Inside the Helmet: Hard Knocks, Pulling Together, and Triumph as a Sunday Afternoon Warrior

by Michael Strahan

  During this half against Philly, though, he felt, despite the fact that our communication was sorely lacking, we had a chance to cure our woes. It all felt salvageable. We weren’t out of the game, so he didn’t sway in fury and we regathered.

  We came out a little poor in the second half. Gave up another quick touchdown. However, it felt a little different. We felt that our communication lines were finally opening. Things we weren’t seeing earlier in the game, both sides of the ball, we began to see. Those sight adjustments began working in our favor. The photographs all started to make some sense.

  We understood what we were looking at. We could finally make the adjustments that put us a step ahead. What often happens is once we acknowledge what we’re looking at, the coaches will pull out a photo and tell us that the next time we see them in this formation, we’re going to run a certain play. Instead of what’s called in the huddle, we jump to a completely different call.

  Perfect example of getting on the same page is when one or more of us, usually a linebacker because they stand close to the line of scrimmage with the best view, recognizes the offensive formation we’ve just seen in the photograph and, within the span of one second, get us all to check out of our call and adjust to the new play. Any tool to help us get on the same page will be implemented. These sight adjustments started to work for us and we started to trust our game plan one play at a time.

  While the photographs help us tremendously, there is another aid we use to make adjustments. The telephone. You’ve all seen us talking on the phones during the game, and you’ve probably asked yourself, “What the hell are they talking about?”

  Sometimes the coaches call, asking what we’re seeing on a particular formation or what technique the opposition is using to block us. Sometimes they’ll call down with specific adjustments. The coaches are all on headsets, so they can talk to each other and we often convey messages to our position coaches to convey to the coordinator in the booth. Sometimes there’s nothing specific, they just want to get a firsthand feel of what’s happening in the trenches. Other times they have a specific play they want us to run. Sometimes it’s just one adjustment for one player, maybe a corner or the safety.

  But in this case, Tim recognized that even though Philly had just scored and despite being down 24–7, we finally got on the same page. He called downstairs to get the ball rolling. He used the phone to play motivational speaker.

  “Michael, call the whole defense together. Tell them I called down and we NEED to get that damn ball back. We can’t let them get a first down now. They can’t stop what we’re doing now! Tell them, Michael. Make sure they know it!”

  I relayed the message word for word. Sure enough, we finally stopped them. Tim called down again and continued to pound away at how important it was to not so much as surrender a first down. While hoping for a comeback victory, there was no time left for us to let them move. McNabb at one point was so sure of their victory, he was joking around at the line of scrimmage. But he had awoken the sleeping Giants, pun very much intended.

  If in the first three quarters nothing went our way, the last quarter was one of the most amazing comebacks I’ve ever been associated with thus far in my career. When we held them to our first three-and-out, it was almost as if one huge collective lightbulb began to flicker on. The next time we shut them down, the light grew steadily. The third time in a row, the bulb burned brightly and everything we communicated out there, we heard loud and clear.

  I remember looking into the eyes of some of the Eagles players and they were very aware of what was happening. They were starting to slide downhill and they had no idea how to stop it. Guys started pressing. They knew we had gained momentum on both sides of the ball. They knew they were in trouble. Donovan wasn’t dancing anymore.

  When we held them and then scored to make it 24–14, every man on our sideline suddenly put even more pressure on himself. We knew that if we allowed even a field goal, it would kill this special feeling we suddenly had. Collectively, we now understood everything we had missed earlier. Collectively, we played with urgency on every single snap. Guys were petrified to let the guys next to them down.

  As we made it to the fourth quarter, we still had a heartbeat. I remember my legs actually feeling like they were getting stronger. Instead of feeling fatigued like we’d all normally feel in the final quarter of a Sunday afternoon of battle, I started to feel like I feel on the first play of the game. Everything was heightened. My awareness. My energy level. My thought process. My response time. They all moved to DEFCON 1.

