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reekierevelator · 6 years ago

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On the Eve of the Wedding

Finishing up at work on Friday nights was never easy. There was always one last thing to do. And then another last thing. And another. It was never easy ensuring all the vans had returned from making deliveries and all next week’s orders were fully processed and ready to be loaded first thing Monday morning. And presentation was important. If the vans came back filthy a quick hose down was necessary.

Being loading bay supervisor was a reasonable job but I was hoping to make transport manager before I hit thirty. After that I figured it might be time to settle down. But that Friday all I was thinking was at least it was the end of the week. So, at last, time for a pint at the local, the works’ crowd gathering in the Sheared Sheep, just to be sociable and wind down, reducing the week’s stresses and strains to old war stories, something to make each other laugh about.

And Friday nights I liked a drink. Didn’t take the old jalopy in on Fridays. So later I’d generally pick up fish and chips or a pizza, or end up in an Indian restaurant with some of the gang. If I got the early bus back to my little bachelor pad on the outskirts of town I’d maybe get something delivered. But this Friday night was different.

It was Rebecca Ralston, the red head from the marketing department. I seemed to have been bumping into her for the last few weeks. The main offices were at the opposite end of the site to the loading bay but somehow she’d felt the need to come over several times, wanting to talk to me about planning new adverts for the vans, different colour schemes, scheduling printing, application to the vehicles and so on. And this even though the current advertising contract still had almost a year to run.

Not that I minded. She was a bubbly sort of girl, an effervescent personality. Irregular teeth like pushed over tombstones but still easy on the eye. She brought a little brightness into the windowless little office in the dark cavern of the loading bay. She liked to talk with a hand on my arm or my shoulder, making sure she had my attention. And that day she hinted that after work on Fridays it wasn’t unusual for her to find her way to the Sheared Sheep. As it happened it suited her, she said, living close enough to just walk home if she happened to stay late.

Unfortunately, it was nearly eight when I finally got everything wrapped up and made that watering hole. The pub was already in that in-between phase where most of the early evening ‘couple of pints after work’ crowd had already been, drunk their quota, and gone off to catch buses and trains, while only one or two of the genuine locals had as yet made an appearance.

But Rebecca was there, sitting on the edge of one of those leather sofas they’d refurbished the place with, the typical modern décor reflecting the changing functionality; more coffee shop or restaurant these days than the traditional beer-swillers’ second home.

The sofa was angled towards the door and as I entered she looked up at me under her curls and neatly shaped eyebrows and I could see she already had a glow on. She smiled that girlish crooked teeth smile and raised her hand in a nominal gesture of welcome. The black jacket of her office trouser suit was slung over the arm of the sofa. Her pretty powder blue blouse and black trousers looking fetching.

Two of the new young recruits to Accounts sat beside her. They noticed me as they followed Rebecca’s gaze. She introduced them as Jerome and Melissa but as I joined them they both rose to leave, even refusing my offer of a round, insisting instead that they had other obligations and had to rush home. But they would be sure to see me around the office – sometime. People from the main office don’t mix much with the van loading fraternity.

Rebecca held out an empty glass saying she wouldn’t mind another double vodka tonic with lemon and ice, and when I returned from the bar the pub was even emptier. Rebecca made a show of looking around all points of the compass, her short red curls bouncing, before she declared the Sheared Sheep mutton.

‘It’s really dead here, isn’t it?

I nodded and took another swallow before concluding the guest real ale, Crafty Brown Cow IPA was something less than acceptable. It seemed fermented from liquidised mince.

‘There’s another place up off the main road that’s livelier,’ Rebecca was saying, and I’d hardly had time to sit down before she’d grabbed my hand and we were on the move.

The Hardened Artery wasn’t my usual kind of place but it was certainly busy. A three piece guitar band was playing 50s rock n roll on a tiny stage and there were even young trendy types trying to dance. I rooted around and managed to scrounge a couple of stools and we proceeded to shout at each other, exchanging inane pleasantries over a medley of Johnny B Good and Hey Bo Diddley.

‘I like your shirt,’ she shouted, making me glance down at my red and blue striped button-down Ben Sherman.

‘I like your blouse Rebecca,’ I shouted back.

‘Call me Becky,’ she insisted.

‘Ok,’ I said, ‘call me Steve.’

The band were roaring into Promised Land as Becky drew her stool much closer to mine saying she couldn’t hear, and I picked up floral notes from her eau de cologne as she pressed her legs up against mine. She waved her hand around ostentatiously like a fan in front of her face and undid the top buttons of her blouse as she complained about the heat. I felt myself definitely getting very warm too. I might not be quite God’s gift but I was sure I was picking up signals and the sap was rising. I wasn’t wearing a tie I could loosen but I took off my jacket and instead undid a few buttons of my shirt revealing the pecs and heading to the six pack.

Another few drinks in that sweaty room and the long working week was catching up with me. I was dreading the long cold bus journey home and found myself glancing down at Rebecca’s newly revealed cleavage with a certain amount of wishful thinking.

‘After a final couple of brandies we fell out into the cold dark street and, saying how late it was, Becky suggested, as even in my increasingly inebriated state I somehow thought she might, that I spend the night at her place and leave off travelling home until the morning.

After a twenty minute walk, or rather stagger, including various impromptu stops for clinches and kisses, her place turned out to be a bedsit in a big old converted house, part of a street of big old converted houses. The furnishings were Spartan. A lack of chairs meant I had to sit on the bed while she retrieved a couple of bottles of beer from an otherwise suspiciously empty cupboard. After she’d applied the bottle-opener and handed me mine she plonked herself down across my knees, draping her arm around my neck. I only had time for one more sip of beer before her lips locked on mine and we toppled backwards on to the bed.

She was wildly enthusiastic and I wasn’t complaining, but that degree of gay abandon did engender a certain sort of ‘last time before the end of the world’ feeling. It was a long time before I was allowed to sleep.

Afterwards, in the morning, I commented that of the various women I’d known she was unusual in not living amid a clutter of clothes, shoes, accessories, and a jumble of make-up jars and bottles.

She said ‘Well, to be honest, that is usually me too, but I’ve already moved almost all of my stuff to Denis’s place.’

‘Denis?’ I queried cautiously.

‘My fiancé. I’m moving in to his place after the wedding.’

For a moment I thought, hoped, I’d misheard. But Becky rambled on, unselfconscious and unconcerned. ‘The wedding’s at three o’clock tomorrow. Well, three o’clock today now, of course,’ she said peering at her little bedside alarm clock and giggling. ‘The dress – floor length, dazzling white and lacy - is laid out at my Mum’s, along with all the other stuff. The cake’s a beauty – three tiers. I’ve got to get to HairWays at eleven. Full hairdo and manicure treatment. I’m going for cherry red nail-varnish to match my lipstick. The make-up will take forever. Sorry, it’s a bit late to send you an invite. But there are still one or two things no-one’s chosen yet on our gift list – I mean, only if you really wanted to…’

‘You’re… you’re… getting married - today?’ I managed to stammer.

