It was May 1983. I was about to graduate from college and start my pro football career, while Bruz was already a five-year NFL veteran. Our family had gathered for a picnic at a friend’s backyard in California’s High Desert. Either Bruz or I spotted a couple pairs of boxing gloves lying in the grass, so of course we had to put them on. We were just joking around, flicking little jabs at each other, when—at least as I remember it—Bruz suddenly popped me. I don’t mean a knockout punch or anything like that, but enough that it stung a bit and upped the ante. Naturally, the competitor in me had to respond. I jabbed him back, this time a little harder. The next punch from Bruz came back harder still.
We both would have said nothing was going on, but I’m sure if the people around had been paying attention, they would have said, “Dang, those guys are fightin’!”
Pretty soon we were in a clinch that for a moment felt more like a stand-up wrestling match. Then the lightbulb went on for both of us and we separated.
“Hey man, what are you doing?” I said. “Why’d you start getting serious?”
“What do you mean?” Bruz said. “You started punching me!”
I had a scratch from my temple down to my cheek. We were fortunate that neither of us suffered anything worse. I was embarrassed that we’d let things get out of hand. I’m sure Bruz felt the same way.
From that point on, Bruz and I dialed our battles down a notch. For one thing, the stakes were higher—an injury could have put either of our careers in jeopardy. But more than that, speaking at least for myself, I didn’t want my intense desire to win to somehow create tension or put any distance between us as brothers. We still did and do love to challenge each other, but now it’s more about the joy of competing and being together than the need to score a victory.
For example, a few years after I got to the NFL, we started a weekly “sports day” during our off-season. This consisted of getting up at five in the morning, joining our buddy, Bob Queen, at Denny’s for a Grand Slam breakfast, and proceeding in the predawn darkness to a public golf course. Golf was so popular in Southern California that it was next to impossible to secure a tee time, so we got a jump on the crowd. When the first rays of sunlight crept over the hills, we were already at the first tee, ready with our drivers. We had the course to ourselves, as it wouldn’t open for another half hour.
Our matches on the links were pretty even though none of us was a stellar player. After eighteen holes, we’d head over to a bowling alley for five or ten games. I have to admit that Bob usually won those contests. That took most of the afternoon, but Bruz and I both played on city league softball teams, so we always had a game or two in the evening. In later years, we added tennis to the equation.
You’ve probably got the idea by now—I truly love competing, and Bruz is my favorite opponent. But it’s taken me quite a few years to put that insatiable desire to win in its proper place. In college and later in the NFL, my competitive spirit was a huge source of strength. Sometimes, though, it was also a weakness. Once in a while I found myself saying or doing something I wasn’t proud of—cussing out a referee or losing my temper and making an unnecessarily vicious block.
You might be reading this and thinking about your own competitive nature. Believe me, I’m not suggesting that you should be ashamed of it or give it up. I just believe that when it crops up, it needs to be managed. As I look back on my football career today, I remember players who possessed that healthy, competitive drive. You could see why they were a notch above others, why they stood out. They demonstrated it was possible to be a great player without being a jerk. I feel that I also got there, eventually. It just took me a little longer than I’d like to admit.
Today, I’m grateful that my temperament includes that inner fire. It’s an important part of who I am. But I’m also thankful that, though I still slip up on occasion, I’ve learned how to channel it in healthy ways. It’s better for me and for the people around me.
Even Bruz might agree with that.
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DOWN BUT NOT OUT
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In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
JOHN 16:33
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IN 1970, THE YEAR WE moved to Arcadia, my dad was named head of a regional facility operated by a motion-picture equipment manufacturer. Among other items, Bell & Howell made the projectors that our teachers used to show us films in class.
In a lot of ways, Arcadia was the perfect place for a kid going into fourth grade. The fast-growing Pasadena suburb offered plenty of sunshine, sports, and California dreamin’. The city sat at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains and featured a number of beautiful spots. Some of them attracted the entertainment industry—in a few years, the opening for the popular TV show, Fantasy Island, would be filmed there.
Most of my fantasies centered on baseball. As a catcher, I loved being part of the action on every pitch and thinking about how I’d react to what the batter did. I dreamed of being the next Johnny Bench and playing in the Major Leagues. Since Arcadia was just north of Los Angeles, most people in the area were big Dodgers fans. However, because of my dad’s days as a 49er, my team was the San Francisco Giants. I rooted for guys like Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, Juan Marichal, Bobby Bonds, and Dick Dietz.
Not that I limited myself to baseball. During football season, either my brothers or the neighborhood kids and I tossed the pigskin in the backyard. I pretended to be NFL kicker Tom Dempsey and booted the ball over our clothesline. During basketball season, we shot hoops. Just about any time, we enjoyed swimming in our backyard pool or riding our bikes—the old kind with a banana seat, chopper handlebars in front, and a sissy bar in back. One morning, before school, I tried to ride up a wall and ended up landing on my head. That was my first concussion.