  We were actually going to win this thing! For the first time all game, guys started taking care of their own assignments, before racing to help with something else. We took it up another notch after Eli hit Amani Toomer to move us to 24–21.

  At that point we had no choice but to go for broke. Every time we gathered on the sideline, guys were screaming directions and everyone was alert as you might be in a playoff game. If we had given them an inch and they’d pulled this one out, I’m not sure we would have won even five games this year. We would have been completely demoralized.

  After the score, 24–21, we never let up. We went for the throat and stepped on their necks. Eli and Co. seemingly moved the ball at will. They had their way with them when it counted the most. If we couldn’t hear and see the same thing for the first three quarters, it was as if somebody had given us all hearing aids and glasses. With seven seconds left in regulation, we were methodical in our attack. We’d tied it up with a 35-yard Jay Feely field goal. There was nothing they could do to stop us now.

  We moved in range for what two hours ago I never thought was possible. Eli dropped back and Philly brought the house. They blitzed every free man. But this time Eli saw it. They wouldn’t get our young buck this time. Silence permeated the stadium.

  We’d never felt so empowered. You have to understand what the scene was like afterward. We were completely battered. Like we’d been beaten in a street fight. Guys had to get IVs just to be able to walk to the bus. We were cramping. We were tired. Yet we fought with the vigor of a fighter who had just seen his opponent’s knees buckle and eyes roll back. That game was so brutal mentally and physically on everybody. But I guarantee you we wouldn’t have traded that victory for an easy one on any day. We righted our wrongs, came together as a team and sent the fans of Philly home eating their own crude remarks. That was worth more than any mental and physical pain we endured.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Snap Goes My Foot. Welcome to Club Medical.

  November 5, Giants versus Texans

  Injuries are the pitfalls of our occupation. The instant I hit that Texans tackle, all I could think was: You’ve got to be kidding me! My career just ended! Oh, come on, not like this. Please, not with a freakin’ foot injury!

  I’d made that same move a thousand times—probably more like a hundred thousand times—and I’m going out like this? I tried to sling their blocker to the outside and suddenly…CRUNCH…I felt multiple sensations of pain shoot through my foot. The front was numb as if it were stuck in concrete. The middle of my foot felt like somebody was wringing it out like a wet towel. All the while, there was an excruciating twisting-knife feeling in my arch.

  “I BROKE MY FOOT!”

  I tried to take two steps but I felt it right away. “I’m done. That’s it, this is the way it all ends!” In Week Eight of my fourteenth year, this was the first time I’d let an injury question my own football mortality.

  The moment I felt the snap on the bottom of my foot, the first thought was that my career was over. I honestly believed I broke my foot, and at this point in my career, I couldn’t miss half the year, have surgery, and then rehabilitate all off-season to work myself all the way back. For what? To play one more season? Nope! I was done.

  Then another thought crept into my head. You better not let them bring the cart out! My mom is watching and I refuse to let her see me get carted off the field.

  Oh, I was in co
mplete and utter agony! I walked off the field and up the tunnel with the swagger of a boxer who had just taken Mike Tyson’s best punch and didn’t budge. But the moment I got far enough up that tunnel out of camera range, I let it all hang loose. I grimaced. I moaned. I grunted. Everything I’d held in came rushing out the moment I knew my mom and the rest of the world couldn’t see me anymore.

  The brain is such a powerful weapon. It fools your body into doing things it doesn’t want to. For the entire walk down the sideline, across the back of the end zone and into the tunnel, I walked like I was just going in to get my foot retaped. Then my brain released its intense pain impulses and I could no longer place my foot on the ground. It happened that fast.

  As it turned out, the foot wasn’t broken after all. Instead, I was blessed with a Lisfranc injury—an injury to the joint and ligaments between the big toe and second toe. Sometimes guys undergo season-ending surgery to repair the damage. In my case, I had to sit around and wear a gigantic boot that looked like something Frankenstein would wear to his prom, and wait for the damn thing to heal.