She stretched her arm under the bed and brought forth a little box. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said, opening the little box and putting the ring on her finger. She held her arm up in the air to watch the diamond sparkle.

‘And Denis?’

‘Oh, he plays rugby, professional now. And he’s been working nights as a doorman, mainly the Jacaranda Club, - to help pay for the wedding.’

‘Ah... he sounds like a great guy.’

‘Yes, but I’m not married to him yet, am I Steve? And you’ve got lovely blue eyes and you’re really quite firm and muscular too – it must be helping to load all those heavy boxes. You know the girls up at the office have been talking about you for a while. We like to see your hose on the forecourt. I thought, well, I might as well make use of my last legitimate opportunity. At least that’s what they all told me when we were out on my hen night last week.’

‘Oh really?’ was all I could find to say.

Maybe I looked a little disappointed or pensive because she peered into my apparently lovely blue eyes and bit her lip with her unusual teeth. ‘Oh dear, I hope I haven’t offended you.’ she said. ‘Steve, you don’t feel I’ve just been using you, do you?’ She burst into a big smile. ‘I mean, it was good fun, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, yes,’ I had to admit. ‘Really, it was great. And no, I suppose… I mean, I was as keen as you were… It’s just…’

‘Oh, well that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ Her eyes shone brightly. ‘And it’s only nine o’clock. I won’t be Mrs Denis McGlone for another six hours. We’ve still got at least another hour before I have to be going.’

And as she fell into my arms I tried hard to clear all the frightening images of giant prop forwards and burly bouncers from my mind.

#Reekie Revelator #edinburgh #wedding #humour #humor #short story

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b-afterhours · 7 years ago

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Sympathy For The Devil (part one)

summary: Set in 1978, Bill a young yet accomplish cop takes on the crime in New York City. Nervous yet excited to take on his first big task at his new department and prove himself. He soon finds out his partner is everything he had least expected.

warnings: strong language, mentions of sex acts, mentions of drugs

tags: @kikilikes @itsbillskarsgard

Sirens were wailing in the distance in East Harlem. The noise growing louder as Bill, pent up with nervous energy, walked down the graffitied streets to the police station in which he worked. Finally, about to take on the first big case at the station since he was transferred to in New York City. He was originally from Newark, born and raised. Although New York City was just a ferry ride away, the big city still felt daunting. Especially in 1978, the streets were rough, every corner was a wrong turn if you weren't lucky.

Bill walked in the station, the scent of coffee and cigarettes welcoming him. The secretaries and assistants all in a tizzy getting the paperwork through from the weekend. Though when he walked by, no matter how busy any of them were, they cocked a head in his direction to say hello. He politely smiled at them and he could literally see how they just melted. It was silly. A fresh young face in the station must have been a hot commodity for their daily water cooler conversations.

He arrived at his desk, way off in the back of the place, shrugging off his gray suit jacket, draping it across the back of his chair. Moving the morning paper aside, he started to look at random papers to look busy. He glanced up hoping to see that his lieutenant finally arrived so he'd get assigned to his case today. He was eager to get off paperwork duty, to finally get a uniform, and ride around in a cruiser. It's what he did in Newark, protecting the community and chasing down criminals. He reached ranks quickly at the old station because he was passionate about the job. Not many people liked it, he was still new only a few years on his belt, it ruffled the feathers on the more seasoned deputies. Especially, when he got promoted.

He was called in by the sheriff after a long day cruising the streets of Newark. Had a nice conversation over his achievements and was asked, then and there, if he was interested in working in NYC. That, there was a station in a shortage and he thought Bill was just the right person to send over considering all the crime and drugs in the city. The station only wanted the best and the sheriff felt confident that his best was Bill.

He was buzzing with excitement upon his arrival to his new job in the Big Apple but failed to realize what a mighty beast he was up against. The station even had a different hierarchy of order. He didn't get his NYPD uniform as he expected on his first day. Instead, he was regulated to paperwork, a way for his superiors to feel him out, to see where he best fit. After two months of sitting at his desk reviewing files and regretting relocating his whole life, he took matters into his own hands. He started asking the secretary's what areas were lacking in the department and what were the bigger crime issues in the precinct. It was drugs, more specifically, cocaine and in 1978 it hit an all-time peak. Everyone and their mother were snorting the stuff. The ladies were happy to speak on more secure matters with him just to be next to him. He knew it wasn't fair to lead them on, to charm them, but he didn't have any other ground to stand on. At least he made good conversation with them. He hardly talked to anyone. Patricia was his go-to girl, she always had the dirt, the good kind with the evidence to back to back it up. She was the oldest out of the secretaries, the mom of the bunch, and he liked especially that she didn't ogle at him as he spoke.

"They're needing people to work with criminal informants," she said hushed to him a few weeks ago. "Somewhat of an undercover deal. I think you'd be perfect for it."

Bill nodded contemplating on it. "How should I go about getting the job? I'm dying here. I made a case to get off paperwork duty a week ago now and no one's gotten back to me."

"I know sweetie," Patricia frowned a bit, hearing out his frustration. "It gets busy? I don't know what to say? It's New York City there's a lot going on."

"If there's a lot going on then why am I still sitting at the shabbiest desk in this joint?"

"Bill," she said in a stern motherly way.

"Forgive me, Pat. It's not you I'm upset with."

"Well your advisors are–"

"It's not my advisors I'm upset with either," he cut her off, "It's myself." He sighed running a hand through his hair. "I should have never moved here."

"Honey," she rubbed his arm, "okay, listen I'll tell you what I can do but first type a letter on why you want the position. I'll get one of the girls to xerox a few copies and I'll get them to the supervisors' desk every morning. I'll listen around. Soon as I hear your name leave the CI directors lips you gotta talk to your advisors and ask them about the position. Then ask if they got your proposal. Deal?"

Bill smiled, "Deal. I knew I could count on you, Pat." He excitedly kissed the top of the dames head before heading off with a new pep in his step.

"Watch the curls, kid!" She hollered after him.

And now Bill was anxiously awaiting his new job at the station. His advisors were nowhere in sight and his stomach began to knot. A door slammed closed behind him, startling him, he turned his head and saw a small woman struggling against the cuffs she was restrained in. Both his, lieutenant and advisor, had their hands hooked around her elbows escorting her in as she screamed obscenities to them. Stan, his advisor, shot Bill a look to follow. Bill got up trailing behind them, the girl was tiny, it looked ridiculous that she could pull against these two burly men. He stared at the back of her bottle blonde hair, the dark roots grown out an inch, her curls fallen.

"Sit down Star," Jerry, his lieutenant, shoved her in the room along with her large tote.

"Hey, how you doin' Bill," Stan said patting his shoulder as he walked in. "Ready to meet your CI?"

