“We ran through three divorces, seven children, many failed relationships, jobs, deaths of friends, and all our downfalls and victories, good times and bad. He was possibly the best man I have ever known.” – Bill Marro, Shank’s close friend

His Humor Persevered

Shank’s initial symptoms were aphasia – difficulty in speaking and the added component of difficulty understanding spoken language. While you could always seeing him struggling to find the correct words, the ones he would finally speak were close to what he really wanted to say, but not quite on the mark.  This made for some funny misspeaks and Shank always joined in the laughter. He loved to laugh. The following are some funny moments his family chooses to remember instead of the difficult times as he became sicker:

Shank was explaining the large mountain near us when we lived up in the greater North Conway, NH area and kept calling it Mouse Washington rather than Mount Washington. He did not even hear his mistakes!

“How far do you run?” his son asked. Shank answers: “I do sex every day” meaning SIX, as in miles. We were all cracking up.

I called him over to the window to see “the beautiful harvest moon” – it’s huge-ness. He gets up out of the chair, looks at it and starts telling me how it is the satellite thing that goes over and gives us tv signals.

As people age, I am told that we become more of what we already are (i.e., If he was always a grumpy man, he will be more of a grumpy man; if she was always a sweet woman, she may be sweeter yet).  I found that the degeneration aged Shank but he was still the very gregarious, easy going, people person he always was. He was talking with someone at the nursing home one day when I visited him (“talking” being in its loosest meaning), as he turned to let the man know I was his wife (always the respectful man). Although I’m only in my early fifties, and told I look younger, the man said to me,  “you’re 69, right?”. Shank is nodding complete agreement, while two of the nurses are watching. I said “sixty-nine? …yes, and don’t i look damn good for 69!”. I am certain Shank didn’t understand AT ALL, but when I burst out laughing along with the nurses, so did he. He just always made people around him comfortable.

The move to the nursing home was very difficult and only a last possible resort once it was clear he couldn’t be at home any longer.  Shank’s brother and I had convinced him that he worked at the nursing home in order to make that transition smoother and help him understand why he needed to be there. One day while we were both visiting during our lunch hour Shank said “they don’t pay me”. I looked at him and said “yes, but they feed you” and his brother chimes in “so they are losing money”! As we laughed so did Shank. Even if he didn’t get it, or could have taken it personally, his getting along nature persevered. It was a light moment during a very difficult time.

The most hilarious story I can recall is when we were out walking the dogs on a path near our home.  Shank loved his dogs, particularly his dog Molly who was his running partner for years. On this particular day Molly was slightly ahead of us, watching out for her man and she came across a toad on the path. She used her nose to push him off to the side, perhaps so we wouldn’t walk on him. I said to Shank “did you see that”? Molly nosed him right off the path!”  Shank’s reply: “Molly knows him?”  I nearly fell over laughing.

I choose to remember the funny things, and the true loving nature of my husband rather than the way the disease robbed him of his life.

The following is an essay written by Shank’s stepdaughter Andrea prior to his death:

The first thing my mom told me about my future stepfather was that he was a runner. She knew that this one fact could forever alter the way I, in my teenage contempt, viewed him, and she was right. One of our first encounters was a 5-mile run through the trails near my house. I pushed hard up and down the hills, trying to test his endurance to see if he would respond. He did just that, and as we neared the end of the run the trail opened up to a paved road, about 300 yards from the parking lot. “Let’s go, pick it up!” he told me, starting his sprint. I responded and kicked it up a notch, running neck in neck with him before passing in the final 50 yards. By then it was a done deal- he had my stamp of approval.

Three years later Shank and my mother were still dating and our relationship had grown to include long runs together on weekends and discussions about training, nutrition, injuries and racing. It was fall and I was away at college when Shank informed me that the ½ marathon I had agreed to run was, in fact, a full marathon and he had signed me up because he knew I could do it, even if I didn’t think I was ready. He was right about the latter. I was terrified of the 26.2 mile distance.

