, 35.
Wycheck knew the end of his football career was near after he was knocked unconscious in a preseason game in 2003. "I had every symptom you can name, and for a long time. It was very difficult to deal with. You play head games with yourself. You go into the facility every day, but there's no ice bag on your head to say, 'He's hurt.' "
Concussions are difficult to diagnose because the physical evidence is limited. You can't see a guy's brain knock around in his skull — which is exactly what happens in a concussion — like you saw Joe Theismann's leg break. Even sophisticated medical exams such as MRIs often don't help much. Neither do players, who often lie to make themselves appear healthier than they are. Wycheck urges players to be honest in evaluating themselves. But even players who otherwise would be honest might not give reliable answers if they have a concussion. Asking a player who's not right in the head whether he's right in the head is a fool's errand.
What good is glory if you don't get to enjoy its fruits? Being an NFL player certainly helped Larry Morris in business. But now the family fortune is largely depleted. Kay Morris tries to sell houses as a real estate agent while caring for her husband. She doesn't make enough to keep up with her husband's medical bills — she's too busy caring for him to spend the time necessary to do so.
Numerous families are in the same, or worse, situation, but there is new relief in the form of a benefit program from the NFL and NFLPA.
Over the winter, the two groups unveiled The 88 Plan. The 88 Plan was born because of a letter written to then-commissioner Paul Tagliabue by Sylvia Mackey, wife of Hall of Fame tight end John Mackey, who has dementia (and wore No. 88). The letter described the personal and financial hardships of caring for her husband.
The plan offers $88,000 per year to former players with dementia who live in treatment facilities and up to $50,000 per year for players who live at home. Though NFL and NFLPA officials have come under heavy criticism for stingy benefit policies and unnavigable bureaucratic mazes, they promise this program will be different. One early sign of that: Costs for the Morris family will be reimbursed retroactive to February 1.
In February, officials sent letters about the program to families of 22 former players already known to have dementia and promised to be aggressive in finding others, and they have done so. As of early June, 104 applications had been distributed. Fifty-eight had been returned, 35 had been approved and the rest were pending. Not one had been denied.
The plan could not have come at a better time for Kay Morris. "What a blessing to hear about that," she says. "We were facing the question of, 'What are we going to do?' We're in this for the long haul. If they had not come up with this program, I don't know what we would have done."
Support has come in other forms, too. Kay Morris has formed a bond with Sylvia Mackey, who has become a leader among wives whose husbands have dementia. And as word spread of Larry Morris' condition, a world of compassion arrived at the Morrises' door. Kay is thankful for the support from family, friends, Bears officials and people she doesn't know. Gridiron Greats, an organization led by Jerry Kramer and Mike Ditka to help stricken players financially, mobilized help immediately upon learning of Morris' situation. "I've been overwhelmed by everyone's kindness," Kay says.
Larry Morris and John Mackey have more in common than a debilitating disease and compassionate wives. Like Morris, Mackey is a member of the All-1960s team. At least three other members of that team — Hall of Famers Willie Wood, Jim Ringo and Gene Hickerson — have dementia, though the causes aren't certain.
What good is glory if it leaves you a shell of yourself? For Mackey, that question comes with a painful twist. Sylvia Mackey isn't sure concussions caused his dementia, but she doesn't discount them, either. Mackey's NFL career remains his only link to reality. Even that link is tenuous and fleeting at best. Mackey can go get the mail because the mailbox is the same number as that worn by Johnny Unitas, the Hall of Fame Colts quarterback to Mackey's Hall of Fame tight end. Sylvia Mackey uses this connection to the NFL to her advantage. When John Mackey didn't want to take pills, she put them in a box from the NFL. Problem solved.
Like others with dementia, Mackey, 65, often does not want to brush his teeth or shower. To get him to do so, his wife constructed a memo from the NFL. The memo demands that all NFL players brush their teeth, wash their face and shower. She signed it, "Paul Tagliabue." It hangs in the bathroom in their Maryland apartment. Permanently.
