Growing Up on the Gridiron

by Vicki Mayk

  Almost as soon as the original 2016 settlement was announced, players from Penn State, Auburn, Georgia, Oregon, Utah, and Vanderbilt universities filed class action lawsuits against their conferences and former schools over how their concussions were treated.14 By early 2019, more than three hundred suits had been filed against the NCAA by former players claiming their concussions were not treated properly.15

  In March 2016, there appeared to be a sense that the NFL was beginning to acknowledge growing evidence about the link between head trauma and playing football. In a roundtable on Capitol Hill, Jeff Miller, the league’s senior vice president for health and safety policy, responded to a pointed question from Representative Jan Schakowsky, an Illinois Democrat, whether “there is a link between football and degenerative brain disorders like CTE.” Hesitantly, Miller said yes, that Dr. Ann McKee and her colleagues had found the disease in many deceased players. But, he added, it was still to be determined how prevalent the disease is among former players.16 Miller would leave his position with the NFL later that year.

  In the lab, McKee and other researchers continued their relentless pursuit of answers that could solve a conundrum key to the CTE mystery: how to diagnose the disease before patients die. A 2017 study published by McKee and her colleagues showed that the answer might be a protein associated with inflammation in the brain called CCL11. The researchers believe the protein, found circulating in spinal fluid, could be measured to show the presence of CTE in patients’ brains. Because proteins in spinal fluid are known to make their way into the bloodstream, CCL11 could help researchers to develop a blood test that could tell patients if they have the beginnings of the disease. The information could be used by younger athletes to determine when it’s time to curtail playing or stop taking heavy hits.17

  McKee and her team had found that the levels of the CCL11 protein rose in proportion to the number of years that former athletes with CTE had played. The levels were highest among former pro players who had played sixteen years or more.18

  Meanwhile, in November 2017, another breakthrough was announced. Dr. Julian Bailes, neurosurgeon and codirector of NorthShore University HealthSystem in Evanston, Illinois, published findings in the journal Neurosurgery that a brain scan of an NFL veteran had revealed the presence of CTE four years before his death. An autopsy conducted after he died confirmed that what was seen on the scan proved to be an accurate indicator of the disease.

  But none of these findings would catch the attention of the media and the public the way a paper published in July 2017 in the Journal of the American Medical Association by McKee and her team did. Its findings would be reported by media worldwide, with online searches of media coverage reaching 989,000 hits.

  The study reported that out of 202 deceased football players studied by McKee and her colleagues, a majority—87 percent—were found to have CTE. The paper confirmed that 110 of 111 brains of former NFL players, and 48 of 51 brains of college players, were found to have the disease. Owen Thomas was one of them. In addition, the paper affirmed a link between the length of time a man played football and his having CTE: the longer someone played the sport, the more likely he was to have the disease. The study found something important to the family and friends of Owen Thomas: even those with mild cases exhibited cognitive, mood, and behavioral symptoms, such as depression and memory problems and fits of anger.

  Although the opportunity to raise public awareness was valuable, McKee is cautious about the media attention. “Ninety-nine percent of NFL players don’t get CTE, and we said that many times in the paper. But the media stormed Twitter, everything,” she says.

  After years of criticism, the reaction was gratifying. “For the most part, it changed the psyche of the American public. There was something about that paper, and I certainly wouldn’t have appreciated that or foreseen that, but I think that paper turned the public appreciation that this is a disease, or this is something to be reckoned with. It’s not imaginary. It’s a problem.”

  McKee adds that the torrent of media attention for the study had another benefit: it prompted more parents to start to think about the risks of allowing their children to play football. Both McKee and Nowinski draw a distinction between professional players and youth football.

  “Grown men doing something to their bodies is one thing, but there’s thousands of kids that emulate them,” McKee says. “And those kids want to be and act just like those guys, and for them, the dangers are higher and they’re dealing with coaches that aren’t always very informed.”