We ran together for the first 18 miles. We dissected what we were eating and drinking, how our legs were feeling, how our minds were dealing with the race. This was Shank’s 10th marathon and his experience showed. We were complete contrasts to each other; he was calm, soaking up the moment and I was terrified of “the wall.” At mile 18 Shank started to cramp, but I was feeling good. He told me to go on ahead and just take it easy, wait for the wall to come and then fight through it and finish. I didn’t want to leave him behind, but as he stopped to stretch and walk I knew that if I stopped that might be the end of me. The next 8+ miles were magical: I barely felt my legs, the miles kept clicking by and before I knew it I was at the finish line of my first marathon. It’s probably true that eventually I would have run a marathon on my own, but his faith in my ability and his presence through the first 18 miles made it that much more special.

Fast-forward 3 years. Shank is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, a possible outcome of the numerous concussions he suffered as a college football player. For a while after the diagnosis he continued to run, but as time passed he stopped going. Possibly he is afraid of getting lost, or maybe he thinks he has already gone running. He occasionally works out on a treadmill, but still fills out training logs as if he is still running 30-40 miles per week. It’s heartbreaking to see this degeneration of a person, and for me a running mentor. But I have learned that where there is sadness, there can be joy.

Although Shank no longer competes in races he is still an important part of my running success. I feel that in a way, I run for him, too. When I have a good race, I call to let him know and I seek his approval of my training methods and race strategies. He has been present at my past two marathons, and though he has trouble communicating his feelings I can look in his eyes and I know that he still gets it. His body may disagree but his mind knows I am a runner. I don’t know what the immediate future holds for Shank, but I do know that I will continue to run and count my blessings for having had the chance to run those 18 miles together. Each time I toe the line he’s in my thoughts.

Madigan Paradis, Sheldon Paradis’ granddaughter, has been a multi-year intern for CLF as a tribute to her “Grampy”’s legacy. Madigan wrote an update to Sheldon’s Legacy Story as part of her internship.

By Madigan Paradis

Although I did not know my Grampy for much of my life and do not remember many interactions with him, his life has had an indirect impact on mine. He passed away when I was eight, giving me only a few very vague memories of him. However, I have heard enough about him to understand the memories I had with him and why they did not make sense to me at the time. He was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s before I was born and had been affected mostly in his speech skills and mood. As a young child, I remember being so confused when he talked and did not understand why he was different from everyone else. The only real memory I have with him was sitting in his kitchen and him teaching me how to eat string cheese. That memory stands out to me because there was no need for any verbal communication, we could understand each other, and I could learn from him without his disease getting in the way. He was smiling and laughing, and it was a successful nonverbal interaction. From what I knew at the time, he was a kind and gentle man who struggled with himself and his relationships with others.

In the years after his death in 2008, I slowly learned more about him as a person from my dad, nana, aunts, and uncle. I learned how he struggled with mood swings all throughout their lives too and he would lash out for no apparent reason. There was something not right with him, but no one understood why. He married three times in his life and had four kids between two different marriages. There seemed to be some inconsistency in his life, and he had difficulty maintaining relationships. He often had sudden raging episodes where he would break things and say hurtful words to the people he cared about. According to my family, his behavior made people fearful to be near him at times. No one could figure him out or understand his erratic behavior. This all took place years before people understood CTE and his official diagnosis of early onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

Growing up, my dad often spoke of how he played D1 college football the same way my Grampy did. My dad would bring up the many head injuries he had, as well as how many my Grampy presumably had too in his football career. My nana even remembers old conversations between my Grampy and his teammates, where they would laugh about how many concussions they had. Back then, nobody understood the dangers that would lie ahead. In my sophomore year of high school, I suffered from a serious concussion playing soccer. I remember receiving advice from my Aunt Lisa who was previously involved in some work at CLF, after my Grampy’s brain donation. When I recovered from my concussion, my interest in the subject was piqued. I began to think about how if my concussion impacted me that much, how so many repetitive head injuries could have affected my grandfather, and how could it have affected the way he was throughout his life.

I began to pursue a major in neuroscience in college and reached out to CLF, hoping to become involved. I wanted to figure out why CTE and concussions have such an impact on people and their behavior. Although I did not know my Grampy well or for much of my life, his story has inspired my life and career goals. Many of my family members, including my dad and siblings, have played or still play college sports. I hope to become involved in studying CTE and concussions to help their futures. There was a trickledown effect from the CTE my Grampy had, as it affected the peace of the whole family and has had an impact on many family members. To be a part of his legacy and become involved at CLF has been such an honor and has made me more excited for the future and how I can work to prevent the damage concussions and CTE can cause.

