AFTERWORD
John U. Bacon
When John told Dr. Douglas after his heart attack that he intended to enjoy the rest of his life, he meant it.
Aleah and Jenna both moved home after graduating from college, which thrilled John. He knew he couldn’t keep them forever, but he seemed determined to make the most of their time together under one roof. The family made it a point to travel more, taking trips to France and then Italy, followed by a theme wedding in Greece.
“The best part,” Wanda recalls, “is that we made all these trips as a family, with our girls in their twenties, when most kids don’t want to be with their parents. We were having so much fun that we were planning another trip to Italy.”
John also promised to spend more time with Bernie, and he did. At John’s urging, Bernie joined John’s country club in Westchester, where they had adjoining lockers. Even during their happy rounds of golf, however, Bernie could see the damage diabetes had done to John’s body. “His hands were so shaky,” Bernie recalled, “that I would often have to help him tee up his golf ball.”
On Monday, February 2, 2015—Groundhog Day—John turned sixty years old, which in itself could be considered a minor miracle. Bernie gave him a scrapbook filled with some of their favorite moments, which John figured was enough for any grown man’s birthday. He didn’t realize it was just a smokescreen for what was to come.
The following Saturday, February 7, Bernie and his old Western Michigan friend Neil Smith took John out for dinner. When John walked into the restaurant, he started recognizing people he’d known forever, from grade school to ESPN, but he was slow to process why they were all in New York, in this restaurant. Then it hit him—and yes, he was surprised.
Friend after friend got up to the front of the room and told him how much they loved him. They were funny, sincere, and real—and John often got choked up. The showstopper was Jenna, who pulled a few laughs and a few tears from the crowd. But the last speaker, naturally, was John himself.
“As I look around the room,” he said, “I know you all have reasons for being here, and you know how difficult life can be for me at times. I tend to carry a little black cloud around with me. Thanks to all of you, it’s getting easier for me to get rid of that cloud and allow me to enjoy life. I can’t begin to tell you all how much you mean to me. I love you all.”
Before Bernie turned sixty the next year, on June 21, John had an idea. In May of 2016, without much warning, he took Bernie to Georgia to play thirty-six holes at Augusta National with Lou Holtz.
“I thought that was one of the best gifts I could get,” Bernie said. But like the scrapbook Bernie had given John the year before, the golf trip was a setup for bigger things to come.
Another last-minute trip started a week later when John and Wanda flew with Bernie and his longtime girlfriend, Pam, to the Bahamas. They planned to stay at the place of former Texas head coach Mack Brown while John secretly rented another place a block away. Once the couples settled in, John suggested they go for a walk over to see Mack. When they stopped at the rental home, Bernie saw his three children, both of John’s, and a few of Gail’s.
“It was a huge surprise,” Bernie told me, still smiling about it months later. “Couldn’t have had a better birthday.”
Two days after they returned, Pam suffered a ruptured aneurysm, which required emergency surgery. Nine days into her recovery, while still at the hospital, she had a stroke, which kept her there nearly two months, with Bernie by her side. John often visited, and when he couldn’t, he called. On July 10, during a trip to South Bend, Indiana, John arrived at his hotel too late to call, so he sent Bernie an email instead.
He wrote, “Although I want you to sleep well, I hope you roll over tonight and see this, because I feel like an idiot for missing you today. Anyway, hope you get this to know I didn’t forget you and Pam. I hope she had a better day and thus you as well.
“During the drive I thought about how, if it’s ok with you, I’d like us to examine getting a place either together or near each other somewhere as I can’t imagine having a lot of fun without you around. And even though I know I get on your nerves sometimes, I’ll try to be better so as not to make it too bad. Love you little bro and through this tough time I want you to know that and how much happiness it gives me to see you happy with Pam.”
John was following through on his promises to his family and to himself to enjoy the rest of his life. That still wasn’t always easy, but it was getting better and better every year. The future looked bright.
At about this time John and I met again at my home in Ann Arbor to finish what we believed to be the penultimate draft of this book, and we liked how it was shaping up. After four years working together on this, John’s dream of sharing his story with the world was almost a reality. We even talked about writing another book, this one exploring his relationship with Jim Valvano, tentatively titled, Jimmy V and Me.
Whenever one of the panelists on The Sports Reporters published a book, it was their custom to bring signed copies for the others at the next taping. John looked forward to handing all of them signed copies of his first book that fall and adding his book to the shelf alongside theirs.
In early August John started feeling under the weather, but that wasn’t unusual. While Pam was still in the hospital, Bernie and John would often meet for dinner. On the night of August 7 they went to a rib place that John liked so much that he told Bernie they should revisit it soon.
