“A sound body does not mean a Teflon mind.”
This was a quote by Antonia L. Baum, vice president of the International Society for Sports Psychiatry, in response to a startling succession of suicides amongst professional football players.
At the time, an epidemic was brewing, and health professionals and sports fans struggled to wrap their minds around it. What started off as a fleeting tragedy suddenly had become an irreversible pattern, as America’s favorite game was revealed to have a lethal connection to mental disease.
First was Dave Duerson, a former All-Pro safety for the Chicago Bears, known for his quick, instinctual style of play that garnered him a reputation for dolling out some of the heaviest hits in the game. He shot himself in the chest at the age of 50, leaving behind a death note that attributed his mental instability to his tenure in the NFL.
Legendary linebacker Junior Seau followed suit and took his own life at his home in California just months later. Then Jovan Belcher, a promising young linebacker on the Kansas City Chiefs, killed his girlfriend and sequentially shot himself at his team’s practice facility in the presence of his coach, general manager and team owner.
For any industry, this was far too much death. Sports knit together communities, and right in front of our eyes, those same threads began to unravel, leaving behind a bloody trail of disbelief. These were some of the most gifted athletes in the world, blessed to be playing in front of jam-packed stadiums every Sunday while earning millions on the side. How could they—of all people—be the ones slaughtering themselves?
What followed was uproar for reform in the NFL. Following these deaths, the human mind, a wildly complex network of neurons, became an even more baffling medical mystery. The string of suicides shed light on an issue that needed attention immediately, as the fragility of the brain, even in the strongest and fittest of individuals, came into question. Concussions were clearly not just short term injuries—repetitive head trauma, the type that all football players endure while barreling into one another, has now been linked to some of the most challenging mental illnesses, including dementia, ALS and severe depression.
All levels of the game have been affected by this sudden surge in attention given to head injuries in football. From high school to college to the NFL, governing bodies have struggled to reconcile the nature of the sport with preventative measures. Just recently, a group of former NFL players sued the NFL for hiding information that revealed the connection between concussions in football and brain diseases. They were awarded $765 million in court and spawned ESPN’s “League of Denial,” a film that uncovers the shadowy history of the NFL’s treatment of mental health.
In a game that demands toughness, it seems counterintuitive to think that mental diseases will cause such a rift in football. Popping up right after a big hit has, for awhile, been the protocol for football players, especially if they want to remain in the lineup. Playing through pain is a prerequisite of playing the sport, and to pull oneself out of competition because of an injury, especially a head one, has traditionally been looked at as a sign of weakness.
Now, due to recent events regarding concussions, attitudes have changed. Rules have been modified to protect players from head injuries, and more emphasis has been put on concussion treatment by training staffs than ever before.
But it is still not enough. Neurological consequences aside, the game will always have the traditionalists who would rather have their arm cut off than see the NFL reduced to a flag football league and players who would do anything, even sacrifice their own mental health, for a few extra yards on the field.
The game will remain as it is and, as a result, continue to wreak havoc on its players.
Consider the Richie Incognito and Jonathan Martin issue in the Miami Dolphins locker room. These two linemen have been at the center of the sports world the past couple of weeks ever since Martin left the team because of the racist bullying he claimed to receive from Incognito. At the surface, the issue only reiterates the assumed “masculinity” that is necessary in football, as Martin’s absence has called forth a debate on the extent to which players must endure hazing, no matter how far the perpetrator goes. Martin leaving the team sent ripples throughout the sports world, as it called to question the need for “masculine” toughness in the game of football. Critics saw Martin as weak, despite the disturbing and disgusting messages Incognito left on his phone.
But, if you look deeper into it, Martin did check himself into a hospital to treat his emotional distress. Incognito might have been the catalyst for Martin to blow up, but is it not possible that Martin could have been internalizing mental issues for months now? We don’t know now, but judging by the viciousness inherent in the game of football, Martin could just as easily have been affected by the same head trauma that led Duerson, Seau and Belcher to kill themselves. Former NFL linebacker Bart Scott even said in support of Martin, “Thank God … he didn’t bring a gun to work.”
Martin simply walked away and is trying to deal with his mental issues, instead of lashing out or even taking his own life. The game of football can wait for him—and that might just be the best decision any player can make.
Mark Schreiber is a Trinity freshman. His column runs every other Friday. Send Mark a message on Twitter @MarkSchreib.
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