by Scott Bolzan
I was desperately looking for a way to take control of my recovery and my destiny, find a way to empower myself, and develop a plan of action—to find a feeling of purpose when I looked in the mirror each morning instead of the hopelessness, despair, loneliness, and helplessness that stared back at me. Knowing how bad and alone I felt and how much I wanted help but couldn’t find it, I figured there must be others out there who felt the same way—people who had suffered brain injuries or other traumas.
Maybe my pseudocelebrity status of having played in the NFL and becoming a successful aviation entrepreneur will give me an entrée to get people to let me help them.
Although Joan kept telling me how successful I’d been, I was still struggling to comprehend what “success” meant and what it felt like, along with many other emotions I didn’t understand and had to ask Joan to put a label on so she could help me figure out what I was feeling and why.
“What is success?” I asked her.
“It has many different facets,” Joan said. “Some people relate it to money. Some people relate it to having a healthy family, happiness, raising good children, being productive in society, and being with the one person you love.”
Knowing that we’d done charity work to help others in the past, I hoped that this newly revealed path might create a sense of success in me, which could then lead to further success.
Why not help others and myself at the same time?
“Maybe this happened for a reason,” Joan told me. “Maybe God has a purpose for you, and this is it.”
I still didn’t understand what God was, but for now, that sounded like a pretty good affirmation. As I searched for a new career, I vowed to be more conscious of how I could help others in whatever job I chose. I only wished I knew how to help my son.
Chapter 17
UNTIL THE INVITATION showed up in my email inbox, I didn’t realize I’d been a member of the NFL Alumni Association’s Arizona chapter since 1995. The group was attempting to revive itself after being dormant for four years and was planning to meet.
“Do you think I should go?” I asked Joan, showing her the email.
“If you want to check it out, go ahead,” she said, trying to be encouraging without pressuring me into going somewhere I wouldn’t feel at ease. She’d figured out that I was more comfortable in a room full of strangers than in one filled with people I was supposed to know, and because I wasn’t acquainted with these particular players before the accident, I’d probably be okay.
It sounded like a good opportunity to get out of the house for a few hours, but more important, I’d have a chance to connect with men who had shared similar experiences playing football in college and the NFL—smelling the same dirt, suffering the same injuries, and experiencing the same successes and failures. How could I not want to meet these guys, and what better way to learn about playing professionally than by listening to their stories? I was curious to see how they acted and dressed, what they did for a living now, what they ate, and what cars they drove. Any information that helped me progress in my new life and gave me a better perspective on my old one was very important. It was also a possible avenue for gaining access to something I’d seen on the news—brain studies of former NFL players who had suffered multiple concussions.
That said, I must have changed my mind at least a dozen times, torn between wanting to go and fearing that if I did, a neon sign would flash across my forehead: “I’m stupid; I lost my memory.” But the desire to explore this part of my past ultimately won out.
When the day in late June arrived, I set off for the Ocotillo Golf Club in Chandler, about ten miles from the house. Armed with my MapQuest directions, a notepad, Legendary Jets business cards, and a pen, I was mentally prepared to try another new experience. Having learned that less than 2 percent of all college football players get drafted, I only hoped that I would be accepted as one of the members of this elite club who had not only been drafted but also played on the field.
I arrived fifteen minutes early as usual, wearing a business casual outfit of golf shirt and pants, and found my way to the conference room. Standing outside, I took a deep breath and walked in cautiously, hoping to sneak in and take a seat in the back. Instead, I was immediately greeted by Lisa, the association secretary, who gave me a big welcome and asked for my name and the team I’d played for. Giving me a name tag, she introduced me to Aaron Gersh, the association president, who had played for the Kansas City Chiefs. He and I chatted for a couple of minutes until he excused himself to greet some of the other men.
Starting to feel uncomfortable, I grabbed a Diet Coke and sat at the far end of the long conference table, away from everyone else. As a few other players came in, some dressed in shirts and ties from work, others in shorts and polo shirts, I saw them hugging each other. Lisa must have sensed that I felt out of place because she came over.
“I want to introduce you to another Cleveland Brown,” she said, leading me over to an African American man a few inches shorter than me. I could feel the sweat beading on my face and my heart starting to race as she introduced me to Ray Ellis, who before his years with the Browns had played for the Philadelphia Eagles. Ray shook my hand firmly.
Preparing for this meeting, I’d spent a lot of time reading up on the NFL, the rules of football, the names of the big players from my time in the league, the names of the teams and their mascots, and the Hall of Famers. And yet we’d chatted for only a minute when he posed a question I hadn’t anticipated.
“Which coach did you play for, Sam Rutigliano or Marty Schottenheimer?” he asked.
My mind went blank. I started to shake, and the sweat was now dripping profusely. I was confronted with the very dilemma I’d feared most. Any moment he’d read that sign on my forehead. My fight-or-flight response fully engaged, I came up with an escape.
“Hold on to that question,” I said. “I’ll be right back to answer it.” I fled into the men’s room across the hall, where I hid in one of the stalls, shaking.