  Fourteen years in the NFL has turned me from poster child of strength to having hundreds of X-rays and MRIs showing tears, sprains, strains, rips, breaks and dislocations.

  You want to be an NFL star, kid? You want to stand in my shoes? Let’s say I came to you and offered you a million dollars to let me take a huge needle, wear down the point, make it really rusty and really dull. Then I stick it into a pit of burning coals until it’s white hot and I pull that sucker out of the flames and you allow me to stab you over and over again. Take that needle and stab you in the ankles, your feet and your wrists. Not just stick it in but turn that rusty old needle and twist it when it’s sunk deep into your knees or shoulders. No kidding. It’s a lot like that!

  This Lisfranc injury in my foot was the latest in a HUUUUUUUUUGE checklist that has left me pretty much beat up. I figure if I’m going to have to live with this, you guys should take a little journey down the Michael Strahan Injury Road Map to My Body.

  Every week for the last few years my little buddy Jack, who is now eight, leaves me a voice mail the night before a game. It goes something like “Hey, Michael, it’s Jack. Good luck against the Cowboys. Get three sacks, two tips, one interception, two fumble recoveries and one touchdown. Oh, and don’t get hurt!” If he only knew!

  Want to know what smashing my body into Jon Runyan, Erik Williams and Jumbo Elliott has done to me? Want to know what taking a full head of steam from Stephen Davis and Jerome Bettis and chasing the daylights out of Emmitt Smith and Barry Sanders has done? Let’s start from my own personal nightmare—my lower back—and zigzag from there.

  Lower back. In my opinion, the most demoralizing injury that a player can suffer. It’s awful. And I blew my lower back out in practice three days after our first game against Arizona in 2005. We won, but I didn’t feel victorious for very long. I blew my lower back out so badly that I stood in the shower after the game and the pain became so unbearable I lay down on the tile right there in the shower.

  It hurt so much that as I lowered myself to the ground for relief, one of our trainers, Steve Kennelly, walked in as I started to go down. He ran and grabbed a stool and dragged me over to it, naked and all, and got me set. It’s weird. You don’t think, “Oh, shit, I’m naked.” You think, “How long is it going to last this time?” It’s demoralizing for a 250-pound so-called great athlete to crawl to a stool in the shower, moaning like a little puppy.

  I was unable to stand upright until Saturday of that week. There was no way I would play against the Saints that Monday night, the Saints first “home” game after Katrina. The chiropractor told me it was a four-to-six-week healing process. I didn’t want to miss it but how could I even think of playing? I played anyway. Ahhhh, the wonders of modern medicine.

  My lower back can sometimes be a disaster. The problem is that I’ve blown it out so many times it’s rarely not stiff. I have disk problems between vertebrae L4-L5-S1 (fourth and fifth lumbar vertebrae and first in my sacroiliac joint). Isn’t it amazing how a supposedly dumb jock can learn modern medical jargon by spending half his football life on a trainer’s table? Trust me, I know a lot about medicine after fourteen years in the NFL.

  You realize the game is taking its toll when you can’t do the basic things. One low point in my career was the first time somebody had to put my socks on for me. Notice the operative word here: first. During the season, it’s a fairly regular ritual. I never knew what frustration truly felt like until about six years ago when I woke up one morning and tried to bend over to put on my socks. I couldn’t. I sat at the edge of that bed and struggled to bend far enough to reach my toes. My lower back just wouldn’t give. I struggled for a few minutes and couldn’t get them on. Imagine being thirty years old and needing somebody to put your socks on for you. It’s humiliating.

  When I began my NFL career in 1993, never once did it creep into my mind that one day I’d have to buy shoes that I could slip on because I couldn’t bend down to tie my shoelaces. It doesn’t creep into the mind of a young athlete who has just gotten paid and is on top of the world. Oh, by the way, fashion designers need to make hipper-looking shoes for those of us who rely on casual slip-ons.