John Pell grew up in Pahokee, FL, back in the 1950s. He went to school barefoot with the hem of his jeans rolled. Every day, he milked the cow and chopped firewood, taking turns with his brothers, before breakfast and dinner. John was full of fun. One day while his mother hosted bridge club, he quietly brought his goat Gruffo around to surprise everyone. He gave nicknames to all six of his siblings, the best of which went to his baby sister, Kathy, born in the 60s—The Punk!

John loved football, rightly so, as his father was the football coach and athletic director. Pahokee didn’t have little league football, but he got plenty of experience playing with friends in the park and joining the junior high school team. As John was small, he stayed back a year in the seventh grade to give him a little growth advantage. In high school, John played quarterback. Football was so rough against rival teams that he finished more than one game with a clawed face and vomiting until he had to go to the emergency room.

While at Pahokee Junior-Senior High School, John took part in many sports. Although mostly known for football, he was great at basketball too. A teammate once said John’s set shot was a performance, practiced to perfection. John would sink down, knees bent, ball in front of his nose, and then explode upward in one fluid motion, hands splayed over his head like butterfly wings. The ball would sail towards the rafters, and of course would go in, usually all net. It was always quite a show.

Along with sports, John was an avid boy scout who went on incredible camping and fishing trips. He also worked on weekends and holidays with a local carpenter through high school and college breaks.

John played defensive back at Northeastern Oklahoma A&M (NEO). He received All-American Honors while at NEO and still holds a record of 18 interceptions in 20 games from 1966-1967. He went on to play at Florida State (FSU) as a cornerback. His teammates awarded him the Page trophy for his personifying spirit of Michael Page. John was noted for his tremendous speed, courage, and pinpoint passing. In 1968, he participated in the first annual Peach Bowl. He graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree in 1971.

For a short time after college, John went on to play professional and semi-pro football in Canada with the Ottawa Rough Riders and Orlando Panthers. He remained small (6’1” and 183 lbs.) and by the end of his career, had suffered at least 31 concussions he could recall. His worst concussion was at NEO during practice. A teammate knocked him out cold, and he woke up 30 minutes later on the locker room shower floor.

John started his career in the Florida Keys teaching industrial arts and coaching at Plantation Key High School. Before long, he found real estate more lucrative. He became a real estate broker, opening his own firm and turning it into a successful business. He earned two Commercial-Investment Real Estate Council Certificates, one for “Fundamentals of Real Estate Investment and Taxation” and the other for “Fundamentals of Location and Market Analysis.”

His work attire consisted of tennis shorts and shoes. The nearby Cheeca Lodge called John anytime they had a guest looking for a tennis partner. He loved the game and played anytime he wasn’t working or on the beautiful blue water. While crossing the bridge near his office, he once told his son, Clay, “Roll down your window. Take a good look. Always remember, THIS IS LIVING!”

He loved being a father and grandfather. His children, Johnna Juarez, Clay Pell, and John David Pell, found him to be a great mentor, giving them sound and unbiased advice—always there to listen. He encouraged sports and attended as many of his children’s games as possible. His sense of humor transferred through the family. The grandkids called him “Geez”, short for old geezer. When he phoned the kids, he always announced, “It’s the Old Man.”

After many good years in real estate, he and his wife Roseanne moved to Okeechobee, Florida, to be closer to his aging parents. John and Rosanne built a home on beautiful, wooded-acreage in Bassinger, north of Okeechobee. He continued selling real estate and playing tennis while raising a few cows and riding his beloved cracker horses.

Around the age of 66, John began noticing a physical change. Three years later, he was diagnosed with Neocortical Lewy Body Disease. John’s walk became a shuffle, his dexterity and cognitive functions worsened, and hallucinations began. He had panic attacks, but with an antidepressant was able to control his anxiety. Mentally, he was declining and needing more care. John started having seizures which caused many falls and debilitated him. After a brief hospitalization, he went to a rehab facility. His seizures were more frequent, he was not cognitive, and lost his appetite. Less than two months later, John passed away at the age of 75.

John’s wish was to donate his brain to the UNITE Brain Bank. Upon study, researchers found many medical conditions, including:

Stage 3 (of 4) Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE)
Neocortical Lewy Body Disease
Limbic-predominant age-related TDP-43 encephalopathy (LATE), Stage 2
Vascular disease

While John had many reasons to complain, he never did. He remained a loving, caring husband, father, and brother to the end. John was honorable and trustworthy in his personal and business life. His gentleness, kindness, and humor were evident even in the hospital and rehab.