Arcadia was a great place for a young boy to grow up, but after three years there, my dad was promoted to corporate vice president. We needed to move again so Dad could be near Bell & Howell headquarters. Our new destination was Kenilworth, Illinois, fifteen miles north of downtown Chicago.
Actually, I was excited about the move when I first heard about it. I knew we would have a big house within walking distance of Lake Michigan, which sounded fun. In Arcadia I shared a bedroom with my three brothers—we had two sets of bunk beds—but in Kenilworth I’d get a room of my own. That sounded great too. I put out of my mind that every family move had been tough for me initially. I was naturally shy, so making friends at a new school and adjusting to new routines was always a challenge.
This time it was worse.
It hit me on the first day at our new home. It was August. We arrived in the late afternoon after flying more than two thousand miles. The house was a two-story Tudor, red brick in front and a basement underneath. I ran into the empty house—the furniture hadn’t arrived yet—and up to the second-floor bedroom that would be mine. The back of the room featured a bank of windows overlooking a large backyard with tall trees and lots of open grass. Hey, I thought, this is pretty cool.
But in the next instant, reality set in. All my friends and the familiarity of Arcadia were gone. Once again, I was starting over with unknown classmates, teachers, and procedures. I wouldn’t even share a room with the people I was closest to, my brothers. I would be alone.
A cloud of dread suddenly hung over me. Oh, my gosh, I don’t care how cool this is. I want to go back. I don’t want to deal with this.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling just momentary anxiety. The burden that seemed to weigh me down wouldn’t go away. Once the school year started, I struggled to get up every morning. I didn’t want to talk to people in class. On Sundays, the thought of going back to school the next day was unbearable.
In hindsight, I recognize that any kid facing the junior high school years in new surroundings is ripe for some anxiety issues. But at the time, I cou
ldn’t seem to get over them. Just getting through the day was exhausting.
Football practice for the seventh- and eighth-grade Kenilworth Rebels started soon after we moved in. I looked forward to competing in organized tackle football for the first time and hoped it would lift my spirits, but after that first afternoon of pushups, sit-ups, up-downs, bear crawls, and every other drill that a football coach could imagine, my anxiety took over. “I don’t want to be here,” I said under my breath as I walked off the field. “What’s the fun of being sore and stiff and out of breath and getting yelled at by coaches? I don’t want to play football.” Not the most auspicious start for a guy who would play the game for the next twenty-nine years.
In time, however, playing for the Rebels did become a kind of escape from my low feelings. Even though I was a seventh grader, I started as a stand-up defensive end and began to enjoy being an important part of the defense. It wasn’t just the games, either. I actually looked forward to practice and the chance to work on fundamentals, get better, and compete against my teammates. The football field began feeling like my home away from home. It helped that we won almost every game we played.
Those good feelings lasted until the seventh contest of the season, a home game. It was almost halftime. I was running upfield to take on the fullback’s block when a guy from the other team came at me. I anticipated him hitting me up high, but he suddenly went low—he might have tripped—and hit me square in the left leg, just below my knee.
The next thing I remember was being on my back on the grass, my leg pointed at a weird angle, concerned faces surrounding me. I felt a combination of numbness and pain: not surprising, since I’d broken my tibia and fibula. Ironically, despite all the games that would follow, it was the worst football injury I ever suffered. A field hockey game was underway nearby, so the medical team at our game borrowed a field hockey stick and used it to fashion a splint. I was loaded into a station wagon and transported to Chicago’s Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
One of my first thoughts wasn’t about me or my team, but about Bruz. He was a senior at New Trier East High School in nearby Winnetka and the star of the team as a fullback and middle linebacker. The Indians were undefeated, and I loved watching them play on Saturday afternoons. Man, I thought as I lay in the station wagon, I hope this doesn’t make me miss any of Bruz’s games.
It did, of course. I was in the hospital for two weeks. Even though my season was over when I was released on crutches and wearing a hip cast, I still enjoyed football and could still attend the rest of my brother’s games. New Trier East remained undefeated the rest of the season and was state champion. Bruz was team MVP. I was as proud as a little brother could be.
My parents saw that I was struggling with the move to Illinois and adjusting to our new life. Several times my dad sat me down for pep talks. “Come out swinging” was one phrase I remember. I know he meant well, but I can’t say that it helped me much. What I did learn from those conversations was that I wasn’t the only one having trouble adjusting.
My mom, Daisy, was a Southern belle: blonde, beautiful, and tan, with big hair and an even bigger personality. Mom was outgoing and always seemed to draw people’s attention. When we lived in Arcadia, she joined the crowd trying to become a contestant on the game show The Price Is Right. Sure enough, she got on. She won Skyway luggage, an air-hockey game, and a pool table before she was through.
Mom had a way of making an impression. A few years ago, I was reminded of that during an NFL Hall of Fame promotional event in Cleveland the weekend before the NFL draft. It was the year my son Jake was up for selection. I was on a bus and noticed an older gentleman in the seat behind me reading a booklet about the top draft candidates. I asked if I could borrow his booklet, flipped to the page with Jake’s bio, and said, “Hey, this kid right here, you should pay attention to him. He’s a can’t-miss NFL prospect.”
