A Kid Named Gavin

                                          The Big House, Ann Arbor Michigan

There are few things more exciting than the electricity felt on the sideline of a massive football stadium during that interval between the team emerging from the tunnel and the actual kickoff to start the game.

The hype.
The preparation.
The anticipation.
The band, the cheerleaders, and the crowd.

I understand America’s obsession with football.
I have been steeped in it.
Nobody in the world LOVED football more than I did.

That’s right, LOVED.
Past tense.
Allow me to explain.

As a young kid I enjoyed watching Minnesota Vikings’ games and playing touch football in the neighborhood. When I got a little older I was able to join Bloomington Athletic Association (BAA) teams that played tackle football complete with helmets, shoulder pads, and uniforms, just like the colleges and pros.

I was good at it too.

 
Anchoring the offensive line, I played center and either right or left guard positions depending on where coach needed me. In sixth grade I was elected as a team captain.

In seventh grade when most of my classmates grew up, I lagged behind.
Football was far less fun on the short end of such a size disparity.
So I quit the team.
I still played touch football – since a throwing arm like mine would be a terrible thing to waste – watched the Vikings and listened to the Gophers on the radio.

A lot of my friends continued to play for the junior high teams.
When I got to high school I found out I could get re-involved by becoming a student manager.
So I did.
It was a lot of fun.

My high school coach was able to get me a student job with the U of M Gopher football team as an equipment manager. I worked in the football equipment room for five years as a student, and later returned to work ten more years as a full-time employee. 

I got a few small, up close, glimpses of the NFL version of the game while I worked with high school and big-time college football.

I also made some of the best, lonest lasting, friendships of my life.
I traveled places, saw sights, had experiences, and met people, all of them interesting in their own ways.





I also witnessed some of the darker sides of football too.

From the shortsighted, laser-like focus on the next series, the next practice, next week’s opponent.
To a promising runningback blowing out his knee while galloping down the practice field with no one near him.
The pressure to win is so immense that some coaches seem like Jekyl and Hyde between the time they sit in a family’s living room sweet talking their son as a recruit, compared to how they appear to view their players once they’re committed and on campus.

Injured players are sometimes treated as persona non grata if they are unable to play in next week’s game.  Hell, college practices don’t even slow down as medical personnel attend to injured, hurting, and often scared kids. Typically the team drill just gets flipped to go the other direction, someone new is plugged in to replace the injured player, and the rest of the team moves on without them.

I saw how some coach’s mind games, at the higher levels, can get into the players’ heads and really mess them up.
Am I good enough?
A little pain never killed anyone.
How do I get stronger? Bigger? Faster?

I knew I didn’t want my son to go through this physical and psychological meat grinder. Although I did work with a handful of coaches I thought had the proper prospective, they were in the minority.
My wife and I decided early on to try to convince Junior to play other safer and saner sports.

Along about fourth grade, however, my son asked to play football since his good friend Neal was playing. Despite our reservations we decided to let him play. At least one season to see how it went.

Another of their classmates, Gavin, was on the team too. His dad Fred, a gentle giant of a man, with an easy-going nature, was the head coach. In my view he was the best coach my son could ever have.

Coach Fred was low keyed, friendly, and extremely calm, while his offensive and defensive coordinators, fathers of players, tended to hysterics, living and dying with each block or tackle, each run or pass, and especially each win or loss.

You see, the ordinary dad coordinators seemed to have something to prove.
It mattered to them a little more.
Each game they helped coach seemed like their Super Bowl.
They had never played in a Super Bowl however.

Coach Fred had.

TWICE.

Fred McNeill was a first round pick, out of UCLA, in the 1974 NFL draft.
He played 12 seasons for the Minnesota Vikings. During the 1985 season he began coursework at William Mitchell Law School. After graduating at the top of his class, he passed the bar exam, joined a local law firm, and worked his way up to partnership.

But then it all changed.

Fred started forgetting things.
Names, places, dates.

In time things got worse.
His car keys, where he parked, where he was driving.

Then it became heartbreaking.
His wife Tia, son Fred Jr., and Gavin.

Unfortunately the McNeill family, and his career as an attorney, became casualties of Fred’s dementia.

In 2009, when Gavin was 22 years old, his dad was diagnosed with Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, or CTE, which is permanent brain damage believed to be the result of repeated concussive events.

At an age when I was trying to help my son find his way in the world, Gavin, as the dutiful child, was helping his father find his way through his daily routine.
All day.
Every day.

I sincerely hope that all young fathers could have a partner as smart as my wife to raise their children with. Hell, I gotta admit that in addition to raising our two kids she practically raised me as well.
One of the basic lessons she taught, that I struggled with, but finally learned is,
“IT’S NOT BABYSITTING IF THEY’RE YOUR KIDS! IT’S CALLED PARENTING.”

Which leads me to wonder what it’s called when a 20-something son is the primary care provider, over a prolonged period, for his middle-aged dad?
Feeding him, dressing him, just being there for him.

I say it’s heart-warming that Gavin was able to do this for his dad.
More so though, I think it’s heart-breaking that he had to.

In March of 2014 Fred was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease).  He died 20 months later at age 63, at which time the CTE diagnosis was confirmed by Dr. Bennet Omalu who could then look at postmortem tissue samples of Fred’s brain.

 

I often maintain that I’m a deep and complicated guy.  At the risk of sounding hypocritical, I’ll explain where I’m coming from regarding football now.

My deep connections and fondness for the Gophers will keep me watching college football forever.  Research on player safety and increased helmet technology typically came, in my day anyway, from college campuses.

 

I really have no use, however, for the NFL.  A league that makes billions of dollars a year but seems to do little to contribute to player safety nor equipment technology.  In fact we are now finding out that the NFL has denied, attempted to cover up, and or muddle the findings of the links between repeated blows to the head, concussions, and CTE. 
So, I no longer follow the NFL.

I seem to recall John Facenda, the baritone voice of NFL films, in my youth, glorifying the players as, “modern day gladiators”.  Back then that term was high praise for the players of the league, the owners, and the entire system that is now forcing ex-players like San Diego Charger Junior Seau, after years of pain and anguish, to take a self-inflicted shotgun blast to the chest in order that his brain could be examined for confirmation of CTE. 
Now the gladiator description seems to ring too close to true.

The league should do more. 
The players deserve better.
It’s the least they should do for kids like Gavin.