His injuries never dampened his spirit and love of football. He believed football taught him the importance of team building, tenacity, and to always give your best.

The Pell family feels blessed to have had the opportunity to work with the wonderful staff at the Concussion Legacy Foundation and cannot thank them enough for all their help.

Toby devoted much of his college time and energy to playing football. As All-Ivy center he was a “Beast” on the field and a Teddy Bear all other times. While at Harvard he was named to the Epson Ivy Bowl team where Ivy-league all-stars compete against top Japanese players. He loved getting together with his Harvard friends and teammates and appreciated Coach Joe Restic’s philosophy: “to make gentlemen and good men out of his players.” Toby’s teammates awarded him the Joseph E. Wolf Award. Toby is a 1991 graduate of St. Thomas Aquinas High School in Fort Lauderdale, FL, graduating with honors. Toby’s essence was charm, integrity and kindness; he was always ready to treat his friends and family and take care of others. His smile and wit would light up a room. Family and traditions were important to him as seen in his close relationship with his Nana who lovingly shared her stories of yesteryear and her famous home-baked goodies. Together they shower us with their devoted love from above. He was a longtime member of the Lago Mar Country Club in Plantation, FL where he honed his golf skills to a 3 handicap. He also appreciated and collected fine cars and participated in the sport of car racing.

After his death, Toby’s brain was studied at the UNITE Brain Bank. Researchers there diagnosed him with Stage 2 (of 4) Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE).

His family said he was the child that was always outside playing a game that involved a ball. Football was his passion but he was also very gifted in baseball. He played his high school football and baseball for the South Garland Owls, where he made All-State in football and played in the All Star Game for the North All Stars. He had offers to play both football and baseball in college, but made his choice to play for Baylor University beginning in 1965 through 1970.

Morris Trent Phipps was the eldest child born to Morris Lynn Phipps and Billie Rae Phipps. His family and friends all called him by his middle name, Trent.  He had two younger sisters.

His family said he was the child that was always outside playing a game that involved a ball. Football was his passion but he was also very gifted in baseball. He played his high school football and baseball for the South Garland Owls, where he made All-State in football and played in the All Star Game for the North All Stars. He had offers to play both football and baseball in college, but made his choice to play for Baylor University beginning in 1965 through 1970.

At Baylor, Trent played on the defensive line as nose guard. The coaches thought he was too small but his tenacity, quickness, and strength always earned him his starting position.  He loved strength training and his past time was handball. He graduated in 1971 with a Bachelor’s degree in Physical Education/History. He was the first in his family to ever attend or graduate from college.

In 1971, he married Donna Clark Phipps during her sophomore year at Baylor. They moved to Lubbock where Donna could finish her degree to be a speech pathologist and Trent began his coaching career at Lubbock Cooper High School. Trent and Donna have two sons: Brett, who coaches in the Dallas area, and Garrett, who has a dental practice in Guymon, Oklahoma.

Trent and Donna had the typical coaching moves around Texas to find that “greener pasture” where the athletes had the perfect combination of skills and motivation. Trent coached at Lubbock Cooper High School, Lubbock High School, Sweetwater High School, Graham High School,  and Uvalde High School.  While in Uvalde, Trent completed a Master’s in Administration. He was a principal for one year in Van Horn, Texas, and felt his glory days still called him to coach. In 1986, the family moved to Amarillo, Texas.  While in Amarillo, Trent coached at Tascosa High School, Bonham Middle School, Palo Duro High School, and Horace Mann Middle School. He retired from coaching and teaching in 2003.

In hindsight, Trent was beginning to show the effects of CTE as early as 1997. His diminished cognitive skills and depression were such that Donna took Trent to seek answers in late 2002. His diagnoses ranged from sleep apnea to serious depression to Early Onset Alzheimer’s disease and his final diagnosis from post mortem autopsy was primary Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.

Trent’s family misses him greatly but would want you to know the devastation of this disease and ask you to support, in whatever fashion, the research that may some day prevent others from suffering the effects of CTE.

Given with great love for father, husband, teacher, and coach, Morris Trent Phipps by his wife, Donna, and sons, Brett and Garrett.

