John Mackey

John Mackey made a difference – in football, in business, and in life. A star tight end at Syracuse University, his impact was so significant that the university retired his jersey number – 88 – in his honor in 2007. While at Syracuse, he quietly and peacefully made inroads into the discrimination that permeated society, building lifelong friendships that transcended ethnicity and socioeconomic backgrounds.

Selected by the Baltimore Colts in the second round of the 1963 draft, John played nine seasons with the Colts before finishing his playing career with the San Diego Chargers in 1972. In 10 seasons in the NFL, he earned Pro Bowl honors five times, including his rookie season. In 1992, he was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, only the second at his “revolutionized” tight end position to be so recognized. To this day, Mike Ditka – the first tight end to be inducted in the Hall of Fame – describes John as the greatest to ever play the game.

In 1970, John became the first president of the National Football League Players Association following the merger of the NFL and AFL. He spent the next three years leading the union through turbulent times, fighting for better pension and disability benefits for players, and gaining free agency that today’s NFL players still enjoy. It was a battle that some contend kept him out of the Pro Football Hall of Fame for 15 years.

Off the field – and for nearly three decades after his football career ended – John was as committed to advocating for those in need as he was to football – and in particular, Syracuse University and the Syracuse Orange, and Baltimore and the Baltimore Colts. Although he and former U.S. Congressman Jack Kemp (an NFL veteran himself) had different political perspectives, they partnered to launch a non-profit to give an educational advantage to disadvantaged children. He actively supported the civil rights movement that changed the course of history. He reached out to others, whether it was to offer guidance on career choices or to advocate for recognition of an under-appreciated teammate. At John’s funeral in 2011, in fact, his Syracuse teammate, former Denver Bronco Floyd Little, told mourners what John wrote to the Pro Football Hall of Fame in support of Floyd’s candidacy: “If there’s no room for Floyd Little in the Hall of Fame, please take me out and put him in.”

That’s the kind of person John Mackey was.

He was also my college sweetheart. We started dating as freshmen at Syracuse, thanks in part to our friend Ernie Davis, a teammate of John’s who loaned him the money to pay for our first date. John and I married in 1964, raised a son and two daughters together, and had just begun to enjoy our grandchildren when John was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia. He was just 59 years old.

Until then, I thought we would grow old together. I thought we would watch our children’s children grow up. Instead, over the last 11 of our 47-year marriage, I watched the love of my life lose every memory of the family, the friends, and the game he treasured. Over those 11 years between his diagnosis and death, the compassionate person who cared so much for others, the man who stood up for the underdog, the mentor who provided guidance to so many young people, the citizen who gave back to the community – the loving husband, father, and grandfather – slowly regressed to a childlike adult.

Despite the ravages of the disease, there was one constant in John’s mind – he was a Baltimore Colt. When his disease progressed to the point where hygiene became an issue, a fake message from the NFL’s then-commissioner Paul Tagliabue convinced John to brush his teeth. He proudly wore his Super Bowl V and Pro Football Hall of Fame rings, yet it was absolutely heartbreaking to hear him ask friends and fans alike, “Do you want to see my rings?” Even in the fog of dementia, the Baltimore Colts and the National Football League broke through.

Although dementia robbed John of his powerful voice, the disease gave him the ability to influence the discussion about head trauma, to inform active and former players about the dangers, and to impact the future of sports medicine and player safety. His private battle with dementia became the public face of the link between head trauma, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, and related ailments. He was the catalyst for the 88 Plan that provides financial assistance for those affected, for the advocacy and fundraising efforts of his Baltimore Colt teammates that changed the conversation from blaming the player to protecting the future, and for my own involvement in the Concussion Legacy Foundation. When John died on July 6, 2011, a few months shy of his 70th birthday, the widespread media coverage focused as much on these and other post-diagnosis accomplishments as on any of his other achievements in life. Even in illness and in death, he changed the world.

That, I believe, is John Mackey’s greatest legacy. What will your legacy be?

