My Life, Deleted (17 page)

Chapter 16

A
FTER MY SUCCESS
with selling our small fleet of cars, I moved on to my watch collection. Unlike the old Scott, who Joan said changed his watch almost every day, I'd become a creature of habit and had been perfectly happy wearing the same one for the past several months, which was normal for someone with a brain injury. My lightweight Citizen Eco-Drive Skyhawk had a comfortable black rubber strap, and, being solar-powered, it was also convenient because I never had to change the battery.

Reading online about the features and widely variable market values of my thirteen timepieces, I learned that the Skyhawk was a favorite among pilots because it told the time in forty-three cities worldwide and also calculated fuel time and flying speed.

Joan couldn't remember when or where I'd gotten the watches other than she'd given me the Chase Durer Trackmaster for my birthday. She did say, however, that every time I'd bought or sold an aircraft for a client, we'd go shopping—Joan for clothes or shoes and me for a new watch. But because none of them held special meaning for me now, I saw no reason not to liquidate them to generate some household income. Joan was doing her part; I wanted to do mine.

Building on my car sales experience, I researched the watches' wholesale, retail, and private sale prices, averaged them, then listed them on a legal pad along with what I originally paid. After deciding to keep three of them for a little variety—the Skyhawk; the Trackmaster, which had a stainless-steel strap, lit up at night, and contained a stopwatch; and the IWC, a dress watch with a leather strap—I crossed them off the list and asked Joan what she thought of it.

“Oh, you made up a spreadsheet,” she said.

“What is that?” I asked.

“This form you made, comparing the cost of each watch, is called a spreadsheet.”

But she still hadn't answered my question. “Okay,” I said, “but what do you think of the list?”

“This looks good, but what are you going to do with it?”

Presenting my action plan, I said I would put ads on Craigslist and sell the remaining pieces to a retail store that sold used jewelry, aiming to get as close as possible to the current selling price.

Joan cautioned me to take safety measures so I didn't get robbed or scammed. Apparently we'd almost got caught up in a Craigslist caper in 2007 when we'd posted an ad to sell one of Grant's motorcycles. The buyer insisted on paying us with a $5,000 cashier's check for a $3,000 motorcycle, asking for the $2,000 balance in cash. Luckily, the bank determined the check was fraudulent before we completed the transaction.

Joan and I agreed I should meet potential Craigslist buyers at my office building to keep our home address secret.

I was amazed how many watches were for sale on Craigslist, and although I wondered if I had too much competition, I forged ahead. I listed three watches, including a new Rolex Explorer II and a barely worn Omega Seamaster Planet Ocean, both of which I priced at $4,000. My research showed that Rolexes held their value better than any of my other watches, so I was confident I could get my asking prices. The Omega, which I'd purchased for $5,550, had no scratches but felt like I had a boat anchor around my wrist.

I waited for the buyers to show up, but no one called for several days, and, even after the calls began to trickle in, I quickly grew frustrated with people lowballing my asking prices and failing to show up for appointments. I wondered if I was wasting my time. A week later I got a call from an ASU college student who was interested in the Rolex.

“The pictures look really good,” he said. “I'd like to see it in person.”

We arranged to meet within the hour in my office building lobby, where I knew they had security cameras in case he tried to rob me or accuse me of robbing him. When he arrived, he was in his early twenties, blond, tall, and well groomed in a polo shirt and khakis. In other words, he looked as if he could afford my watch.

As we sat on the black leather couches, he put on the watch and stared at it longingly as if he were trying to find a reason not to buy it. I wondered if that's how I'd felt when I'd bought it or if I'd been too spoiled to appreciate its handsomeness.

Finally he sprang to his feet, saying, “I want it, but will you take $3,500 for it?”

“No,” I said, “I appreciate it, but I'm confident that this watch will sell due to the condition it's in.” I started putting it back in the box, which seemed to prompt the young man to go for it.

“Okay,” he said. “I'll pay the $4,000, but it's more than I wanted to spend.”

After I told him I only took cash, he left to go to the bank, promising to return in half an hour. Meanwhile, I went up to my office to make copies of the sales receipt and registration for my records, and sure enough, he came back as promised. After he counted forty one-hundred-dollar bills into my hand, we shook on the deal, and he left with a big smile.

It was nice to see that this watch had brought him happiness when it wasn't doing anything for me but serving as a reminder of my previous excess.

Thank God I didn't owe any money on these watches. What kind of greedy man was I, needing to surround myself with all these cars and watches when I've seen so many people on the news going hungry, living with no phone or running water,
not just in other parts of the world, but here in the United States too?

I was proud that I'd been successful enough to buy these luxuries, but when I considered how much I'd indulged myself, I felt nauseated.