The Morris family isn't sure when the dementia started, but it could have been as early as his late 40s. In some cases, families need eight to 10 years to identify signs. It became obvious about 15 years ago, when Larry was in his late 50s. Friends noticed it on the golf course. In the early 1990s, he couldn't understand how to play a scramble. Once, around the same time, he turned to his playing partner — who also had been his business partner for years — and said, "Whatever happened to ..." and said the name of the very man he was talking to.
Odd behavior dates further back. For example, he would send a get-well card to someone celebrating a birthday. "We've always called him the absent-minded professor. That was our endearing name for him," Kay Morris says.
At the time, Kay Morris attributed Larry's forgetfulness to high stress and having a lot on his mind. Looking back, she can't help but wonder whether there was more to it.
Larry Morris looks great for a man in his 70s who played 11 years in the NFL. Though he can no longer exercise, he still cuts an impressive figure, and his full head of white hair and handsome features are striking. He walks better than most of the guys his age at the Intercontinental.
He doesn't look a day older than he did in 2002, when he gave an autobiographical interview to Georgia Tech for its Living History project. In a video copy of the interview, which runs for more than an hour, he talks about his life and career. This was at least 10 years after his dementia became obvious, and though he seems somewhat lucid, a check of the details finds some of them inaccurate.
One detail that remained clear in his mind then was the importance of his relationship with Bobby Dodd, the legendary coach of Georgia Tech. Morris' father died when Morris was a young boy, and Dodd became a father figure. Few men played as large a role in Morris' life as Dodd did. Yet while Morris looked through a scrapbook of his old newspaper clippings three weeks ago, he said he never played for Dodd.
Kay, Larry and an in-home nurse play a lot of pingpong on a table set up in the garage in the family home in Flowery Branch, Ga. He still has remarkable hand-eye coordination. When he plays pingpong, there are occasional glimpses of his personality: After a particularly good shot, he does a victory dance.
Larry sat on the couch as his wife talked about their wonderful life of ups and downs together and the pain of enduring dementia's cruelties. He occasionally spoke but never in complete sentences, and much of what he said was unintelligible.
In a two-hour visit, there were three moments of brief lucidity: He said "shucks" after missing a shot in pingpong. He tickled his wife as they posed for a photograph. And he said her name, which he does very rarely, almost never. When he did it that day, though it was just once, Kay's face lit up.
© 2007 The Sporting News
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SN: Concussions create living hell for NFL retirees
‘Ticking time bomb’ may grow worse as today's NFL players get stronger
By Matt Crossman
The Sporting News
Updated: 8:39 p.m. CT June 20, 2007
What good is glory if you can't remember it? While with the Bears, Larry Morris played under legendary coach George Halas and alongside Dick Butkus and Mike Ditka. In the 1963 Bears-Giants NFL championship game, Morris, a linebacker, intercepted a Y.A. Tittle pass and returned it 61 yards before being taken down at the 6. Chicago scored a momentum-changing touchdown moments later and went on to win, 14-10. Morris twice leveled Tittle that day, knocking him briefly from the game and otherwise diminishing his effectiveness. Morris was named the game's MVP.
He remembers none of it.
He can't sign his name, can't complete basic hygiene tasks and sometimes struggles to dress himself.
About 15 years ago, Morris, now 73, started showing signs of dementia — and today it is full-blown. The cruel disease appears to be the price he is paying for having suffered multiple concussions playing football. His neuropsychiatrist has linked his disease to his playing career. His family says he played through at least four concussions in the NFL, and his college teammates say he had numerous concussions while playing at Georgia Tech. He wasn't called the Brahma Bull because he shied from contact.
George Morris (no relation) played linebacker with Larry at Georgia Tech. Both are in the College Football Hall of Fame, and they remained friends postfootball in the Atlanta business community. Last fall, the two walked on the field together at a Georgia Tech game in which former All-Americans were honored. Larry remains a strapping man, and his demeanor and appearance seemed normal. But George knows better. Though the two walked side by side on the very field on which they had played side by side, George knows if Larry recognized him at all, it was for a fleeting second. Even that is doubtful.
George's heart broke that day.