“John sounded upbeat and supportive,” Bernie recalls. “He was excited about what he was doing. When he drove me back to the hospital we hugged and said we loved each other, like always.”
Those would be the last words they would share.
A few hours after midnight on Wednesday, August 10, John walked into the bathroom of their home and collapsed on the floor. When Wanda found him, he was not moving. She called 911 and then Bernie, who immediately drove over to their home. When the paramedics arrived they told Wanda they needed a doctor to declare John dead, so Bernie called a doctor who lived nearby to come to their home and fill out the paperwork.
John’s death quickly became national news, complete with the erroneous information and unfounded claims that seem to follow every national story these days. Partly for that reason the family wisely decided to have a thorough autopsy performed. The coroners concluded that John had died of a combination of an enlarged heart, complications from his diabetes, and dysautonomia, which affects the automatic nervous system that regulates breathing, blood pressure, and heart rate. John had asked that his brain be donated to Mt. Sinai for research, and his family honored his wishes.
Condolences came from around the country, including a personal note from President Obama. A week later the family held a visitation, which drew hundreds of John’s family members, friends, and colleagues, representing the usual cross-section of society that John always seemed to attract.
Bernie initially decided to avoid seeing John’s casket, but he eventually walked up to the front of the room to see his brother for the last time.
“He looked at peace,” Bernie told me. “I’m glad I have that final memory of him.”
On November 1, 2016, ESPN hosted a ceremony to celebrate John’s life. Hundreds of John’s friends packed ESPN’s KidsCenter Gymnasium, which can double as an auditorium. The audience heard from ESPN stalwarts, and John’s close friends, Bob Ley, Chris Berman, and Barry Melrose, among others, and John’s high school friend, Barry Stephens. Ryerson teammate Frank Sheffield talked about partnering with John on defense, and John’s best friend, Neil Smith, told stories that spanned from Western Michigan to the past summer.
A few themes emerged. Everyone admired John’s work because he focused his attention on his subjects, not himself. They also respected him for standing up for what he believed, having the ability to disagree without being disagreeable, and going out of his way to help his colleagues, especially those just getting started. Despite working in a shark tank o
f an industry where egos can run wild, John made hundreds of lasting friendships, but not a single enemy—almost unheard of in this business.
But the highlight of the day was Aleah Saunders, who usually avoids the spotlight. When she took the podium she was clear, strong, and sincere—a vision of what John had hoped she would become. She talked in detail about what a wonderful father he had been, thereby officially dispelling John’s greatest fear, once and for all: he had not repeated the Saunders’s family history.
Now we are left with our private memories and John’s public legacy. After John died, another spouse might have thought that revising the book for publication wasn’t worth the trouble, especially given John’s unsparing candor, but not Wanda. Another brother might have flinched at seeing so many family secrets divulged, but Bernie saw the greater good. They both decided it was more important than ever to let John tell his story. Everyone involved wanted to honor John’s wishes, protect his legacy, and help those who could benefit from John’s story—just as he’d wanted.
“Depression is a beast,” Bernie told me in 2017. “Watching Gail and John, I could see how it could suck every ounce of energy from you. Through them I feel like I know depression, but on the other hand, I don’t think anyone who doesn’t have it can fully understand the anguish people with depression often feel.
“Some events in this book I saw in a different light than John did, but when you’re depressed, it’s difficult to let the light in. But in typical John Saunders fashion, he wanted to draw some good out of his experience with depression. John spent the last year of his life working hard on his story so he could help others in their battle.
“Although John was probably never going to be a ‘glass half-full’ person, I believe John found peace before he passed away. In the end he understood how lucky he was to have a loving wife and two amazing daughters, and he was grateful. He learned to appreciate his success and what his life had to offer. Our plan was to play golf and enjoy the rest of our lives together, and we were doing it: two brothers finding happiness, against all odds. He was the best brother a brother could have.
“What this book says to me is the same message that his good friend Jimmy Valvano said: ‘Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.’
“John never gave up.”
John’s doctors saw what Bernie saw. “I was always impressed by how hard John was working to get better.” Dr. Goldstein told me. “He didn’t come in with any of the entitled attitude you might expect from a celebrity. He was very down to earth, very likable, a good-hearted guy. When you asked him a question, he gave you an honest answer, and he made an honest effort. He didn’t always succeed, but he was earnest. I think that inspired his doctors and his therapists to work harder for him.”
None of us has the ability to see ourselves in full, and John was no exception. Although many of us might be tempted to hold an inflated view of ourselves, John was inclined to do the opposite—one of the hallmarks of depression. As Dr. Carolyn Douglas, John’s last psychiatrist, wrote me, “John had a tendency to emphasize his faults and overlook his many strengths. You hear stories about people who overcome serious childhood trauma and neglect and go on to lead remarkably successful lives, personally and professionally—but they are the exceptions, not the general rule.