  Youth football has followed the pros and colleges in rule changes to increase player safety. For example, in 2016, Pop Warner, the nation’s oldest youth football program, eliminated kickoffs, considered one of the sport’s most dangerous plays, in its three youngest age divisions. It also reduced the amount of contact time allowed in practice from 33 percent to 25 percent.19 Youth football’s governing body, USA Football, established guidelines limiting contact to 30 minutes per practice, 120 minutes per week preseason, and 90 minutes in season.20

  Despite such changes, it appears that concerns about traumatic brain injury are reducing participation in youth football. The number of youth between the ages of six and seventeen participating in tackle football dropped from 6.7 million in 2009 to 5.2 million in 2018.21 Participation in eleven-man high school football dropped more than 10 percent between 2009 and 2018. Even states with long-established traditions of sending players to college teams and to the NFL have seen drops. For example, Texas saw a 10 percent decrease on the high school level, while participation on high school teams in Ohio plummeted 27 percent.22

  There was another significant change. In 2006, more than 75 percent of high school players were white. That figure had dropped to 56 percent by 2018. A New York Times analysis reported that in 2006 nearly 70 percent of high school football players whose parents did not have a college degree were white. By 2018, that number was 30 percent. Among African Americans, the number in that category was just under 20 percent in 2006. By 2018, that number had doubled, with more than 40 percent of African American players falling in that category.23

  Such figures reflect something that is a concern for many: as more middle-class white families abandon football because of concerns about head injuries, it may increasingly become a game for lower-income minority families who see it as a way for their sons to earn college scholarships. The racial disparity was underscored in a New York Times story about the one hundredth anniversary of the NFL that reported that roughly 74 percent of the league’s players are black.24

  The changes on all levels of the sport prompted the National Football Foundation, a nonprofit organization that promotes amateur football’s ability to develop scholarship, citizenship, and athletic achievement among young players, to launch the Football Matters campaign with an eye on rebranding the sport in a more positive light. The foundation also sponsors the College Football Hall of Fame. There is a Football Matters website with information for parents about rule changes and improved safety in the sport and facts promoting the academic success of players. The hashtags #FootballMatters and #UnitedWeFan link to social media posts and YouTube videos that celebrate the positive experiences of being a member of a team, capture the color of high school games, and promote players and coaches giving back to the community.25

  Despite declines, football remains the most popular sport for young athletes, with about 1.1 million high school players in the United States in 2019.26 With the pervasiveness of football in American culture, Chris Nowinski knows that more needs to be done to educate parents on the dangers of allowing kids to play football when they are too young. In addition to its efforts to build voluntary donations of brains for further research, the Concussion Legacy Foundation places much of its focus on reducing first-time participation. Once boys are already playing, the ties to the brotherhood they share with other boys is more powerful than the appeal of the sport itself.

  “Parents don’t look at it as taking their ki
d out of football. Parents look at it as taking their son away from their friends. And so, we don’t even strategically target the parents whose kids are already in football, to change their mind. Because, we’ve shown that that’s virtually impossible. We target the parents who are choosing whether or not to put their kid in for the first time next year,” Nowinski says.

  For some, the evidence from McKee’s research will not be enough to shake ties to a sport that he says has been mythologized in American culture more than any other sport. “Part of it is, what is stronger than science, is emotion,” Nowinski says.

  CHAPTER 13

  BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

  TOM THOMAS STANDS waiting under a tree in his white ministerial robe, an ivory satin stole trimmed in red and gold draped around his neck. The tree, ancient and imposing, has been transformed into the altar of an outdoor chapel. As its leaves rustle overhead, an antique chandelier and a graceful swath of white cloth wound through the branches sway with the breeze, drawing a bemused smile from the minister. Church pews are lined up on the lawn in front of Pastor Tom, filled with guests waiting for the wedding party to arrive on a Saturday in May 2015.