"You're writing about a man who is one hell of a man," George says. "He's honest to a fault. Some people say he was too good to too many people. One guy told me, 'If he wants to be a good, good guy, he needs a devil on his shoulder. Why don't you be the devil?' "
Larry Morris never could be the devil. Now, he's in a living hell.
Poof.
All that glory, gone.
Hip replacements, knee replacements, gnarled hands. All have long been a part of life for retired NFL players. If the cost of a few years of glory is a lifetime of pain, most would do it again. But a troubling trend has emerged: the scary long-term effects of concussions. Former players are suffering from dementia, early onset Alzheimer's disease and depression. The price of glory is much higher and more profound than fans of the game have ever realized — or the NFL is willing to admit.
Nobody knows the extent of the problem. A new benefits program for players with dementia drew more than 100 applicants in its first three months — though it's impossible to say how many of those cases are related to concussions. That number no doubt will rise as the plan gets more publicity. On top of that, many players are unwilling to admit their struggles. A lifetime of pride is getting in the way of asking for help.
The future could be worse. As today's players are bigger, faster and stronger than yesterday's, many experts expect their injuries to be that much more severe.
"I've called it a ticking time bomb," says Leigh Steinberg, a longtime NFL agent who has pushed the league to make the game safer. "If it's not addressed adequately, we might be consigning a whole generation of players to consciousness problems 30 years from now."
The data today is scary enough.
According to a 2005 study by the Center for the Study of Retired Athletes, former NFL players who suffered three or more concussions are five times more likely to have mild cognitive impairment and three times more likely to have significant memory problems than players who do not have a history of concussions. The study found no link between multiple concussions and Alzheimer's, but there appears to be a link between multiple concussions and the early onset of Alzheimer's. The study's disturbing conclusion: "Our findings suggest that the onset of dementia-related syndromes may be initiated by repetitive cerebral concussions in professional football players."
A recent study by the University of Michigan showed retired players suffer depression at roughly the same rate as the general population. But the Center for the Study of Retired Athletes, which is affiliated with the University of North Carolina and partially funded by the NFL Players Association, reports in a third study that a player who suffers three or more concussions is three times more likely to suffer from depression than a player without a history of concussions, says Dr. Julian Bailes, the CSRA's medical director. Bailes says the depression study should cause a paradigm shift. He now sees three concussions as the threshold that players do not want to reach.
The NFL has criticized both CSRA studies as scientifically invalid because they were at least initially based on surveys of players rather than more rigorous medical analysis. The CSRA argues that follow-up medical exams were more stringent and yielded the same results.
The NFL will conduct its own $2 million study of the issue, and the CSRA authors predict the results will mirror theirs. But strong adherence to the scientific method is irrelevant to the 266 retired players who told the CSRA their concussions had a permanent effect on their thinking and memory skills.
The lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel in the Buckhead section of Atlanta teems with conventioneers on the first weekend in June. Participants greet one another enthusiastically, hug necks and perform elaborate, nerdy handshakes. Some of the men are dressed like they just left a boardroom. Some are dressed like they came off a golf course. And some, such as the fire hydrant with arms wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops, are dressed like they fell out of a frat house. They all carry freebies — in this case, two duffel bags, one blue, one white.
These are not ordinary men. Many are huge. A lot of them walk funny, almost shuffling, as if they couldn't stretch their legs all the way out even if they wanted to. Once they sit down, they stay down, unless they absolutely have to stand up — an arduous task from which the snaps, crackles and pops are audible. This is not an ordinary convention. It is a gathering of the NFL Players Association Retired Players, roughly 220 strong, and concussions are a hot topic.
Ken Burrow, a wide receiver for the Falcons from 1971-75 who is active in retired players circles, says he suffered one concussion in his football career. He says the concussion issue first came under discussion about 15 years ago. "In the last five years, it's been absolutely nonstop, with guys dying and getting disabled," he says. "Because of the sport, our life span is going to be less. I think about that. Of course I do. When you're younger, you think you're invincible. I did."
So do many current players. Football's rise to the top of the American sports world is built on the toughness of the players and the violence of the hits. Sitting out is for wimps who don't want their jobs badly enough. Walk it off, tape it up and get your butt back in there, Sally!
