Is There Life After Football? (13 page)

Culturally, this may be foreign territory for many whites, although players of all races become accustomed to this brand of “diversity” as they move up the ranks of elite competition. By and large, players and former players say that race is “not an issue” in the NFL. They frequently proclaim that the league is far ahead of the rest of American society when it comes to race relations. As African American Hall of Famer Chris Carter notes, “The NFL is the least racist environment I've ever been in.”
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Players routinely say that everyone's treated the same in a game where only
talent and commitment matter, although concerns about racial “stacking” at certain positions still linger.

That's not to say that the NFL is color blind. Racialized talk in locker room is commonplace. While racial slurs are usually bandied about in a light-hearted manner by members of the same race, players admit to hearing and using them in earnest from time to time. And old stereotypes die hard. Some still consider African Americans to be intellectual liabilities at certain positions and whites to be insufficiently athletic for others. Former wide receiver David Jordan, for example, recalls that African American defensive backs and receivers never gave him due respect because he was a “white guy playing a black position.” No one believed he was fast enough, even though he was an Olympic-caliber athlete. By his account, Jordan made the best of the situation and eventually won the respect and friendship of many of his African American teammates.
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Nevertheless, players claim that racial animus is rare. They cite plenty of cross-race friendships, although locker rooms tend to be racially segregated. In large part, this is due to players being assigned lockers according to position groupings, which tend to divide along racial lines. The “white” sections of the locker room, for example, may be composed of offensive linemen, quarterbacks, and kickers.
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And, as with other groups, like tends to attract like, so that white players tend to hang with whites, and African Americans tend to stick together. The groupings aren't exclusionary, and multiracial groups and activities are common. The upshot of the NFL's racial composition is a work environment that is nearly unique among highly paid professionals.

The NFL player ethos is rife with paradox. Often romanticized, it's a powerful set of orientations that sometimes confronts players with deep contradictions. Frequently, for example, commitment to winning—to giving one's all for the team—collides with the propensity for livin' large. Sometimes this makes for amusing anecdotes. Green Bay Packer Max McGee stays out on the town all night before Super Bowl I, shows up
on game day severely hung over, then turns in a sparkling performance: seven receptions for 138 yards and two touchdowns. He becomes a legend. The Oakland Raiders of the 1970s and the Dallas Cowboys of the 1990s party their way to multiple Super Bowl victories. No harm, no foul.

But there are just as many instances where one tenet of the ethos prevails to the detriment of another. Recently, for example, separate media stories emerged about Green Bay Packers linemen T.J. Lang and Evan Dietrich-Smith. Both narratives featured the theme of unheralded players coming to Green Bay, persevering, and working their way into starting jobs on the offensive line. But in both cases, the march to success was waylaid by bouts of livin' large. Both players, so the stories go, took to extravagant eating, drinking, and staying out late. They grew complacent and out of shape. But each got a “wake-up call” in time to turn their off-field behavior—and their on-field games—around.
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These tales are uplifting because commitment trumps livin' large, giving credence to the more “upstanding” aspects of the player ethos. Again, in the end, no harm, no foul.

But consider the unfortunate case of Eugene Robinson at Super Bowl XXXIII. On the day before the game, Robinson—the Atlanta Falcons' Pro Bowl safety and spiritual leader—was awarded the Bart Starr Award from the Christian group Athletes in Action for his “high moral character.” That night he was arrested for soliciting oral sex from an undercover police officer posing as a prostitute. Robinson spent the night in jail but arrived at the stadium in time for the game. He played, but gave up an 80-yard touchdown reception early in the game and later missed a tackle that led to a long run to the Atlanta 10-yard line. The Falcons lost the game 34–19. Later, a teammate defended Robinson: “Guys had been going there all week. It's just that Eugene was the only one who got caught.” Said another former teammate, “All the guys like to get their cocks sucked the night before a game.”
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The comments were made partly in jest, and with considerable bravado, typical of locker room culture. But more emblematic of the player ethos is Robinson's teammates' willingness to stand by him when he let them down on the biggest day of
their football lives. In the end, it's a clash between competing values of commitment and winning versus those of livin' large and locker room culture. Loyalty at times supersedes commitment to excellence. The NFL players' world, like the world of sports more generally, is fraught with contradictions.
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Some players say football's appeal results from its on-field authenticity.
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There are unambiguous ways of determining success and failure, winners and losers. The game provides clear opportunities to prove one's self physically, to show one's strength of mind and character, and to contribute to the common enterprise. Each play demands teamwork and individuality, finesse and toughness, brains and brawn. Other players emphasize the game's excitement, camaraderie, or extrinsic rewards. Regardless of their reasons, it's hard to find an ex-player who didn't love the game or who regrets giving himself so wholeheartedly.

But the NFL is a “greedy institution.”
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Its demands are voracious, gnawing at players' minds, bodies, and souls. It claims players' exclusive and undivided loyalty, clamoring for their unwavering commitment. The NFL pressures players to abandon competing interests. It insists that players go “all in” if they're going to succeed. In effect, the NFL ravenously devours the men who play its game in order to create the players that make the league successful. You're either inside the bubble or you're out.