  Tom glances at his wife, Kathy, seated among the crowd. Her face is composed, almost serene. Just a week earlier, Tom had admitted that this wedding—and the rehearsal dinner the night before—would be difficult for him. Marc Quilling, Owen’s teammate since childhood, was marrying Brittni Kitaen Evans. The couple had asked him to do the honors, formalizing the union that was affirmed three years before with the birth of their son, Chase Owen. Tom would never refuse Marc’s request, but the might-have-beens are heartbreaking as he presides at the wedding of one of his son’s closest friends.

  In a way, Owen had a hand in introducing the bride and groom. Marc and Brittni first met when they were out partying at a favorite bar with friends. She’d noted that the handsome guy who’d caught her eye was wearing dog tags. Was he a military man? she’d asked flirtatiously, fingering the tags. Turning suddenly serious, Marc explained that he’d had them made in memory of a friend who had died. The larger tag boasted a black matte background engraved with Owen’s initials—O.D.B.T.—and the dates 9/30/88–4/26/10. The smaller silver tag bore the title of the Led Zeppelin song “Over the Hills and Far Away.” Brittni would later say that the emotion he’d displayed at that moment convinced her that he was special.

  Just three weeks before the wedding, Tom and Kathy marked the fifth anniversary of Owen’s death. On that day, just as she had every April 26, Kathy had placed a memorial ad in the local newspaper, The Morning Call. That year, she’d noted in the memoriam that Owen would be the angel watching over his buddy Quill’s wedding.

  The anniversary was especially painful for Marc, making him keenly aware that one of his closest friends would not be with him on his wedding day. “It was a tough couple of days,” he said. He made a decision. He would wear one of Owen’s old T-shirts under his tux so that his friend would be with him. Stashed under his bed in plastic boxes, Marc keeps a collection of T-shirts from his football days. There’s the red and gray one from Parkland football, proclaiming “We survived double sessions together—2002,” on the front, with the word “Team” on the back. Or the one from their freshman year that proclaimed, “Freshmen Undefeated 2003,” followed by the boast “Us: 366, Them: 36, 7 Shut Outs.” Although both of those shirts carried memories inextricably associated with Owen, they were not the one he chose. He picked the one displaying the word Buffaloes in red on a dark gray shirt. The Thomases had given it to him as a memento. It was one of Owen’s old North Parkland youth league tees, signifying the beginning of their friendship when they had met playing baseball and football. That was the one he wore beneath his shirt on his wedding day.

  Before the ceremony Marc and his groomsmen gathered in one of the farm’s buildings to dress. There were familiar faces from Parkland football days. Mike Fay, Jamie Pagliaro, Chris Funk; all of them were part of the wedding party. Also, four of Marc’s teammates from Lafayette College were groomsmen, along with Brittni’s younger brother, Evan. Marc’s brother, Ryan, was best man. They took turns helping each other fasten suspenders, button shirt cuffs, and pin on boutonnieres, hoisting a few beers as they prepared. At one point, a bottle of Jack Daniels made the rounds among them. Someone had brought a football—an unlikely addition to wedding preparations, perhaps, but for the group it was a touchstone, the symbol of what had cemented their friendships for so many years.

  The ball came in handy as a distraction for tiny Chase Owen, Marc and Brittni’s son. In between donning their wedding gear, the men took turns holding the ball for the toddler as he attempted a punt. Finally, he sent the ball flying to the delight of the men who once played the game. Soon Marc’s father lent a hand to help dress the little boy in a facsimile of the adult tuxedos: black pants, shirt, and shoes.

  When the time came for the ceremony, Marc and the groomsmen formed a line in front of the guests, facing front in anticipation of the bride’s entrance. Coming down a path strewn with rose petals, nine bridesmaids walked with deliberate, measured steps, their long, soft gray dresses brushing the blades of grass. Behind them, Brittni entered on her father’s arm, her long black, three-quarter-length gloves dramatic against her white dress, a large bouquet of pink and white peonies clasped in her hand. To the east, a bank of dark clouds gathered, heralding a spring thunderstorm.