Star begrudgingly took a seat on a brown folding chair, her head down in defeat yet Bill could feel the rage emitting from her. Bill sat at the edge of his seat still buzzing with anxious nerves. He had no idea what kind of CI he'd be assigned to but a streetwalker, naively, never crossed his mind. She was only wearing a black silk slip dress and a white fur coat that had seen better days.

"Sorry, we took so long Bill," Jerry said flipping a chair around and resting his arms on the back of it. "Irma didn't see the hold we had on her and released her from detainment last night. We had to go out looking for her."

"She's not a hard find, still on her same corner but this time she wanted to run." Stan laughed. Bill laughed along feeling uncomfortable with the girl still in the room. He immediately felt bad for doing so, he was just nervous.

Jerry stifled his laughter and quickly went back to business pulling out a thick manila folder, from under his arm, unwinding the threaded latch and laying out a stack of papers in front of Bill. The top file had all the woman's information, Bill fanned the rest of the stack with his thumb. They were her case files, violation after violation, ticket after ticket.

"Real names, Angela Esposito," Jerry began to give Bill a quick run down. He looked over at her, her head still hung, her dark brows furrowed upon hearing her name. "On the streets, she goes by Star." He could hear Stan chuckle to himself as he lit his cigarette listening on. "She's got quite a record, isn't that right?" Jerry cocked a head at her. "Hey," he snapped his fingers, "Hey!" She didn't look up instead they could faintly hear her mumble something under her breath. "What's that?" Jerry lifted a brow.

"He's talking you!" Stan instigated. "You were real fuckin' mouthy your whole way here, so speak up."

She lifted her head scowling at Bill's superiors. It was the first time he'd seen her face, really. Her eyeliner and mascara smudged and her lips stained red from lipstick that had since rubbed off. "I said," it came out icily but loud and clear, "FUCK YOU!"

Jerry darkly chuckled and then slammed a flat palm hard against the table separating them. Everyone jumped. "Cute." He bit back. "No one's making you do this. We can take you to your fuckin' cell right now and I won't lose a second of sleep over it, you hear me?" He snatched the files from in front of Bill and plucked out a case. "This," he laid it in front of her "possession and conspiracy to distribute cocaine. This will get you locked up for some time. Not to mention all your cock sucking offenses. And from what I know judge doesn't take to kindly to lose women." Star exhaled deeply looking away in anger. "So, if you want these charges dropped, you work for us as you agreed to before pulling one on Irma last night and taking off."

"Not my fault she's almost legally blind! Surprised the whole cell block wasn't released," she leaned in scowling back at him.

"Don't care, you took advantage. Now Bill, here." Jerry pointed. "Not so easy to fool. You listen to him and if you don't he'll shoot your fuckin' nipples clean off." He stood up laughing. "Me and Stan will leave you two to get to know each other. I'm sure Stacy got you the CI report, this morning?" Jerry pointed at Bill.

Report? What fucking report? Bill panicked, internally. "Yeah, yeah she got it to me." He said coolly.

"Good, come by my office," he glanced at his wrist watch, "here in 15 minutes." He patted Bill's back and both his superiors left making inappropriate jokes with each other on their way out.

Thick, uncomfortable silence filled the room before he spoke to her. "Hi," a thin smile spread across his lips, "I'm Bill. Bill Skarsgard." He put a hand out for a shake.

Sheepishly, she lifted both her cuffed hands from under the table. "Could you take these off? This is bullshit, I wasn't arrested for anything."

Bill reached for his keys and freed her hands. She quickly retracted them, bringing them to her chest, fingers smoothing over the red marks on her sore wrists.

"Smoke?" Bill asked pulling a cigarette out of his pack. She nodded and placed the cigarette to her lips leaning into the flame of Bill's zippo. She took a deep drag and leaned back finally relaxing into her seat. "So, um this cocaine charge," he skimmed his eyes over the file. "Is this why you're here?"

Star lightly chuckled. "You didn't get the report," she smirked, exhaling smoke through her nose.

"What?" He straightened up.

"Stacy is a lazy piece of shit," she turned her head to the standard clock hanging on the wall. "9:33. Bet ya she's just now waddling her fatass out the break room." She leaned in her voice now a whisper. "She eats all you pigs donuts. I've been here a lot," she leaned back in her chair and slowly bent her arms out, "obviously."

"Well," Bill lifted his brows, she wasn't wrong. "Give me one second, will you sit tight?"

"Got nowhere to go, no one to see," she shrugged.

Bill quickly jogged back to his desk weaving between people on the way. Sure enough, Stacy came walking towards his desk, he reached his long arm out snatching the folder from her hand. Quickly, he looked through it as he stridently walked back to the interrogation room. Star sat tight, thankfully, and asked him for another smoke.

"I see," Bill said extracting the information he needed and put the file down. "You're gonna lead us to the supplier."

"You don't say," Star said sarcastically.

"Now do you have an idea on who that might be?"

"Now if I did... don't think I'd be here." She paused digressing her sarcastic tone. "I just got caught up," she shook her head, "I know what it looks like on that piece of paper. It was a lot of coke, yeah. But when you're out there like I am, for as long as I've been? The dough you can make off that stuff can get you a bus ticket straight to California and still have enough to get a nice little place in Hollywood."

"Is that why you ran last night? To get to California?"

She rolled her eyes, "if you ever stayed in these piss smelling cells, drowning yourself in the toilet sounds like a beach." She laughed at her dark joke.

"They do smell like piss," Bill agreed laughing lightly with her, "I don't blame you for running. But we're working together now, Angela."

"Star," she corrected him, "you don't know me like that."

Bill nodded understandingly. "Star, okay. As soon as we find this supplier, all of your charges are dropped. Look," he fanned the stack of files, "every single one of these. If you want to go to California, you don't want these following you. So you help me and I help you."

"That's rich," she stubbed out her cigarette.

"What's rich?"

"A pig trying to be helpful."

"First rule," Bill sternly put a finger up.

"Aw, here we go," she groaned.

"I'm not a pig." He locked his eyes with her.

"Got any more stupid rules?"

"I'm sure there'll be more as we go," he stood up, "follow me, gotta talk to Jerry."

Bill grabbed a vacant desk chair and rolled it right next to Jerry's office door for her to sit. He walked in the office, greeting Jerry, and quickly opening the blinds. Star had her head turned directly meeting his eyes. He pointed a long finger at her and mouthing, sit.

"How you liking your new partner?" Jerry chuckled setting his pen down.

"She's... interesting," Bill shook his head taking a seat in front of Jerry's sleek auburn desk.

"Don't let her get one over you. Star's all bark."

"So, you needed to speak to me, sir?"

"Yes, take a seat. I'm about to hand you your new life while you work this case."

"New life?"

"You know, you're working undercover?" Bill nodded along. "So we got you a car to drive from impound, nothing fancy, don't get your hopes up. And a motel, it's double bed, don't worry."