How can there be so much difference between what some people have and others don't have? And how many poor people could I have helped rather than spending money on these items that I didn't need?

I wondered how I'd gotten so off track, trying to build wealth instead of focusing on what was truly important—my family. Was that partly why I'd missed noticing that my son had started down the wrong path in life? Maybe I'd been too preoccupied to see what was right in front of me.

Several weeks later I sold the Omega Seamaster to a man from Tennessee. After we talked on the phone, he agreed to wire the money into my account and trusted that I would send him the watch. He paid my asking price and an additional fifty dollars for shipping. When he received the watch, he called to tell me that it was in better shape than the photos had indicated, which seemed to be an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. “There's only one small scratch on the clasp,” he said, astounded.

“I know, I didn't wear the watch,” I replied.

“It's just very refreshing that somebody put a good product on Craigslist,” he said.

As happy as I was to hear this, it made me realize that I needed to be more careful in the future. Before the accident, Joan said, I'd become bitter and untrusting due to some bad experiences in the business world. Right after the accident, I had felt frightened of people unless I knew everything about them, but now I'd become almost too trusting.

I was unable to sell the third watch on Craigslist, so I decided to take it and the other eight watches to two retail stores in Scottsdale and take the highest offer. By my calculations, the timepieces were worth around $22,000. I knew I wouldn't get that much; I was willing to take less if I could complete the sale quickly for close to that price.

A buyer at the Estate Watch & Jewelry Company offered me $19,500 for the bunch. I told him I needed to think about it and would call him later that day, then got in my car and drove to the other store, Scottsdale Fine Jewelers, which was about five miles away.

After chatting with the owner and his wife about the sad shape of the aviation business and my desire to convert the watches into cash, he offered me $20,800.

I stepped outside to consult with Joan by phone. “That seems pretty close to what we talked about,” she said. “See if you can get a few hundred dollars more.”

I went back inside and asked for $21,100, and we finally settled on $21,000.

“Okay,” I said, “we've got a deal.”

I had to say I felt relieved to get rid of these unnecessary items. I also felt a keen sense of satisfaction about pulling my own weight around the house and improving our financial security.

With our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary approaching, I decided it would be nice to renew our vows like I'd seen people do on TV. Joan had confided that she was worried I would wake up one day and want to run off with someone else because I couldn't remember all our years together. Knowing that my love for her had been growing stronger every day, I thought this gesture would help her see how committed I was to spending the rest of my life with her.

“Our twenty-fifth anniversary is coming up, and we're going to Hawaii. Do you still want to renew our vows like we planned before the accident?” I asked, expecting her to jump at the chance to do this during our upcoming vacation.

Joan got quiet and paused before she answered. She looked as if she felt backed into a corner and had to decide whether to hurt my feelings or be bluntly honest with me. “I don't feel that you know what love is yet,” she said. “It might be a good idea to wait until you know what it means.”

“But I do love you. I don't know how I felt before the accident, but I know how I feel now, and I know how I feel when I'm not with you, and this has to be love,” I said, still reeling from the shock of what she'd said. “Why don't you want to remarry me?”

Reading my feelings of rejection, she grabbed me and tried to soften the blow. “It's not that I don't want to remarry you. I love you, and I have known you for most of my life, but you've only known me for a few months. I think it would be better if we waited until you know for sure that you still want to be married to me.”

I told her that I may not know everything about her, but I must have loved her for the past twenty-eight years or we wouldn't still be married. I slowly realized, however, that she might be right. Maybe I did need to get to know her better, and we could renew our vows at a more appropriate time. She seemed to have guided me in the right direction up to this point. Who was I to start doubting her now?

We did end up going to Hawaii, but we didn't renew our vows. Instead, she spent our anniversary telling me, minute by minute, what we'd been doing on our wedding day twenty-five years earlier, until we fell asleep in each other's arms that night. I could feel my love for her growing stronger every day.

Now that I'd sold off what I could, I wondered what else I could do to help out financially. We were still hoping that my memory would return, but even if it did, I wasn't sure I would be able to pick up the jet business again. After all my work to make it successful, the company still had value, even without me at its helm, so in the worst case, we figured we could sell off its assets and client base.

In March we managed to get out of the last five months of our office lease, which saved us $5,000 a month, but we thought it best to keep the business alive in some form. So we switched over to a virtual office service for only $200 a month, which gave us a business address, phone and fax services, and a place to meet with clients if necessary. Calls to our business number were still answered by the same reception desk, but they were now relayed to voicemail; faxes went to my eFax, which I could access from home or anywhere else I could get on a computer. At first Joan handled all the callbacks because I didn't know enough to talk to anyone. When I felt better, we decided, I would start calling some people myself.

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

U
NTIL 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 into 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.