There's an old saying in the NFL, and it still applies today: You can play hurt, but you can't play injured. For years, a concussion either wasn't considered an injury or was misdiagnosed.
Many retired players suffering today were ignorant about concussions while they played. "We didn't know ..." is a common refrain in the Intercontinental. Today's players are better educated, yet many still willfully ignore the risks. In pursuit of glory, fame and fortune, they err on the side of danger.
Ricardo McDonald knows that attitude. He lived it in the NFL for eight years as a linebacker for the Bengals and Bears, and he sees it in players today. Standing in the lobby of the Intercontinental, McDonald still looks like he could play, though he hasn't since 1999. Intelligent, well-spoken and wise, he has enjoyed a successful postfootball career in business. Yet as a player, he succumbed to the pressures of the game by coming back too quickly from concussions — decisions that put him at risk.
He estimates he suffered "in the neighborhood of 20-plus" concussions in his career — at least seven times Bailes' threshold number. He says he once played in a game the same week doctors said his brain was 60 percent swollen — and then suffered a concussion on top of that.
He had an MRI recently, and the doctor told him he had the brain of an 80-year-old. He has headaches and memory loss. McDonald is 37.
Now McDonald, like many experts, says one key to avoiding long-term problems with concussions is not returning to action too quickly. Some say a player should never return to a game in which he suffers a concussion. But a six-year NFL study found 52 percent of players who suffer concussions return to play that day — including almost 25 percent who are knocked unconscious. According to the NFL's study: "Return to play does not involve a significant risk of a second injury either in the same game or during the season."
That conclusion counts only players who were cleared by a medical professional. But it still draws criticism from other experts, who say returning to action too soon has frightening consequences. There is evidence that returning too quickly from one concussion makes a player up to six times more vulnerable to suffer another. There also is evidence that a second concussion on top of a first that hasn't healed equals far more than just two concussions. Second Impact Syndrome can be fatal. "From 1980 to 1993, the National Center for Catastrophic Sports Injury Research linked 17 deaths in football to (Second Impact Syndrome), and many more deaths have occurred since then," writes Chris Nowinski in Head Games: Football's Concussion Crisis.
Kevin Guskiewicz, CSRA research director and a co-author with Bailes of the CSRA studies, told the Boston Globe: "It's a problem with the axons (of the brain) breaking down. If they don't get sufficient time to heal properly, they deteriorate to the point where they can't send the proper message from one axon to the next axon. It's like a series of extension cords. You're plugging them all together and one of them has a fray. There's electricity escaping from it, so the brain loses regulation of its blood supply, and there can be catastrophic injury from a second blow to the head."
What good is glory if it robs you of your past?
As impressive as Morris' NFL career was — he was named to the league's All-1960s team — his college days were better. He was captain of the football and baseball teams, started all four seasons in football, claimed a co-national championship as part of Georgia Tech's famed 1952 perfect-season team and went 4-0 in bowl games. The team's record during Morris' years: 40-5-2; he didn't lose a game until the second half of his junior season.
But dementia has robbed Morris of far more than sports glory. His wife, Kay, says she's most saddened by the loss of his relationships with their four children and 12 grandchildren. And what tales he could tell them. There's the one about how he amassed a fortune in the real estate and insurance businesses, lost it because of skyrocketing interest rates in the 1970s, rebuilt what he lost, then lost it again when, his wife says, he made a series of bizarre decisions fueled by his increasing dementia.
There's the one, for the older kids, about the January 1, 1953, post-Sugar Bowl trip to a New Orleans bar that, well, maybe he wouldn't remember all of, anyway. "You can use your imagination about that evening," George Morris says.
There's the one about the fact he's the only independent ever elected to the Georgia Legislature from DeKalb County. He served one term, didn't want to dirty his hands in partisan politics and never ran for office again — despite pleas from the highest-ranking Republicans in the country.
There's the glory of being married for 50 years to Kay — though their engagement had a less than romantic beginning. In the mid-1950s, Larry and Kay and their group of friends had a Christmas party every year at which they would exchange gag gifts. One year, an obviously dense man in the group gave his girlfriend a mock engagement ring. The next year, as Larry tried to propose, Kay, only 18 and in awe of the hulking NFL star courting her, thought she knew better. She thought he was kidding. "Where did you get this ring, a Cracker Jack box?" she asked.