  The pain and discomfort caused by my lower back injuries has gotten so bad that at times when I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll just hold it as long as I can and sit and pray that the pain goes away. I know I’ll have to go eventually but I convince myself that maybe later my back will feel a little bit better. Maybe by that time I can wipe. Sounds far-fetched, but my lower back is so bad that at times I have to postpone a trip to the toilet.

  I’ve often thought about whether or not it’s all worth it. Sure, the medical society is inventing ways to try and alleviate the pain from my road map of injuries. Maybe in ten years, science will come up with something to allow me to live a normal and comfortable life.

  I’ve earned a great amount of money and respect in my career. Sometimes it’s worth it, but other times when I wake up and can’t put on my socks, I question whether there’s enough money or respect in the world to legitimize that.

  Fingers. I’ve dislocated every single one of my fingers—used to pop a handful (pun intended) a few times a year. I’ve also torn the ligaments in my left thumb, which required surgery. My joints and knuckles are so bad that for the last several years of my career, I’ve used an entire roll of tape for them every single day of practice or a game. Without tape on the digits, don’t touch me. Don’t come near me. Every one of my knuckles is thick with calcium deposits from injury. It’s gotten so bad in the past couple of years that even shaking hands can hurt. If I held my fingers up right now, you’d see that each one starts out really skinny then curves a bit to a huge swollen middle knuckle and then curves the other way to another swollen joint in the fist. My pinky look like a clothes hanger. And most of my fingers bend in all different directions and, quite frankly, they hurt every day. I’ve just accepted the fact that they going to hurt for the rest of my life.

  Shin. One of the oddest injuries to my body was what the docs referred to as a “bruised shin.”

  Sounds relatively minor. The reality? I was whacked by a cleat so badly during my fifth season, I still have an indentation in the bone. In fact, I was told the bone will never heal. It hurt so badly, but I didn’t miss a play. To this day, I don’t even know who gave me this lifelong physical imperfection.

  Feet and ankles. As I write this chapter, I’m wearing a boot on my right foot in my second week of rehabbing the second Lisfranc injury of my career. The injuries have come fourteen years apart and it was actually much worse in my left foot during my rookie season. That rehab was appalling; the pain was ridiculous. Not only did I injure my Lisfranc in my left foot that rookie year, but I also tore all the ligaments in my ankle on that same side. The ankle injury ended my rookie year prematurely and still today has to be taped a certain way so that it won’t bother me.

  Knees.
I’ve sprained my left knee twice and missed one game each time. In 2006, for some reason the pain from those sprains returned and lingered all year long. Just what I needed: a recurrence of past injuries, in case I forgot.

  I also popped a bursa sac behind my right knee. The pain started after a game but didn’t explode behind the kneecap until I was at a restaurant on Central Park South near the Plaza Hotel later that night. (Hey, sometimes these work injuries don’t respect your schedule…how rude.) It felt like someone had put a balloon behind my kneecap and filled it up with acid until it burst. I had no idea what had happened. It felt like I had been shot. I had to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital. But somehow I avoided missing the next game.

  Neck and shoulders. Like my fingers and lower back, my shoulders will hurt me forever. I injured both AC joints in the same season. I’ve had my shoulders shot with more painkilling injections than any other part of my body. I’ve suffered more pinched nerves in my neck than I can remember.

  Elbows. The same season I sprained both AC joints in my shoulders, I hyperextended both of my elbows. The elbow injuries forced me to wear braces all year long and the pain lasted the entire season. In 1999 I had only 5.5 sacks. I had no game because I couldn’t do anything out there. Why? My game is built from technique and leverage, and I couldn’t so much as put a hand on a blocker and extend him out. I felt so ineffective, so incompetent that year, yet I couldn’t bring myself to shut it down.