“Certainly John did not come through his childhood unscathed. His chronic depression, earlier drug abuse, history of self-injury, intense self-recriminations, and difficulties with intimacy are all well-recognized consequences of the kind of abuse he endured.
“But what always struck me as admirable and remarkable was how John kept getting up again and again, pushing to overcome whatever adversities he faced over the course of his life, always striving to get better and be happier—even as he doubted this would ever be in the cards for him. He endured chronic physical pain throughout our treatment and almost never complained about it. In fact, he showed remarkably little anger and self-pity about his trials and tribulations in the time I knew him.
“He was also always intent on providing and preserving for his daughters—and nieces and nephews—the kind of family love and stability he never had. It is so hard to give what you never got, and John was able to do that to a remarkable degree.”
To me, John was an alchemist, blessed with the uncommon ability to take the pain the world too often gave him, and transform that into love for his family and friends.
This book is John’s ultimate act of generosity. Here he has bared his soul to give hope to thousands who face the same hardships he did. John wanted to save lives, and I am convinced he will.
That is no small consolation.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
John U. Bacon
John Saunders and I met almost two decades ago during Dave Coulier’s charity hockey game at Joe Louis Arena. We dressed in adjoining stalls, started chatting, and kept it up for nineteen years.
About a decade ago John told me he wanted to write a book. We started working on a couple of sports-related ideas, but our focus changed after he fell on the set in 2011 and embarked on the long, hard recovery that followed. In the spring of 2012, not long after John’s heart attack, we started working on John’s story.
We worked for three years without a contract or even the promise of one, writing countless proposals and drafts. Because we were writing on faith, we needed the considerable support of our spouses, Wanda and Christie, and they supplied it in generous doses. Along the way we received first-rate guidance from a few great agents: David Black, Dave Larabell, Jay Mandel, and Eric Lupfer, who spearheaded the final effort. They went above and beyond the call many times.
In February of 2015, shortly after the proposal finally went out to the publishers, David Steinberger, the CEO of parent company Perseus Books, and Dan Ambrosio, an editor at Da Capo, expressed immediate and serious interest. Given this book’s long, winding journey, we relied on their patience and loyalty throughout, and we appreciated both greatly.
A year and a half later we were close to finishing the manuscript when John died. The people at Da Capo couldn’t reduce our sadness, but they were steadfast in their commitment to Playing Hurt. The list of talented people who made significant contributions to this book includes Susan Weinberg, Perseus Books publisher; and at Da Capo publisher John Radziewicz, publicity director Lissa Warren, marketing director Kevin Hanover, managing editor Fred Francis, Lifelong editorial director Renee Sedliar, editorial assistant Miriam Riad (who did great work with the photos), and Christine Marra of Marrathon Editorial Production Services, who coordinated the book’s final production.
We naturally depended on many people at ESPN for help, including Gerry Matalon, Scott Turken, and particularly Josh Krulewitz. Chris Berman and Bob Ley, longtime colleagues and close friends of John, both read the manuscript and offered their endorsements, while Mitch Albom generously agreed to write the foreword for his old friend.
After John died I relied on several friends, physicians, and experts to improve the manuscript. Hockey friends Dan Farrell, Rob Palmer, Dave Shand, and Neil Smith all helped. Dr. Carolyn Douglas was everything John always told me she was: smart, professional, caring, and extremely helpful. She brought all those traits to this effort too. Drs. Choudhri, Gerdis, and Goldstein helped clarify many medical aspects of John’s story while demonstrating their obvious affection for John.
Dr. Richard Dopp at the University of Michigan Depression Center gave me a careful reading, providing a professional sounding board and lots of good insights. I also asked my wife, Christie, and a few trusted friends to weigh in on the penultimate draft, including L. Todd Johnson, Thomas Lebien, John Lofy, Ivan Maisel, James Tobin, and Pete Uher, and they came through in spades.
There wasn’t much about this book that was easy, which might explain why it took five years to finish. But it was particularly hard for John’s wife, Wanda, and John’s brother, Bernie, to read the manuscript, share their reactions, and give the book their blessings. They did so out of their love for John be
cause they knew how much this book meant to him.
Throughout this often arduous process two things kept me going: my belief in the good it would do John to tell his story, and the good it could do others to hear it. That group includes the millions of Americans who suffer from depression, and those who love them.
John had many admirable qualities, including a sharp intelligence, a quick wit, and a great warmth with those lucky enough to get to know him well. But I believe he will be remembered mainly for his resilience, his courage, and his generosity, which will live on long after his passing.
John, we have finally fulfilled your dream of telling your story. Thank you for giving us that chance.
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