"Motel? I thought we were letting her off the reigns and she has mandatory curfew?"

"Her? No, no, no." he shook his head. "She's a conniving whore, no way. Eyes on her 24/7, hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright. Here," he handed Bill an envelope, "keys to the car and your new place." Bill grabbed it but Jerry still held on, leaning in. "Sheriff Burns said you were his best. So I expect the best."

"You will, sir," Bill said confidently.

"And Bill," Jerry said before he walked out, "change your look up a bit. Her pimp's been locked up for a while now, not getting out anytime soon, so you act like her new pimp. That's who you are now. So shave your mustache, do something new with your hair, know what I mean?"

Bill nodded but he didn't like the thought of "acting as Stars new pimp", it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Got it."

Bill was given a '73 brown Pinto wagon that was beaten to hell. Even had charming bullet holes on the trunk door. He was sitting in the motel, Star had excused herself for a shower, and finally, he had a moment to mull over the morning he had. What the fuck did he get in to? He was excited to finally get the hell away from his desk but this? Picking up the motel phone he called Patricia up and asked if she didn't mind house-sitting his apartment and feeding his cat. She was more than glad to. She was especially happy for him on his new position and promised to pack him some clothes to drop by. But her cheery demeanor did nothing for him though. He listened for the shower, to make sure it was still on, before cracking open Star's case folder. She had tons of repeat offenses for soliciting sex and indecency charges. She did a little time in '75 for skipping court. He was surprised she hadn't spent any more significant time considering that her charges had doubled since. He looked further to see what charge was the catalyst of it all. He frowned upon discovering she shoplifted from a drug store when she was 15.

The shortest file was filled with her personal information. He learned that she was just 22. The fact that she had these many run-ins with the law at her young age, depressed him. She was from Atlantic City, New Jersey, originally. He figured by her accent, even though it seemed like she tried to lose it, it was still apparent. He hadn't realized the shower had been off for a bit as he read on. The bathroom door cracked open making him snap the file closed, tucking it away under his pillow.

Star walked out, fresh face of makeup and rollers in her hair. She had a tote with her filled with what she felt necessary to keep on her. Which was mostly makeup and hair supply along with two quick outfit changes. She picked Bill's pack of smokes up from the tv stand and snagged a cig for herself. She plopped down on her bed smoothing her short maroon corduroy skirt with her free hand while her other brought the cigarette to her lips.

"So?" She locked eyes with him. "What's the plan for today?"

PART TWO

#bill skarsgard #my bill writings #70s bill

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plantsindubai · 7 years ago

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John Elway a long Journey That Never Ends

John Elway earned popularity as a quarterback, fortune as a specialist and regard as a general supervisor. In any case, he will never be fulfilled. Not when the general concept of an agreeable life feels like passing. Envision John Elway dead.

John Elway has an insatiable drive to win

John Elway has been a champion as a quarterback and an executive, but he keeps risking his legacy, year after year, because he's addicted to the competition. Seth Wickersham reports.ELAINE THOMPSON/AP PHOTO