The gentleman looked at the name, then up at me, and put it together. “You’re Clay’s boy!” he said. I hadn’t recognized him, so I was thrilled to discover I was talking with Hugh McElhenny, the great running back for the 49ers in the fifties, a Hall of Famer, and a teammate of my dad.
“Your dad and Daisy, they were such great people,” he said. “Your mom, Daisy—she was country, but whoo, she was good lookin’!” Sixty years later, Hugh McElhenny still remembered her.
Mom also got the attention of my friends in Little League. After I was born, she and Dad gave me the nicknames “Beatie Butterball” and “Beatus” (no, I did not mention that to my NFL teammates). When I played Little League baseball, Mom always came to our games. Whenever I came up to bat, she yelled in her best Southern drawl, “Come on, Beatus!” Of course the rest of the guys on the team started calling me Beatus. But that was Mom. She was there to root on one of her kids and wasn’t afraid to let everyone know it.
After we moved to Kenilworth, though, I noticed that Mom sometimes went to her room to lie down and get away from everything. It wasn’t like her to withdraw. She was usually so engaged with whatever was going on. But I didn’t think much about it. Then, during one of my conversations with Dad about feeling down, he said, “Yeah, your mother has those same feelings. She struggles with it too.”
The truth is that my mom was dealing with depression. She’d had bouts of it before the move to Kenilworth and continued to battle it off and on for the rest of her life. I never spoke to her about it. As a twelve-year-old, I had little understanding of what depression was or what was going on with her. I just knew that she wasn’t feeling well.
I have to give my dad credit. As important as the new position at Bell & Howell was for his career, he recognized what was happening with Mom and me and decided something had to be done. One day not long after Thanksgiving, he gathered my mom and all five of us kids and announced that most of the family would be moving back to California at the end of the school semester. “I’m staying here for now,” he said, “and Clay will finish his senior year here, but the rest of you guys are going back to Arcadia to help your mom out.”
“Cool!” was my immediate response. I’d begun to get a little more comfortable with Kenilworth, but the idea of returning to sunny Southern California was more than all right with me. Just knowing that we were going back lifted my spirits. In mid-January, we moved into a new house, about three miles from our old one in Arcadia. It was a good change for Mom. Her depression lessened, though she still had her hard days. For me, it was like I’d never left. I was soon hanging out with old friends again and playing Little League baseball. It was tougher on Clay, who had to complete high school without the support of much of his family, and on Dad, who flew to California almost every Friday and back to Illinois on Sunday night.
Now that I was back in my comfort zone, I figured my battles with feeling low were over. I figured wrong.
On the tree of health issues, depression is a unique branch. There are so many ways that our brain chemistry can be disrupted. Unlike a broken leg, you can’t see depression, so it’s difficult to identify and treat. People often don’t understand or sympathize with someone who’s dealing with it. But it’s definitely an issue for many people.
I grew up in a football family and have spent my whole life in the macho culture of football. I used to think about problems like depression, Well, you just suck it up until it goes away. Now I realize that, sometimes, it doesn’t go away. I once believed that real men take care of their problems on their own. But the truth is, real men are not afraid to ask for help. Many athletes have talked openly about their depression issues, including the NFL’s Terry Bradshaw, the NBA’s Jerry West, and major league baseball’s Zack Greinke, who for years has taken medication for social anxiety disorder.
We all struggle with one thing or another. If you’re dealing with depression or any other illness, you don’t have to put up a front. Talking to others about potential solutions is always a smart move. I’m not ashamed to say that I have struggled with occasional depression throughout my li
fe. Right after holidays are one of the times when it can still hit me, though it’s not as severe as it used to be, and nothing compared to what some people go through. I have tried a low-level prescription of depression medication, and though I’ve never been one to tout drugs as the answer, I understand and appreciate that they are exactly what some people need.
I have a lot of compassion and respect for people who are dealing with depression and similar maladies. From my mom’s experience and my own, I understand how hard it can be to just get through the day, let alone accomplish great things. In my case, the understanding and support of my family has made a huge difference.
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“YOU’RE A MATTHEWS”
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Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
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IT WAS SPRING 1974. A tv show called Happy Days had debuted in January, and plaid pants were “in.” Since Dad was still commuting from Illinois, however, he was often “out”—as in out of town. As great as it was being back in Arcadia, it wasn’t quite the same on the days when Dad wasn’t around.
When Dad was with us, I felt like I was in the presence of the coolest dude around. Maybe that’s why I looked forward to Fridays so much after the move to Arcadia. Sometime during the evening on Friday, a driver would pick up Dad at the airport and bring him home. It’s not that we all had this big reunion when he walked in the door. In fact, he and Mom would often go out to dinner soon after he arrived. But just knowing that he was back and that they were together was reassuring. When Dad was home, everything just felt right.
Inside the NFL’s First Family Page 3