Only he was serious. Seven months later, they were married. That will be 50 years ago on July 13. He doesn't know his golden anniversary is coming.
Kay shows unwavering grace in caring for her husband day in and day out. She feels no bitterness for her husband's fate or the strain it has put on her life. Instead, she's grateful for the time they had together, their family and the material blessings they enjoyed throughout their marriage. Without her Christian faith, she says she would not have made it through the struggles. "Larry was such a wonderful husband, it's a privilege to take care of him," she says.
What good is glory if it takes your future? Former Steeler Mike Webster was homeless before dying of heart failure at age 50 in 2002. Former Steeler Terry Long committed suicide in 2005 by drinking antifreeze; he was 45. Former Eagle Andre Waters, 44, committed suicide last November by shooting himself. A neuropathologist who examined the brains of all three men found they had postconcussion syndrome. In Waters' case, the doctor reported he had the brain of an 80-year-old with Alzheimer's and said the trauma was the cause of his depression and therefore his suicide.
Ted Johnson, the former Patriots linebacker who retired before the 2005 season, has estimated to the media that he endured more than 30 concussions. He suffers from depression so severe he spends days not leaving the house and has shown signs of early Alzheimer's disease. He is 34.
Those are extreme examples, and there are many more former players struggling with comparatively minor but still difficult issues who can't help wonder what darkness the future holds. Imagine Frank Wycheck, 25 years from now, unable to lie about his forward pass being a lateral because he can't remember the Music City Miracle. Wycheck -- who retired in 2003 because of concussions and now works in radio and TV in Nashville — fights headaches and depression. "It's a constant battle," says Wycheck, 35.
Wycheck knew the end of his football career was near after he was knocked unconscious in a preseason game in 2003. "I had every symptom you can name, and for a long time. It was very difficult to deal with. You play head games with yourself. You go into the facility every day, but there's no ice bag on your head to say, 'He's hurt.' "
Concussions are difficult to diagnose because the physical evidence is limited. You can't see a guy's brain knock around in his skull — which is exactly what happens in a concussion — like you saw Joe Theismann's leg break. Even sophisticated medical exams such as MRIs often don't help much. Neither do players, who often lie to make themselves appear healthier than they are. Wycheck urges players to be honest in evaluating themselves. But even players who otherwise would be honest might not give reliable answers if they have a concussion. Asking a player who's not right in the head whether he's right in the head is a fool's errand.
What good is glory if you don't get to enjoy its fruits? Being an NFL player certainly helped Larry Morris in business. But now the family fortune is largely depleted. Kay Morris tries to sell houses as a real estate agent while caring for her husband. She doesn't make enough to keep up with her husband's medical bills — she's too busy caring for him to spend the time necessary to do so.
Numerous families are in the same, or worse, situation, but there is new relief in the form of a benefit program from the NFL and NFLPA.
Over the winter, the two groups unveiled The 88 Plan. The 88 Plan was born because of a letter written to then-commissioner Paul Tagliabue by Sylvia Mackey, wife of Hall of Fame tight end John Mackey, who has dementia (and wore No. 88). The letter described the personal and financial hardships of caring for her husband.
The plan offers $88,000 per year to former players with dementia who live in treatment facilities and up to $50,000 per year for players who live at home. Though NFL and NFLPA officials have come under heavy criticism for stingy benefit policies and unnavigable bureaucratic mazes, they promise this program will be different. One early sign of that: Costs for the Morris family will be reimbursed retroactive to February 1.
In February, officials sent letters about the program to families of 22 former players already known to have dementia and promised to be aggressive in finding others, and they have done so. As of early June, 104 applications had been distributed. Fifty-eight had been returned, 35 had been approved and the rest were pending. Not one had been denied.
The plan could not have come at a better time for Kay Morris. "What a blessing to hear about that," she says. "We were facing the question of, 'What are we going to do?' We're in this for the long haul. If they had not come up with this program, I don't know what we would have done."