Sylvia Mackey
Mrs. #88

Matthew Martinez

When passersby walk by the Martinez family’s home in Reedley, California, they come across a memorial for Matthew Martinez. Some visitors drop flowers next to Matthew’s monument, honoring the young man who grew up intrepidly exploring the valley’s natural splendor. Many salute his United States Marine Corps plaque, remembering the former Iraq War Veteran, gone too soon.

In the last 10 years, Carmen and Dale Martinez have developed many coping mechanisms to protect from the pain of their son’s death. They are comforted to know Matthew lived a robust 22 years, full of adventure, novel experiences, and so much laughter. They can look at Matthew’s son Noah, his doppelganger in both appearance and spirit. They can remember how Matthew did what he set out to do from a young age by serving his country.

But coping has its limits.

“As parents,” Carmen said, “we are not equipped to send our kids off. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”

As much vitality as Matthew and the countless other Veterans lost to the invisible wounds of war gave in their time on Earth, we could help them have even more, says Dale.

“These heroes who have served – they all have a story to tell. We want them to be healthy. We want them to seek help when they need it so they can share their stories of their life to their children and their grandchildren.”

Matthew Martinez was born on September 19, 1988. His parents fondly remember young Matthew’s zest for life.

“He was just a cool guy,” Carmen said. “He always wanted to please and do good for everybody.”

From a young age, he took advantage of the nature around him in California’s Central Valley. He was notorious for starting lemon fights on the Martinez family’s 25 acres of citrus orchards – hurling the fruit at his siblings and cousins.

Matthew was in his element during family camping outings at Sequoia or Yosemite National Parks. The vast landscape around him offered a chance to swim, hike, run, climb, and extract as much fun as he could from the world.

“He’d be the first one up a rock,” Carmen said. “Like Spiderman.”

After school, Matthew loved playing sports, dirt biking, working on cars, and taking camping trips with friends.

Many of the men in the Martinez family served in the United States Armed Forces. At the family’s many gatherings, Matthew listened closely as his grandfather, great uncles, uncles, and cousins shared stories from their time overseas.

Matthew was 12 years old on September 11, 2001. He watched many of his cousins immediately enlist in the war and serve in the initial invasion units in Iraq. When Matthew was a sophomore in high school, he decided to enlist in the U.S. Marines.

“He took a lot of pride in his family’s history of service,” Dale said. “He wanted to make us proud for his service and by his service. And he did.”

Martinez entered the Marines two months after graduating from Reedley High School. He graduated from boot camp in Camp Pendleton in San Diego in October 2006. A year later, he was deployed to Iraq.

A platoonmate of Matthew’s from his first deployment remembers a sudden thud to the back of his head while he was looking out into the distance.

The thud came via Corporal Martinez, who threw an orange at the platoonmate’s head. 7,500 miles away from home, Matthew found a new citrus to play with.

Matthew wrote home often during his first deployment. Over occasional video calls, Carmen and Dale saw the same joyful Matthew they raised for 18 years, albeit a bulkier version.

The first tour ended in May 2008. Matthew was back on U.S. soil, stationed a seven-hour drive away from home in Twentynine Palms, California.

In February 2009, Matthew’s son Noah Scott Martinez was born.

Once Noah was born, Matthew went home every chance he could, flooring the gas pedal from Twentynine Palms to Reedley. Matthew adored Noah and loved playing with him.

“Noah was his pride and joy,” Dale said.

Matthew left for his second deployment, a marine expedition unit (MEU), in September 2009. The MEU represents a dark period for the Martinez family’s communication with Matthew, as letters home were less frequent, and Matthew had less access to video calls than he did on the first deployment.

Dale and Carmen are still unsure about the specifics, but they know Matthew experienced a fair amount of injury on the MEU. They know he suffered several falls over the course of the deployment. They also know he operated heavy artillery – regularly putting him in range of blast waves that emanate from firing weapons.

Martinez returned from the MEU deployment in May 2010. He was honorably discharged from the service three months later. He was finally coming home for good.

“We were elated,” Carmen said. “We didn’t have to worry about him getting blown up, shot at, or taken prisoner. He was safe.”