What the hell am I doing here? I’m not ready to be in the real world yet!
As I tried to pull myself together, I looked in the mirror and told myself that I had made it there, and I needed to stay. The embarrassing moment was over. I’d already looked stupid. What more could happen?
I washed my face, ran a wet towel across the back of my neck, and wiped the sweat from my arms. Having recovered my composure, I walked back into the meeting, which was just starting, and took a seat. By this point ten of us were sitting around the table, with room for maybe ten more.
Aaron explained that the alumni chapter had been largely inactive due to lack of interest, and its fund-raising efforts had been combined with those of the Arizona Cardinals. Aaron, who wanted to make the group independent again, said we should be able to rebuild to be even stronger than before because three hundred fifty retired players had homes in Arizona. The group’s mission was to raise money for charities geared toward helping children, and this year it was working with the Children’s Miracle Network, which raised money for children’s hospitals.
Now that really piqued my interest. Although the group also addressed the issue of pensions and health benefits for retired players, its main goal was to organize fund-raising events such as golf and poker tournaments for these charitable organizations. To me, there was nothing more precious than children. The ones from broken or poor families, who didn’t have enough money to buy medication or fend for themselves, well, they just tugged at my heart.
Joan told me that when I’d been part of this group back in 1997, I’d helped with one of its tournaments but had subsequently lost interest. I wrote checks to help out, but I didn’t know how else to contribute because I was too busy. Now that I couldn’t do my previous job and was waiting for the headaches to subside while I learned the world and searched for a new career, I had plenty of time, and I wanted to use it to help others.
One of my other fears about coming to the meeting was that I would walk i
nto a room of superstars, and after playing professionally for only a few years, I would be a nobody in comparison. But as it turned out, Aaron had had a similar experience. He played a year as a linebacker until he blew out his right knee, went on the disabled list, and had seven surgeries. In the end my fears proved unfounded; we were all there to help children.
As we went around the table, each of us introduced ourselves and said what we did now for a living: Aaron had become a hospital administrator after earning a Ph.D. in organizational psychology; David Recher, a former player for the Philadelphia Eagles and Minnesota Vikings, now sold ads for Clear Channel Communications; Floyd Fields, who had played for the San Diego Chargers, worked for Ruth Enterprise, a software company; Thron Riggs was long retired after playing with the Boston Yankees before the NFL even existed; Kwamie Lassiter, who’d played for the Chargers, St. Louis Rams, and Cardinals, had his own radio talk show, as did Ray Ellis; Larry Wilson, a Hall of Famer who had played for the St. Louis Cardinals and went on to be its general manager, was now retired; and Jenn Bare, a former Rams cheerleader, was a business manager for a global outsourcing company.
During the ninety-minute meeting, I didn’t ask a single question but listened intently and took copious notes. Aaron asked us to consider taking on board member obligations to fill four positions: directors of youth, sponsorship, tournaments, and membership. Afterward, I stayed and chatted with the others, enjoying the camaraderie that they shared. It made me want to be part of this brotherhood even more.
Aaron and Kwamie welcomed me with their kind and generous words, helping me feel that I could make a home here, start doing something with my life, and rebuild my sense of self-worth.
When I got back to the house, I told Joan how stupid I must have looked not knowing the name of my coach. “Maybe I’m just not ready for this yet,” I said.
But Joan shrugged it off. “So what? You didn’t know an answer. These guys have been banged up enough; he probably didn’t even remember he asked the question.”
That helped, but I still felt like an idiot. I Googled the 1985–86 season for the Browns and learned the right answer was Marty Schottenheimer, a name I would never forget again.
After taking a few days to ponder the skills required in the open positions, I talked with Joan about becoming membership director. It seemed like a job with duties I could handle—following up with players who had let their memberships lapse and persuading them to rejoin. Unlike the youth director position, where I’d be expected to design programs such as football camps, or the sponsorship director, where I’d have to try to bring in big company sponsors and vet the charities that wanted our money, this one seemed to fit my particular and limited capabilities. Joan was thrilled that I would consider taking on such a big role. She said I was a great choice for this post, and it would also help me grow as a person.
The next day I called Aaron and told him I wanted to be considered for it. Still unaware of my accident, he said the experience of running my own aviation company would be very helpful. “I’d hoped you would step up to the plate and assume one of the positions available,” he said. “I think you will do an excellent job.”
At a meeting the following week, a few more players turned out, and we started planning our next golf tournament for January 2010. We took care of some housekeeping items, then it came time to vote on the board positions. After a unanimous vote, I became the new membership director.
I felt great, but it was quite typical for me to bounce between emotional highs and lows. One minute I would feel like I did now—on top of the world, as if I’d crossed a major milestone and taken a giant leap forward in my redevelopment—and the next minute I could feel that the world was on top of me. Knowing that, I was determined to push through and do the best job I could, just like the old Scott and one of his heroes, NASA flight controller Gene Kranz, who helped save the astronauts on Apollo 13 and whose memoir, Failure Is Not an Option, sat on my home office shelf.
