In violent game, pain takes back seat
By JOHN ROMANO
Published September 26, 2006
TAMPA - The screaming pain in his ribs should have been enough. A reasonably sane man would have realized something had gone horribly wrong.
Then came the difficulty in catching his breath. He assumed the wind had been knocked out of him but, minutes later, his breathing was still shallow and ragged.
Perhaps it was time to lie down. Call a doctor. Maybe even pray.
Instead, tight end Dave Moore told an assistant coach that the Buccaneers could count on him the rest of the day.
"If I didn't actually start spitting up blood," Moore said, "I would have gone back in."
If you have been wondering how Chris Simms could play with the obvious pain and ignore the life-threatening hazards of internal bleeding, here is your answer.
NFL players are willing to risk almost anything to stay on the field. It is not written down anywhere, but it is understood by all. Miss a game, and you run the risk of losing your job. It is that simple. And that dangerous.
They are wealthy and famous, and scared beyond words about being replaced by someone younger, swifter or more tolerant of pain.
"There are no sick days," center John Wade said. "I've been playing for nine years and I've never even heard of a sick day."
There is something frightening about these stories. Something instructive, too. They speak to that part of the NFL that is lived in secrecy before tens of millions of fans most Sunday afternoons in the fall.
They explain how Moore could consider returning to the field in Tampa Bay's season opener earlier this month after a fractured rib had punctured his lung. And they explain how Simms might have played quarterback for three quarters on Sunday with a ruptured spleen.
"It's not really whether you're hurt or not. That's not the issue," linebacker Ryan Nece said. "The rationale becomes, are you helping the team or are you a detriment? Because if you can still do your job, then you play. Regardless of the consequences, the game takes precedence.
"That's what we're taught. That's what we do."
Nece injured his leg on the opening drive of a game while at UCLA. Trainers told him he had cramps and kept massaging his calf muscle. By the fourth quarter, Nece could stand it no more and took himself out.
Later, he learned he had been playing with a broken tibia.
His father, Hall of Famer Ronnie Lott, once had the tip of a finger amputated because of a chronic injury that threatened to keep him out of games. Jack Youngblood broke his leg in a 1979 playoff game and, with it tightly wrapped, continued playing for two more games. Mark Schlereth played 12 seasons in the NFL and had 29 knee surgeries.
Their stories have become part of sports lore but, in the process, have obscured the environment of workplace intimidation that exists in every NFL locker room.
When the head coach announces that an injured player is "probable" for his next game, it is a not-so-subtle warning that he expects the player to be ready. Teammates whisper to reporters that a player lacks heart if he is not willing to play through pain.
This same attitude allowed generations of players to ignore the long-term health risks of steroid use if it meant gaining an extra ounce of strength or speed.
"It's just the way it is. You're playing a violent game against guys who have trained themselves to punish you," punter Josh Bidwell said. "You know if you get tackled once, twice, three times or 40 times, eventually there's going to be a time when you're not going to get back up. You play with pain, that's all.
"It's not pressure, it's an expectation."
Players often are asked by coaches whether they are injured or hurt. The difference? An injured player is impaired and unavailable. A player who is merely hurt should suck up the pain and get back on the field.
So who, exactly, is looking out for their health?
Players are worried about their jobs. Coaches are worried about victories. Neither is giving a lot of thought to quality of life beyond the NFL.
Doctors are ostensibly there on behalf of the players, but they are paid by the team. That raises an obvious conflict of interest.
Former NFL running back Merril Hoge won a $1.55-million lawsuit against the Bears team physician for failing to warn him of the danger of returning to the field too soon after a major concussion.
As part of a collective bargaining agreement in the 1980s, the NFL Players Association demanded that players be allowed to seek second opinions and have surgeries performed by doctors not affiliated with teams.
Still, most players accept the risks without much thought. It is, they say, part of their job. An occupational hazard in an occupation like few others.
"People don't understand. They'll never understand," receiver Michael Clayton said. "They don't know what goes into staying on the field. Most of the people who criticize us couldn't last one day in this life.
"It's tough to put into words. We play with pain every day and we don't know how serious an injury might be. It's very dangerous. We jeopardize a lot. We jeopardize everything, really, to stay out there."
Times staff writer Joanne Korth contributed to this report.