Elway has. He's imagined it, pondered about it. He's in his office on a June day amidst a terrible and individual contract debate with the authoritative Super Bowl MVP. He has supplanted a future Hall of Fame quarterback with the creator of the Butt Fumble and two folks who've never played, and he's reasoning rehash. His correct knee harms; getting up is harder than it was even two years back. He has thought of himself two storybook endings, both as a quarterback and a general supervisor, and he could leave with his heritage secure and spend whatever remains of his life flying to fairways. Be that as it may, the general thought of an agreeable life feels like passing. Elway knows he will be a geezer one day, his body surrendering to life the way it surrendered to football, however the organic objective, the impulse to win, will at present be there, caught in an irreversible senescence. It's his destiny. Thus he inclines in finished his work area, uncovering that commonplace smile, and articulates possibly the most Elway thing ever: "I've generally thought I would kick the bucket ... with a scoop; on the off chance that I woke up, I could uncover my direction." His eyes enlarge. "It's never finished over until it's finished." TO HEAR HIM talk about death as an obstacle, a challenge, a deterrent to clear like first-and-98, influences me to consider John Elway and, well, a waffle creator. It was January 2011, the primary day of Senior Bowl week in Mobile, Alabama. Not long after 6 a.m. in the eatery of a downtown Hampton Inn, scouts swarmed around the breakfast buffet before taking off to rehearse for player measure ins - the snort work, the stuff no one needs to do. Out of the entryway lift, barrel-chested, bandylegged and pigeon-toed, came John Elway. He was under three weeks into his new activity running the Broncos. He wore a cowhide coat. Work area representatives gazed. Scouts gazed. It resembled Springsteen had appeared for open mic night. Elway moved toward the waffle creator, poured the hitter and clasped the irons. The red light didn't go ahead. He flipped it over. Nothing. He tinkered with it. As yet nothing. At that point he got that look he gets when he's forcing his will. Forehead wrinkled, tongue embracing his upper lip. The look from when he tossed the projectile that topped The Drive, the look from when he propelled himself into three Packers close to the objective line in Super Bowl XXXII. A look of high stakes let free on a breakfast buffet, bringing up the issue: Why, precisely, would he say he was here? He earned a fortune in football and a fortune in the auto business. He endured a separation and the passings of his twin sister and his dad. He won an Arena League title running the Colorado Crush. He hit the fairway and voyaged. Presently he was slumming with the scouts, losing to a waffle creator and getting once more into the shred when Joe Montana was developing grapes and Dan Marino was working a cushy studio work. Elway was the main individual in Mobile who didn't need to be there. But then he had to be there. It was the main way he knew. HE'S STILL GRINDING at his work area on a June morning over five years after the fact, draftsman of the protecting Super Bowl champions. His telephone flashes with writings. He's in a red polo shirt and white shorts, hair iced light and marginally diminishing, confront lined and worn. He moves a considerable measure, realigning an old football body, however he's fit as a fiddle, the aftereffect of a recently discovered fixation on cycling. Covering one divider is simply the profundity diagram, where Elway regularly loses himself, gazing, envisioning conceivable outcomes, allowing himself a grin when his eyes achieve the corner where one of his little girls wrote, "Hello there, Dad, I adore you." On the opposite side of his office is a deck sitting above football fields. His burgundy work area is amidst the room, and the business cards stacked there fill in as tokens to guests, similarly as the amusement balls and pictures and trophies covering the back divider improve the situation Elway. The day preceding, Elway and the greater part of the Broncos were at the White House being regarded by President Obama. A pleased Republican, he declined to go to the Super Bowl-champion functions with President Clinton in the late 1990s. Presently he was in the Rose Garden, tweeting, giggling at Obama's jokes, posturing for pictures on the South Lawn. At the point when did you turn out to be such a f - ing p - y? his companions asked later. Elway had no clever response. He's 56 years of age, and nothing is ensured. At the White House, Von Miller reposted a photo of himself and a couple of colleagues on Instagram - and edited out Elway, who was remaining on the edge. The slight was a piece of their now-settled contract debate and part of what is by all accounts a yearly custom amongst Elway and a star player. A couple of his companions clowned that the yield work was something Elway himself may have done once upon a time. Mill operator's camp speculated the Broncos had been attempting to disgrace the linebacker into settling by spilling subtle elements of their agreement offer, and at the ring service a couple of days after the White House, Miller asked Elway for what reason he had enabled their impasse to turn open. "When you sign a long haul bargain, you'll forget about everything," Elway answered. Specialists started to contrast consulting with Elway with consulting with the famously hard-line Patriots, and a couple of football journalists opined that he was frightening off great players from Denver. Presently Elway sits alone in his office. He won't enable himself to get "candidly required" with players and even most staff, for fear that he wind up cutting them one day. Obviously, all GMs say that stuff. Be that as it may, a lot is on the line with Elway and not on the grounds that he debilitates his notoriety for being a player - "most noteworthy locker room quarterback," in the expressions of his previous mentor Mike Shanahan - with each front office move. He says he just adores "contending and accomplishing," yet as he gazes at the profundity outline and clarifies moves, he goes further. Turning into a granddad several years back made him mindful of his mortality in a way the finish of his playing vocation had not. "You require the highs and the lows," he says. "Since in the event that it arrives in such a state" - he draws a level line noticeable all around - "it sort of feels like you're not by any stretch of the imagination doing anything." HE DOESN'T LOOK like he's doing anything a hour later as he watches hone. He remains on the field, moving weight off his awful knee, once in a while on the sideline with the players, different circumstances alone on the opposite side of the field. He watches to perceive how the folks get along, how they solidify as a group. Elway is a standout amongst the most celebrated GMs in NFL history, yet when he took the Broncos work, he had the dividers of his office supplanted with glass so staff members would feel good ceasing by. He gives representatives a chance to leave the workplace early on the off chance that they have a softball game to mentor or a commemoration supper to design, and amid the occasions last December, he orchestrated top of the line retailers to visit group central command to make Christmas shopping simpler. He makes light of his distinction inside the association yet isn't reluctant to use it remotely. A NFL GM who grew up as an Elway fan had an arrangement with the Broncos abandoned by his group's administrators since they dreaded Elway was fleecing their person, suckering him with a hard tally. For snickers, the managers left it to their GM to break the news that the arrangement was off, and he was so propitiatory in doing as such, a portion of the Broncos' staff members on the call pondered whether it may end in a signature ask. Elway gets eager at training and envisions himself out there, taking snaps, making peruses. The hardest thing about being a GM is its stillness, lounging around watching film. He never needed to be a mentor since he couldn't clarify his own endowments - the act of spontaneity amidst catastrophe, the standard cross-field tosses that sent armies of copying secondary school quarterbacks to the seat. Some of the time despite everything he feels the tingle to give one fly, a chance to regardless of whether his body never again permits it. "Until a couple of years back, despite everything I figured I could play," he says. In any case, it baffles Elway when individuals consider him a muscle head in a front office gig. He needs to remind individuals that he didn't simply play at Stanford, he graduated Stanford with a financial aspects degree. Be that as it may, he additionally kind of acknowledges the fuel it gives; sign on a fire. In 2001, exhausted following two years in retirement, Elway approached Shanahan for a vocation with the Broncos. Shanahan said there was no activity for him. The following year, never going to budge on demonstrating he was not kidding about prevailing in his second demonstration, Elway purchased a possession stake in the Colorado Crush, an Arena League establishment. He went up against the part of GM and showed up in mushy advertisements with Jon Bon Jovi, proprietor of the Philadelphia Soul. He wasn't simply loaning a well known face to another group. He was granulating, adapting each aspect of running a football group. "I took a gander at it as my MBA," he says. "Individuals didn't think it was a major ordeal. Yet, it was to me." At the point when Pat Bowlen requesting that he return and run the Broncos in 2011, some in the association figured Elway may be the second happening to Marino, who famously kept going three weeks as a Dolphins official in 2004. They didn't realize that Jack Elway, a school football mentor in the 1970s and '80s, had brought up his child to love rivalry as well as to utilize it as a methods for self-realization, starting in third grade when he'd challenge John to set a world record getting his shoes. Rivalry finished for Montana and Marino when their professions did; for Elway, it closes when life does. He needs to play night golf to tire himself out and keep the TV on to quiet his psyche to rest, and all things considered, he'll frequently wake up amidst the night, nearly as though he's naturally constrained to contend. More than the fervor of winning, Elway is snared on the "energy of not knowing" what's conceivable, what he's prepared to do. He was never invulnerable to weight the way Montana was. When he ran onto the field late in the final quarter of Super Bowl XXXII, with the amusement tied 24-24 and a little more than three minutes left, he didn't search for John Candy in the stands. He peered inside. He thought what each watcher thought: This is his entire vocation ideal here. His power isn't for everyone. It wasn't for John Fox, who did numerous things well after Elway employed him as mentor in 2011, incorporating winning 46 recreations in four years. Elway's questions started after Fox turned traditionalist on offense and his guard blew scope in a January 2013 playoff crumple against the Ravens. The following year at the Super Bowl, following seven days of disrupted practices, Elway had a terrible inclination. The morning of the amusement, he woke up at 3 a.m. in a dull frenzy in a dim New Jersey lodging room. He knew his group wasn't sufficient. He wasn't adequate. His companions say the offseason after Denver's Super Bowl XLVIII misfortune to Seattle was as hopeless as any in Elway's life. It harkened back to being mortified as a player who had lost three Super Bowls. Elway gets calm when he's in a terrible state of mind, arranges another drink, turns internal, reprimands himself, jokes in a nonjoking path about hopping off a building. "When you get more seasoned, you have an inclination that you're getting more brilliant," he says in his office. "You ought to be better. You should know more."