This NFL alumni group was going to help me make a difference and learn about my past—how this game of football had created the person I was before the accident and, more important, how it was going to shape the new person I wanted to become.
Joan was proud of me when I came home with the news. “That’s going to be awesome,” she said. “It’ll get you out, it’ll get you connected.”
We agreed that the NFL Alumni Association was going to help me regain the confidence I needed to start becoming productive in life and business again.
In spite of the successful steps I’d been taking to move on, my desire was undiminished to obtain a diagnosis and prognosis for my unresolved memory loss and my unrelenting headaches and insomnia. To say that my patience was wearing thin was putting it mildly.
Joan had done plenty of research into various tests and treatments and had requested a single photon emission computed tomography, or SPECT, scan several times to no avail from the three neurologists I’d seen. The test, they said, was too costly, controversial, inconclusive, or unnecessary because they thought my memory would come back.
When Joan asked the specialist we’d seen most recently for the scan and a functional MRI, he talked about referring us but ended up sending me back to a psychologist instead. Tired of people telling us that my memory loss was all in my head, as it were, we finally asked my primary care physician, Dr. Lanier, to refer us to a neurologist specifically for the purpose of administering this test.
The way it was explained to me, a SPECT scan was like a high-powered MRI that measured the amount of blood flowing to the different parts of the brain and showed any irregularities, including any reduced flow to injured areas, through a spectrum of bright colors. The technician injected a radioactive dye into your arm, waited thirty minutes for the dye to reach your head, then performed the test.
After refilling my pain medication, Lanier suggested we see Dr. Fern Arlen, a neurologist in Scottsdale for whom she had the highest regard and whom she would contact personally on our behalf to explain my condition in detail.
These days, Joan told me, it was difficult to determine what I understood or what preaccident knowledge I’d retained. She couldn’t be sure if or when I fully understood a transaction, could appreciate the value of what I was selling, or could comprehend the implications of my actions. But, in general, she said, my mental capacity appeared normal to outsiders because I could follow logic and reason. Although I couldn’t focus on any one task for very long, my short attention span allowed me to learn about many different things in quick sequence.
Overall, she said, I was far more forgetful about the little things than I used to be. As I was going to change a lightbulb, for example, I might set down the new bulb somewhere in the house and forget where I’d put it. I would take my shoes off, put them halfway underneath the ottoman in front of my chair, then not be able to find them twenty minutes later, shouting, “Who moved my damn shoes?” Or I would leave the house on an errand and forget something I needed to complete the task. Now these mishaps may sound common or insignificant, Joan said, but the old Scott never had such lapses.
By the same token, Joan told me that I was far more accepting of these small failures lately than I’d been before the accident, although at times I still blew up when Joan got us lost while I was driving or when she forgot something after I’d rushed her out of the house. One time we were heading out to the boat and stopped in the Mission Bay area of San Diego, where I got very aggravated at Joan for not giving me proper directions because she didn’t know where we were.
I tried to explain to her how this worked for me. “I need to know where we’re going because I feel like I can’t afford to make mistakes, and it builds up great anxiety when we get lost because I’m already feeling so lost to begin with,” I told her. “So it’s in my best interest to prevent getting more lost by planning ahead.”
“Well, we used to enjoy being spontaneous,” she said. “We could just go out driving somewhere in San Diego—or some other
city we weren’t familiar with—and look for a fun place to eat. But I understand that the more you know, the less anxious you’ll be, so we’ll hold off on ‘discovery’ trips for a while.”
One thing I’d retained were my organizational skills. Joan said I still knew what I needed to know to accomplish a task, probably after Googling it, and was quite capable of developing an action plan, as I had with the cars and watches. Where my memory could fail me was during certain steps in the execution.
There were still big gaps in my general knowledge. Joan said I often got a blank expression when we were talking and I had to ask her to repeat a word or phrase that I used to know. Sometimes I didn’t understand the meanings of less common words and needed her to explain them as well. Some everyday phrases simply didn’t make sense to me, such as “can’t see the forest for the trees,” “cut from the same cloth,” “don’t cry over spilled milk,” and “don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” If she said one of these and kept talking, I missed everything that came after it until I got an explanation.
These days I often went back and forth between the family room and my office to look on the globe for a country I’d seen on the news, such as Afghanistan, and determine where it was in relationship to us.
When a complex subject such as a mortgage came up, I Googled the definition to learn how it might apply to me or our family, then went through our household financial documents to learn more. I did the same thing when I heard terms on the news about “the federal reserve,” “a thirty-year adjustable rate,” “refinancing,” or “loan modification.”
Same-sex marriage was in the news a lot these days, particularly with the approaching election, so I discussed this issue with Joan. Before the accident, she said, we’d both felt that marriage should be between a man and a woman, but if a gay couple wanted to marry it was their business. I’d seen a lot about gays on TV, and although I still didn’t have a problem with them getting married, it made me uncomfortable to see two men kissing. That was one more thing that hadn’t changed.