Like other greedy institutions, the NFL gets its way because it is also immensely rewarding.
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Providing material incentives beyond most dreams, the league effectively steers players away from outside options. For most players, it's the only game in town. The NFL doesn't have to be overtly coercive. Rather, it infiltrates all aspects of players' lives so that they view everything through the NFL prism. The game's priorities become their own. Separate spheres of interest dissolve. Not only is the NFL greedy, it's “omnivorous”—indiscriminately all-consuming. It wants more than just 60 minutes on Sundays. It insists on players' lives.

What does it mean, to go out on your own terms? There is no perfect exit
.
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Why is it so hard for players who've earned millions of dollars, who've been battered and broken, to walk away while they still can? Why don't they simply sit back and enjoy the well-deserved fruits of their talent and labor? Why can't players simply leave the bubble and get on with their lives? Former All-Pro Michael Strahan offers a possible explanation:

That's the tough thing about professional athletes. . . . It's over and you are in your mid-thirties. . . . You wake up one morning and they tell you you're not doing something that you're used to doing for your entire life. What's your next step? That's the biggest challenge, I think, for most professional athletes.
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It's a shocking scenario, fraught with change, uncertainty, and anxiety. For many players, “the end” is traumatic because of how it
begins
, with the immediate, shocking displacement Strahan so eloquently describes. Although many former players endorse this explanation, if we look closely at what actually happens to most players, Strahan is slightly off the mark. The end is seldom so straightforward, not nearly as dramatic. It's unlike almost any other retirement. In fact, the term “retirement” seldom describes the end of an NFL career because players often don't realize that their careers are over. They don't retire; they get fired, and they may not even know it.

That's what George Koonce discovered. He played in the NFL for nine years, a starting middle linebacker with the Green Bay Packers from 1992 through his last game with the Seattle Seahawks in 2000. He was a
defensive stalwart for two Super Bowl teams. He signed two multiyear, multimillion-dollar contracts. His career was three times longer than the average NFL player's. But when he reached the end, it wasn't how Michael Strahan suggests.

At the age of 31, Koonce started 15 games for the 1999 Packers. In week ten, he injured his shoulder. Team physicians told him it would require surgery but he probably couldn't further aggravate the injury. He could take pain-killing injections and play out the rest of the season or he could immediately go on injured reserve, have the surgery, begin rehab, and start preparing for next season. The Packers were going through a rough season: major coaching changes, up-and-down play, a good possibility of missing the playoffs. Koonce wanted to play—for the team, for his pride, and yes, for the money. He had recently signed a long-term contract and wanted to show the Packers that he was worth their investment. So he played. He took painkilling shots before every game and sometimes at halftime, and played for the rest of the season.

After the final game, Koonce did the normal season-ending exit interviews with coaches and the team medical staff. They scheduled him for surgery, which he had about a month later in February 2000. Shortly thereafter, Koonce's agent called to tell him that the Packers wanted him to “renegotiate” his contract. Before the 1999 season, Koonce had signed a four-year, $10.75 million pact that was considered quite lucrative for a middle linebacker. Now the Packers were asking him to restructure the deal—a euphemism for a pay cut. The team was contractually obliged to pay Koonce his negotiated salary for the upcoming years, if he remained on the roster. But remember: NFL contracts aren't guaranteed. If a player is released, his contract is void. A request to restructure a contract usually carries the implied threat that if the player doesn't agree to decreased compensation, he'll be released, and there will be
no
compensation. Koonce and his agent opted for the downscaled contract. This wasn't the first time he'd been asked to renegotiate a deal. The Packers had cut his salary under similar circumstances in 1997 after he underwent surgery for a torn ACL.

About three weeks later, Koonce got another call from his agent: “On March 15, the Packers are going to release you.” Suddenly, Koonce wasn't a Packer.
“When I got the phone call I was using the Packers' facilities for my rehab and treatment. I was getting ready for next season. When I got the phone call I was no longer allowed to use the facilities. So I went back to North Carolina.”
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Injured, without a job, virtually without a home, Koonce never considered retiring. He headed back to ECU, where, as a courtesy to a valued alum, the athletic department allowed him to use their training facilities and trainers.

Koonce had been close with his agent; they spoke almost daily for nine years. They were fellow ECU alums, friends as well as business associates. He said he would put out the word across the NFL that Koonce was now available. Koonce also contacted his former teammate Johnny Holland, a Seattle Seahawks coach at the time:
“I reached out to Johnny and he knew my situation that I had been released from the Packers. . . . I asked him to put in a word with Ted Thompson [Seattle director of player personnel] and Coach Holmgren [head coach and general manger of the Seahawks].”
Then, for months, Koonce and his agent waited.

I didn't hear anything. The only concrete conversation or information that I got was from my friend Johnny. He said he was going to talk to Ted Thompson, and he was going to give a message to Coach Holmgren. Coach Holmgren called me in June and asked me if I wanted to be a part of their organization. Coach Holmgren said, “George, I'm going to give you the veteran's minimum.”

Koonce had played for Mike Holmgren in Green Bay before Holmgren departed for Seattle after the 1998 season, taking the reins of the Seahawks as both coach and general manager. He took several members of the Packers' organization with him, including Thompson and Holland. For a short time, the Seattle organization was jokingly called “Green Bay Northwest.” But it was still the NFL, and Koonce signed a one-year contract for the veteran's minimum salary of around $600,000. It was a considerable pay cut, even from his restructured Packers contract.
Regardless, it was a roster spot and Seattle assured Koonce that he was part of their plans.