Support has come in other forms, too. Kay Morris has formed a bond with Sylvia Mackey, who has become a leader among wives whose husbands have dementia. And as word spread of Larry Morris' condition, a world of compassion arrived at the Morrises' door. Kay is thankful for the support from family, friends, Bears officials and people she doesn't know. Gridiron Greats, an organization led by Jerry Kramer and Mike Ditka to help stricken players financially, mobilized help immediately upon learning of Morris' situation. "I've been overwhelmed by everyone's kindness," Kay says.
Larry Morris and John Mackey have more in common than a debilitating disease and compassionate wives. Like Morris, Mackey is a member of the All-1960s team. At least three other members of that team — Hall of Famers Willie Wood, Jim Ringo and Gene Hickerson — have dementia, though the causes aren't certain.
What good is glory if it leaves you a shell of yourself? For Mackey, that question comes with a painful twist. Sylvia Mackey isn't sure concussions caused his dementia, but she doesn't discount them, either. Mackey's NFL career remains his only link to reality. Even that link is tenuous and fleeting at best. Mackey can go get the mail because the mailbox is the same number as that worn by Johnny Unitas, the Hall of Fame Colts quarterback to Mackey's Hall of Fame tight end. Sylvia Mackey uses this connection to the NFL to her advantage. When John Mackey didn't want to take pills, she put them in a box from the NFL. Problem solved.
Like others with dementia, Mackey, 65, often does not want to brush his teeth or shower. To get him to do so, his wife constructed a memo from the NFL. The memo demands that all NFL players brush their teeth, wash their face and shower. She signed it, "Paul Tagliabue." It hangs in the bathroom in their Maryland apartment. Permanently.
The Morris family isn't sure when the dementia started, but it could have been as early as his late 40s. In some cases, families need eight to 10 years to identify signs. It became obvious about 15 years ago, when Larry was in his late 50s. Friends noticed it on the golf course. In the early 1990s, he couldn't understand how to play a scramble. Once, around the same time, he turned to his playing partner — who also had been his business partner for years — and said, "Whatever happened to ..." and said the name of the very man he was talking to.
Odd behavior dates further back. For example, he would send a get-well card to someone celebrating a birthday. "We've always called him the absent-minded professor. That was our endearing name for him," Kay Morris says.
At the time, Kay Morris attributed Larry's forgetfulness to high stress and having a lot on his mind. Looking back, she can't help but wonder whether there was more to it.
Larry Morris looks great for a man in his 70s who played 11 years in the NFL. Though he can no longer exercise, he still cuts an impressive figure, and his full head of white hair and handsome features are striking. He walks better than most of the guys his age at the Intercontinental.
He doesn't look a day older than he did in 2002, when he gave an autobiographical interview to Georgia Tech for its Living History project. In a video copy of the interview, which runs for more than an hour, he talks about his life and career. This was at least 10 years after his dementia became obvious, and though he seems somewhat lucid, a check of the details finds some of them inaccurate.
One detail that remained clear in his mind then was the importance of his relationship with Bobby Dodd, the legendary coach of Georgia Tech. Morris' father died when Morris was a young boy, and Dodd became a father figure. Few men played as large a role in Morris' life as Dodd did. Yet while Morris looked through a scrapbook of his old newspaper clippings three weeks ago, he said he never played for Dodd.
Kay, Larry and an in-home nurse play a lot of pingpong on a table set up in the garage in the family home in Flowery Branch, Ga. He still has remarkable hand-eye coordination. When he plays pingpong, there are occasional glimpses of his personality: After a particularly good shot, he does a victory dance.
Larry sat on the couch as his wife talked about their wonderful life of ups and downs together and the pain of enduring dementia's cruelties. He occasionally spoke but never in complete sentences, and much of what he said was unintelligible.
In a two-hour visit, there were three moments of brief lucidity: He said "shucks" after missing a shot in pingpong. He tickled his wife as they posed for a photograph. And he said her name, which he does very rarely, almost never. When he did it that day, though it was just once, Kay's face lit up.
© 2007 The Sporting News
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