My father was a strong physical presence. He was shorter, but thick and muscular. My body tends to reflect his. My older sister and my childhood was filled with waterskiing, fishing, tubing, and attending University of Tennessee football games. As a young soccer player, I would challenge my father to races next to our grandmother’s garden, on a football field, from one tree to the next, and he would always make sure he won. He was a football prodigy in his hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee, where football was king. He played high school ball at Young High School and had an outstanding career with the beloved Tennessee Volunteers, coached by Doug Dickey. Wearing #34, he played in the ‘66 Gator Bowl, ’67 Orange Bowl, and ’68 Cotton Bowl, and won the All-SEC Fullback of the Year award in 1968. After his career at UT, he made the preseason team for the Houston Oilers and was later inducted into the Tennessee Sports Hall of Fame.

Dig deeper, though and there is an uglier, more painful layer to my father’s story. His time with the Oilers ended after he lost his temper with his coaches. He exhibited tantrums on the sidelines of my college soccer games at referees or players, which always embarrassed me.

In our personal lives, while our childhoods had glimpses of happiness with our father, cracking jokes over “RC Colas and moon pies,” using his video camera to make our own fishing shows, and eating his famous steak and mushrooms, we were always nervously anticipating the next violent episode. We closed our eyes and held tight while he drove recklessly with us in the car. We locked ourselves in bathrooms, or frantically packed our things to jump in the car and drive away. We never knew when he would erupt.

When we were old enough to understand, and long after our parents divorced, we attached this behavior to his alcoholism and anger management issues. We later realized, though, there were confounding issues.

My dad’s playing career included close to 200 concussions by his estimation. After his death in July, 2014, we donated his brain to the UNITE Brain Bank, where scientists confirmed primary diagnoses of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE) and motor neuron disease associated with CTE. His substance abuse was a contributing diagnosis.

The symptoms of CTE can be expressed erratically, including violence, mania, depression, dementia, among others. Once a physical presence, my father was reduced to stumbling across the room, shuffling his feet and holding onto furniture because he was too stubborn and proud to use a walker. He liked to refer to his debilitation as a “hitch in his giddup.” In addition to his outbursts and aggressive behavior, he developed difficulty with concentration and organization in his 30s. By his 50s, he suffered from language difficulty, weakness in his legs, and progressive decline in his behavioral, cognitive, and motor functions. He was misdiagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s Disease, to which my sister organized a team in his honor for an ALS walk. The diagnosis, for a variety of reasons, didn’t quite fit, and was changed to Primary lateral sclerosis (PLS). Once again, he was misdiagnosed. He was losing his mental and physical capacity, and he didn’t know why.

As his symptoms progressed, the glimpses of happiness we once saw of our father in childhood lessened. We knew our visits with our father must not exceed 36 hours, or we would tumble into dark topics of despair. We brought lists of uplifting topics and stories to share, my sister playing the soothing, empathetic nurse, and I would operate as the ultimate jokester. Once, as a 20-something, I broke our golden rule and extended beyond a 36-hour visit. He attempted to physically attack me, but I was fresh out of college and fast as hell. He was reduced to holding onto furniture, shuffling his legs, lest he might fall. From that moment on, I broke communication with my father.

My sister and mom gave me updates on his condition from then on. He moved into a nursing home after totaling his car. He showed Sundowning behavior often, and his drinking contributed to him dying, with lots of life to live, at age 67.

In his nursing home room there was a display case with one of his Vol helmets, boasting a deep crease from a violent collision at Neyland stadium. My father’s football friends rallied around him, taking care of him, his finances, and his funeral, as he refused our help. Even though we now know his football career caused him so much pain, my father requested for his football friends to spread his ashes where he once played the game he loved.

I share this version of the story to shed light on the very real narrative of a man whose life was stolen by the decay of his brain. While parents continue to send their children out on the field in helmets and pads and memorize stats to draft their favorite players to their fantasy team, I believe CTE becomes something easier to ignore than to recognize. CTE is a hindrance to our culture’s Saturday and Sunday (and Monday and Thursday) pastime. This year marks the fifth anniversary of my father’s death, and I am at peace with the chaos and destruction my father caused on our lives. I am beginning to fondly remember the happy times with my father when he was free from the hold of his confounding diseases. And I am hopeful for continued progress on the efforts to combat the fatal impact of CTE.