Elway wishes he had spent more time talking with his father about life off the field. "We had so many talks, but usually it was about football, how I can get better playing, rather than philosophical things," he says. PAUL SAKUMA/AP PHOTO A rising absence of teach under Fox incited Elway to now and again shout at the group since Fox wouldn't. Before a late-season hone in 2014, Fox swung to a couple of individuals on the sideline and asked, "Isn't winning the division enough?" half a month later, after the Broncos turned out level in a divisional playoff misfortune to the Colts, Fox found his solution. THE BAR STOOL is barely noticeable. Within Elway's steakhouse in the Cherry Creek neighborhood of Denver is generally dull and swarmed, and the stool gets moved around a considerable measure. Be that as it may, on most evenings, at the edge of the bar closest the terrific piano, sits one gold bar stool in an ocean of red ones. It's in memory of Jack Elway. At the point when John sits on the stool with a Dewar's stones, it shreds him that his father isn't there with a martini, envisioning, plotting, chuckling. Jack gave John the first and last exploring reports of his profession. On the principal day of ninth grade, he dropped him off at school and asked what position he'd play. "Running back," John said. Jack shook his head and moved the Impala into stop. You're not as quick as you used to be, Jack let him know. "After fifteen minutes," Elway says, "I escaped the auto a quarterback." Decades later, in May 1999, Jack and John sat at the bar in Elway's home. Following 16 years in the class, Elway had everything except resigned in his psyche, tired of the torment and granulate. Yet, he required a last judgment. John had stopped a game just once, when Jack revealed to him it was OK to resign from the wrestling group in eighth grade after a match with an adversary who noticed. Presently Jack could recognize easily that the amusement wasn't as fun as it used to be. Now is the ideal time, he said. John called Bowlen that night to break the news, and father and child remained up all that night exchanging old stories, praising a vocation that neither of them could have anticipated in the stopped Impala. "It'll take five years," Jack dependably said. Five years to get over the opening left by football. Elway got ready for it, even before he resigned. He ran his auto dealerships. He dove into golf. Companions say he went to such huge numbers of competitions he was home in retirement not exactly in his playing days. In any case, it felt discharge. "I required a concentration," he says. Shanahan let Elway into the draft space for half a month in 2001. He sat close by his father, at that point a Broncos scout, talking ball. On a Friday without further ado before the 2001 draft, Jack escaped to Palm Springs, California, for the end of the week. He passed on of a heart assault two days after the fact, on Easter morning. Presently when Elway contemplates his father, he wishes they had invested more energy discussing life past the field. "We had such a significant number of talks, yet as a rule it was about football, how I can show signs of improvement playing, as opposed to philosophical things." His mom, Jan, once said that John developed to be more similar to his father as he matured. Elway's basic to win at all undertakings increased with age instead of dispersed. He construct his way to deal with exploring in light of Jack's brilliant control: "Search for heart first." When Elway assumed control over the Broncos, numerous near him pondered whether he was sufficiently savage for the activity. Jack was "faithful to a blame," Elway says, and was let go at Stanford in the 1980s since he declined to flame his associates. In February 2015, when he requested that Peyton Manning take a compensation cut, John Elway contemplated his father and thought about how to measure the insightfulness required in the activity with the expectation of satisfying the standard set by his dad. "Such a significant number of times, I say, 'alright, what might Dad do?'" he says. Elway dependably had confidence in Manning. He put stock in him enough to exchange Tim Tebow after a playoff win in 2012 and to give Manning a $90 million contract when the future Hall of Famer could scarcely toss an inclination. He adored Manning's hard working attitude and exchanged amongst beguilement and irritation at his controlling identity. The two contended about issues as moment as how the Broncos would illuminate players they were being cut after the group had yanked a couple of players off the field amid training warm-ups. At that point, in their 2015 playoff surprise of the Broncos, the Colts hit Manning low and hard on his first pass, square on his torn quad. Keeping an eye on tossed a great deal of blur courses whatever is left of the diversion, the favored go of a quarterback seeing phantoms. In the wake of the misfortune, Elway asked the 38-year-old Manning to do what Elway himself had done at age 38: take a compensation cut, allegedly from $19 million to the $10 million territory, the vast majority of which could be earned back in rewards. Elway guaranteed to utilize the cash to fortify the list.

He needed Manning to hone less and rest more, to pass less and hand off additional. The vast majority of all, he needed Manning to confront reality. "All the immense competitors, they would prefer not to concede anything," Elway says. He was more limit than vital with Manning, as he regularly may be, and the transactions wound up tense. Keeping an eye on told staff members he didn't think his manager saw how much year-round function he put in to help his body. Elway told individuals in the building he was set up to proceed onward to Brock Osweiler. The arrangement turned into a trial of Manning's will to win, and of Elway's capacity to close. In 2012, he had sold Manning on the Broncos by promising to enable him to end up "the best quarterback ever." Now he took a stab at addressing Manning as Jack would, to be "a man of his statement" who "had the capacity to request that the correct inquiries find the correct solutions." Elway could see the phantoms Manning proved unable. He knew Peyton would be afloat in the wake of leaving. He knew the wiring that helped him accomplish statures in football would plot against him after he resigned. They both knew Super Bowls are the main thing individuals recall. "Would you like to be viewed as superior to Brady?" Elway inquired. "Titles will be the sudden death round." They settled at $14 million. Elway utilized the cash to support the hostile line, marking protect Evan Mathis. He was unobtrusively assembling an extraordinary group by endeavoring to satisfy his dad's heritage. What's more, his own.

John Elway might have more job security than anyone in the NFL. But he knows this will likely be the last meaningful job of his life, and he knows the iron rule of football is that it always ends on its terms, not yours. A few nights earlier, Mike Shanahan walked with me down a long hallway toward the trophy room in his home. "I never come in here anymore," he said, turning on the lights. Two Lombardi trophies sat in a showcase on the wall, glistening but somehow cold. Nobody could touch Shanahan when he won those Super Bowls as head coach of the Broncos in 1998 and 1999. But he's since been fired twice and recently lost out on the 49ers job when San Francisco opted for Chip Kelly, the younger guy. "It's OK," Shanahan said. But when the business of winning and losing is the essence of your life, a part of you feels like you're dying when it's taken away. "The line in the NFL is this thin," Shanahan said, holding together two fingers.

Now Elway looks at his favorite memento in the office -- a picture of his toddler grandson wearing an orange No. 7 jersey -- and says he feels "officially older" in a young man's game. Ask him how long he'll remain in this job and he says, "I don't know. ... Once I get to be 65, 70 years old. How am I going to fulfill that urge to compete?"

He twists in his chair. His voice lowers.

"I think about it all the time."

ON A FRIDAY morning in June, the Broncos' facility in Englewood is dark and quiet. Most of the staff is off, given a three-day weekend. At the end of a windowless hallway in the main building, there's a white glow.

It's Elway's office.

“So many times, I say, ‘OK, what would Dad do?’”

- JOHN ELWAY

He's been here for hours. His eyes are pink and worn. He looks sallow. He yawns. There's a quiet desperation to life in the NFL. What's often romanticized is actually mundane. Long hours staring at video of yesterday's practice. On another TV in the office is live coverage of Muhammad Ali's memorial service. Elway watches practice, zipping through plays from different angles. He's distracted by the service. He didn't grow up an Ali fan. In 1979, Jack told John to get his ass down and register for the draft and he did. But he seems drawn to Ali now in death, as a cultural touchstone, as people debate his impact. It seems to briefly make Elway reflective. How will he be remembered? How does he want to be remembered?