  Brittni and Marc faced each other to make their vows, looking toward a shared future. They exchanged rings. They kissed. And then the couple exited past the rows of guests who tossed red rose petals, the wedding party streaming after them.

  The clouds were more pronounced now and everyone wondered if the rain would hold off until the photos were taken. They seemed to grow more ominous with every click of the lens—the bride and groom with each family, the bride with her bridesmaids, the groom with his groomsmen, and, finally, the entire wedding party in formal poses and clowning around. Then, with the sky growing darker and darker, the wedding party made their entrance into the building where the reception was being held. The wind picked up as each couple was announced—until finally Marc and Brittni’s entrance was signaled by the DJ’s announcement: “Mr. and Mrs. Marc Quilling.” They glided in, Brittni’s bouquet of peonies held aloft like a torch. And then, to punctuate the moment, thunder rumbled and rain poured from the sky in sheets.

  Mike Fay looked at Chris Funk. “Owen,” he said. He’s sure, through some otherworldly intercession, that their friend held the rain at bay.

  Over the next few years, Tom would officiate at several weddings for the football boys, his dutiful attempt to fill the space left empty by his son. A year after the Quilling wedding, Emily Toth married Luke DeLuca, Owen’s Penn roommate. Once again in an idyllic setting—this time a vineyard—the couple stood in front of Owen’s father and became husband and wife. Once again, the palpable sense of loss was felt. And once again, as wedding pictures were taken, a storm gathered. In one shot, Luke dips Emily back for a dramatic kiss against the backdrop of ominously black clouds. As the shutter clicked, a bolt of lightning flashed overhead, forming a backdrop for their embrace. Owen again, some of them said.

  In November 2016, at what would be the last wedding where Tom would officiate for one of Owen’s former teammates, Mike Fay and his fiancée, Stephanie, were married. At the reception, the group inevitably reminisced about Owen. This time the talk turned to the time when Mike’s car became stuck during a snowstorm.

  “So, Mr. Thomas had to come out and get us.” Mike pauses, reflecting on the memory—and remembering that Owen’s father didn’t share the story with Mike’s parents, saving him a lecture about his carelessness. “We had a really good time.”

  During the reception, the stories are shared with light-hearted banter. But the day after the wedding, Kathy posted a wedding photo of the newlyweds on the “RIP Owen Thomas” page on Facebook, where she spoke to her dead son: “My heart breaks that you weren’t there, again. Talked to all your
friends who are now fine young men and women. Remembered the night you called us to pull Mike’s car out of the snowy field. All the guys remembered it. Watch over Mike and Stephanie.”

  Although most of the young men have married, the game of football remains a constant in their lives. Former players have become enthusiastic fans, but a few remain actively involved in the sport as coaches. They follow the path of the men who coached them. Jamie Pagliaro’s journey on the gridiron intersected once again with his Parkland coach, Jim Morgans, on the coaching staff of Allentown Central Catholic High School. On a fall Friday in 2019, both men are in Allentown’s J. Birney Crum Stadium.

  J. Birney Crum Stadium is a grand old sports venue, built in 1948 when rows of concrete stands rimmed with wood benches rose steeply from the track around the field. Now those benches are metal, and a 2002 renovation added a flashy new scoreboard—the Andre Reed scoreboard, named for the Allentown player who went on to play for the Buffalo Bills and Washington Redskins. Once the largest high school stadium in Pennsylvania, it is the home field for three schools—the city’s public high schools, William Allen and Louis E. Dieruff, and Allentown Central Catholic. The stadium is surrounded by city neighborhoods that are overrun by drivers seeking parking on game nights. If residents on the streets around the stadium wonder who is playing, they need only listen to the booming public address system. If they hear the sound of a prayer being raised just before “The Star-Spangled Banner” is played, they know the Central Catholic Vikings are on the field tonight.