A staffer peeks his head in, reminding Elway of a coming tee time. Elway glances at the clock high above the door. "Thanks," he says. He doesn't get up. He shifts his aching knee and fixes his eyes back on the practice film. A rookie fullback snares a high pass. Elway rewinds. Replays. He seems pleased, energized. He moves to the next play.

The tee time comes and goes. The Ali coverage ends. All that's left is John Elway, alone and looking alive.

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flauntpage · 7 years ago

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Football's Brain Injury Crisis Isn't Just for Star Players

Ka'Lial Glaud has a headache. Every second of every day, he says. Ever since suffering his first and only diagnosed concussion in the National Football League nearly two years ago.

A 26-year-old former linebacker who spent most of three NFL seasons with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Glaud has been diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome, a disorder in which symptoms such as dizziness, light sensitivity, and intense headaches persist long after someone experiences an initial brain injury.

Medications haven't brought Glaud relief. Nor has therapy. He isn't well enough to work, and he can't go back to Rutgers University to finish his undergraduate degree—not when reading for more than half an hour leaves his eyes exhausted and head throbbing.

Recently, Glaud says, it took all he had just to walk on a Stairmaster and then cut the grass at his home in Asbury Park, New Jersey.

"I was down for four days [afterward]," he says. "I told a doctor, 'It's like I can feel my brain.' They said that's impossible. But it feels like someone is inside my head and has their hands around my brain, and they're squeezing it."

It's been more than a decade since doctors discovered the neurodegenerative disease chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) in deceased Pittsburgh Steelers center Mike Webster, a revelation that helped make brain trauma in football an ongoing national story. Much of the subsequent fan and media focus has been on star players, like New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady allegedly hiding a concussion last season, and worst-case medical outcomes, like Hall of Fame linebacker Junior Seau being posthumously diagnosed with CTE after committing suicide in 2012.

However, fringe performers such as Glaud—training camp invitees, practice squad members, players at the bottom of depth charts—are just as vulnerable as the sport's marquee names, maybe even more so. Fighting for jobs and paychecks in the league, they arguably have greater incentive to put their brains at risk and fewer resources to cope with any lasting damage.

Even when those ailments are less severe than CTE, they still can be debilitating. Glaud was concussed in September of 2015, and since then his life has been a fog of frustration and depression.

"Everyone you hear about, they played for ten, 15 years," Glaud says. "I had three, one of those on the practice squad and another on injured reserve. I didn't play that daggone long. And it has affected me. I think about it every day."

Glaud doesn't remember the hit. He was playing for the Dallas Cowboys in the team's final preseason game, trying to earn a roster spot.

One moment, Glaud was calling plays and setting defensive fronts; the next, he was on the sideline, telling teammate Sean Lee that nothing was wrong—even though Glaud couldn't recall those same plays and fronts when one of his coaches was going through game video on a tablet computer.

Are you sure you're OK?

I'm fine.

I think I'll have a doctor look at you.

"I asked Shawn not to," Glaud says. "Then I went back out on special teams. When I came off again, he was there with trainers to evaluate me."

Ka'Lial Glaud (No. 47) in a 2015 preseason game with the Dallas Cowboys. Photo by Jake Roth-USA TODAY Sports

Team doctors took Glaud back to the Cowboys' locker room and told him remove his uniform. He figured that he would be fine. He suffered two diagnosed concussions at Rutgers, he says, and both times sat out practice for about a week before returning to the field. The injuries didn't stop him from starting all 13 games his senior year, or from appearing in seven games for Tampa Bay as an undrafted rookie in 2013.

This time was different. Back at the team hotel, Glaud was nauseous. He threw up when he tried to eat. Riding elevators made him dizzy, and he didn't want to leave his darkened room. Diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome, he spent the season on injured reserve, unable to clear the Cowboys' return-to-play protocols.

The team sent Glaud to a neurocognitive therapy center. There, he performed rehab tasks like staring at a target while shaking his head. His scores improved over time, he says, but his headaches didn't. If anything, activity made them worse. Near the end of the 2015 season, the Cowboys sent him home to New Jersey.

Glaud hasn't played football since. Still sensitive to light, he says he wears sunglasses "just about all the time." He can walk on a treadmill, but he can't run or lift weights without getting dizzy. He has to read things repeatedly to make sense of them, and has trouble sleeping—drifting off in the middle of the night, waking up before dawn, unable to nap in between.

Then there's Glaud's perma-headache. So many things can make it worse, from sudden noises to trips to the grocery store. "If I go out to dinner with a bunch of friends, I'll have headaches and feel floaty," he says. "And I will pay for it later that night or the next day."

Glaud is close to his family: his parents Marlon and Wanda, who served in the United States Navy; his brothers Anthony and Sharif, who both played college football; his wife, Kassandra Laine, a supervisor at a health insurance company, and their three-year-old son, Kingston. He wills himself to be upbeat for them, less irritable and worn down. "I try to put away my pain," Glaud says, "and act like everything is normal and OK with me."

It isn't. On the Fourth of July, Glaud, Kassandra, and Kingston drove to the beach to watch a fireworks show. Glaud never left the car. "We even parked kind of far away from everyone and everything," Kassandra says. "But it was still loud, and there were a lot of people. Afterward, he was so nauseous. He felt like he had to throw up the entire night.

"You want to be able to enjoy life as it was. And Ka'Lial loves fireworks. So he made the sacrifice to go. But it's so hard for him to recover from doing something so small."

Kingston is a typical toddler—when he's happy, he's rambunctious; when he's grumpy, he's a handful. Either way, Glaud says, it doesn't take much to feel like those fingers are digging into his brain.

"He doesn't know what he's doing, yelling or screaming or playing with a toy, and then he starts crying," Glaud says. "And it can be hard for me not to snap or yell."

When that happens, Glaud has to excuse himself. Nothing hurts more.

"I'll go sit in my car, or sit in a room by myself," he says. "It's like, 'dang, what are you doing? That's a doggone baby.'"

Glaud sees a visual therapist. A functional neurologist. A chiropractor. A cognitive therapist who doubles as an emotional counselor. He practices memorization with flash cards and numbers, works on his balance and eye movement, gets coaching to improve his ability to think and concentrate. He has cycled through four different migraine and mood medications. So far, none of it has helped. He's looking into Botox injections, which have been approved by the FDA to treat chronic headaches, and a numbing agent that would be injected into his upper neck.

"I've put over 50,000 miles on my car in less than a year, and I don't go anywhere else but to doctor's appointments," he says.

Glaud still loves football. If doctors cleared him to play, he'd be tempted to put on a helmet. He has a number of friends in the NFL, and believes that the league can do more to prevent them from getting seriously hurt—and to help people like him once they are.

Start with concussion education. Athletes, Glaud says, need more of it. At Rutgers and with Dallas, it was teammates who noticed he was hurt. Glaud had no idea.

"Growing up, a concussion to me was like when somebody gets knocked out, or they get up and they look like they're drunk," he says. "Even in the NFL, nobody ever explained to me what a concussion actually was. I got most of my education from what is happening to me right now, and going to all these doctors.

"If you look at the symptoms they tell you—seeing stars, being a little dizzy—there's probably 40 concussions among all the players in a football game. When I talk to my doctors now, they're like, 'Maybe you only got diagnosed with two concussions in college and one in the NFL, but you had a lot more.' Maybe I had way more than I can even think of. It's like, dang."

In May, retired NFL wide receiver Calvin Johnson told the Detroit Free Press that he hid his concussions while playing for the Detroit Lions because the team "needed him out there on the field." That attitude can be dangerous. Medical research indicates that suffering multiple concussions and suffering a second concussion while the symptoms of a previous concussion have not yet resolved both can increase the risk of short- and long-term neurological harm.

Calvin Johnson claims he hid concussions during his nine-year NFL career. Photo by Tim Fuller-USA TODAY Sports

In response, the NFL and other sports leagues have adopted rules and procedures designed to remove concussed athletes from play and to keep them sidelined until doctors clear them to return. Glaud is grateful for those rules: they kept him from continuing with the Cowboys, and possibly making his condition worse.

He also thinks they should be stronger. Currently, the NFL requires players placed on injured reserve to remain there for the duration of the season. A recent Harvard Medical School report commissioned by the NFL Players Association suggested creating a separate seven-day disabled list for concussed players—something Major League Baseball already does, and something the report says would reduce the pressure on athletes to hide concussions or return too quickly from brain injuries:

A player's recovery time from a concussion can easily range from no games to several games. The uncertain recovery times create pressure on the player, club, and club doctor. Each roster spot is valuable and clubs constantly add and drop players to ensure they have the roster that gives them the greatest chance to win each game day. As a result of the uncertain recovery times for a concussion, clubs might debate whether they need to replace the player for that week or longer. The club doctor and player might also then feel pressure for the player to return to play as soon as possible. By exempting a concussed player from the 53 man roster, the club has the opportunity to sign a short term replacement player in the event the concussed player is unable to play. At the same time, the player and club doctor would have some of the return-to-play pressure removed.

Glaud concurs. He also believes that guaranteeing more money to players regardless of injury would help. Johnson made over $100 million during his nine-year career. The average player earns much less over a much shorter span. Glaud knows active players who have hid concussions. One friend, he says, told him, I know I'm going to be fucked up when this is over.

"Calvin Johnson wanted to play because he had competitive spirit," Glaud says. "But if you're at the bottom of a roster or trying to make it, trying not to get cut, you're adding a whole financial aspect to it. A lot of us don't have nothing to go back home to."

Ed Wasielewski, Glaud's agent, says that guaranteed contracts would be a "game-changer" for the health and well-being of rank-and-file NFL players. "As an agent for 15 years, I can tell you that players tend to try to rush back from certain injuries, including concussions," he says. "If the NFL and NFLPA could come up with some kind of system with a salary floor for each player, that would make a lot of sense.

"The off-season runs from after the Super Bowl all the way to final [roster] cuts around Labor Day. Players are working with teams all the time. You can get a concussion in a simple tackling drill, or on a routine tackle or block. But because a player is incentivized to make the team in September—because that's the only way he makes his money—he's likely to hide concussion symptoms so he can continue to play and practice, feeling he has to tough it out because he can't make the 53-man roster from the training room."

The NFL and the NFLPA offer benefits to former players with brain injuries, but Glaud mostly doesn't qualify. For example, the league retirement plan provides disability payments to former players with at least three "credited" seasons of experience. Glaud only has two, because one of his seasons was spent on the Buccaneers' practice squad. Similarly, the league's 88 Plan and class action concussion lawsuit settlement pay out cash to retirees suffering from dementia and other severe neurological disorders. Glaud's post-concussion syndrome doesn't rise to that level.

The NBA, the NHL, and MLB generally offer lifetime health insurance to former players. The NFL does not. For now, worker's compensation covers the cost of Glaud's doctor's appointments. His wife's insurance pays for prescription medication. But the future is uncertain. What if Glaud never gets better? What if he can't go back to Rutgers and complete his degree in information technology, or work at a regular job?

One of Glaud's doctors recommended a brain injury specialist at New York University. When Glaud called to set up an appointment, he found out the specialist didn't accept worker's comp. Another doctor referred him to a clinic located in New Mexico. "That one would cost me $10,000 out of pocket," he says. "I'm leery to spend that much with no guarantee of it working."

Glaud has considered reaching out to Boston University and the University of North Carolina, where researchers are studying brain injury in football players, but hasn't yet picked up the phone. "I have a family and a child," he says. "I can't just get up and be gone for months."

"I pray a lot," Kassandra says. "He prays a lot. He's been to so many doctors. We're both willing to do things to make him better, but we are both losing hope. Ka'Lial says all the time, 'Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like?'"

Glaud earned about $350,000 in the NFL. He saved his money, and owns rental properties that generate income. Kingston is healthy. Kassandra has a good job. His family is supportive. He knows that things could be much worse.

"Imagine if you're on the practice squad for just one year, made almost nothing, now you're unable to get a job, you have a family, and your life is going to shit," Glaud says. "How are they going to afford gas to do to doctor's appointments every other day?"

Two years ago, Glaud was preparing for training camp; today he's more likely to spend time lying on his floor, waiting for a headache to calm down. Playing football gave him goals to accomplish, obstacles to overcome, a daily routine and a sense of purpose. Now Glaud often wonders, Does the NFL really care about concussions, or guys like him? When he was in Texas, he says, the Cowboys checked in with him every day, but afterward, "it has been me by myself dealing with this shit." The sport moves on. Glaud is trying to do the same. Only his head still hurts.

"Not that I need someone to hold my hand," he says. "But I didn't get hurt my damn self. It wasn't a car accident. I didn't fall out of a tree. I got hurt playing football. And I haven't been myself the whole damn time since."

Football's Brain Injury Crisis Isn't Just for Star Players published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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flauntpage · 7 years ago

Text

Football's Brain Injury Crisis Isn't Just for Star Players

Ka'Lial Glaud has a headache. Every second of every day, he says. Ever since suffering his first and only diagnosed concussion in the National Football League nearly two years ago.

Recently, Glaud says, it took all he had just to walk on a Stairmaster and then cut the grass at his home in Asbury Park, New Jersey.

Even when those ailments are less severe than CTE, they still can be debilitating. Glaud was concussed in September of 2015, and since then his life has been a fog of frustration and depression.

Glaud doesn't remember the hit. He was playing for the Dallas Cowboys in the team's final preseason game, trying to earn a roster spot.

One moment, Glaud was calling plays and setting defensive fronts; the next, he was on the sideline, telling teammate Shawn Lee that nothing was wrong—even though Glaud couldn't recall those same plays and fronts when one of his coaches was going through game video on a tablet computer.