Carmen looks back on those first few months of being reunited with Matthew as a “honeymoon period.” When he first came home, Martinez told his family he wanted to grow his hair out and relax for the first time in years. But for the next 10 months, he struggled to find such peace.

“It’s a disease that hides,” Carmen said. “He was fighting silent battles all while we thought everything was fine.”

The first sign of trouble was the headaches. Matthew frequently complained to his parents about headaches so painful he couldn’t sleep, and he rebuffed every time Dale and Carmen suggested he take medication and seek medical services.

Matthew was effortlessly cool and easygoing growing up. He loved life too much to be fazed by much of anything. After he was back home, Carmen was stunned to see her son get so upset when he discovered his burger order had been mixed up.

“The mood swings were probably when we first thought, ‘Whoa’,” Carmen said. “This is not Matt.”

There was a distance between pre-deployment Matthew and post-deployment Matthew. A similar distance emerged between Matthew and his son.

In between his first and second deployments, Matthew wanted as much to do with Noah as he possibly could. But after the MEU, Dale and Carmen noticed Matthew didn’t possess the same energy when he cared for Noah.

Matthew could tolerate caring for Noah for brief periods, but his patience grew thin over time due to the stressors of raising a toddler. When Noah began to fuss, Matthew would become agitated and leave the room.

Dale had seen this before. His father was a Vietnam Veteran and battled PTSD for much of his childhood. When Dale saw his son suffer from headaches, nightmares, and anxiety, he urged him to seek professional help.

Before Matthew’s service, he and his mother had a close relationship. They could talk about anything. But when Carmen asked him questions about his deployments, Matthew reassured her she didn’t need to know about what he experienced.

“That’s kind of how it works with Veterans,” Dale said. “They protect their loved ones from some of that exposure.”

Finally, in April 2011, Matthew and a cousin went to the VA together. There, Matthew received a referral for a psychiatric appointment he’d never make it to.

On Friday, June 3, 2011, Matthew erupted in rage while working at the family business over a simple matter. That night, Matthew made peace with his father over the outburst.

The following morning, Matthew woke up with a headache and took a nap in his parents’ bed. Hours later, Matthew died in his sleep of a brain hemorrhage. He was 22 years old.

In the hectic wake of tragedy, the Martinez family’s search for clarity led them to Dr. Ann McKee, Director of the UNITE Brain Bank. Dale spoke with Dr. McKee and arranged for her to study Matthew’s brain.

“I knew something wasn’t right,” Dale said. “This was a strong kid, 22 years old. How the heck does his brain explode?”

Dr. McKee found changes suggestive of CTE in Matthew’s brain. The Martinez family remembers Dr. McKee explaining how the findings of Matthew’s pathology report were unlike anything she had ever seen. She likened Matthew’s brain to that of a much older person. She theorized how the overlapping of Matthew’s PTSD with his likely history of TBI may have contributed to his sudden death.

The results brought a wave of emotions upon the Martinez family.

First, there was relief. If Dr. McKee did not report any changes to Matthew’s brain, Matthew’s last 10 months would have devastated Dale and Carmen.

Then, there was clarity. The mood swings Matthew exhibited after he returned home seemed to come from an entirely different person than the man Dale and Carmen raised. They often wondered what they had done to upset their son so much.

“Now we know it wasn’t us,” Carmen said. “There was so much more going on in his head.”

Finally, there was pride. Matthew was fiercely proud of his and his family’s military service. The family is assured he would have been proud to be part of research that will help other Veterans manage the symptoms of TBI, PTSD, and possible CTE.

The family supports CLF’s Project Enlist, which recruits and conducts outreach to the military and Veteran communities to encourage them to donate their brain for research. More research will beget ways to prevent, diagnose, and treat the invisible wounds of war Matthew endured.

Carmen and Dale urge other Veterans to embrace vulnerability and seek help.

“PTSD is a silent killer,” Carmen said. “Matthew was screaming out and no one could hear him because he could only hear himself.”

For parents of other struggling Veterans, they suggest persistence. If you see your child struggling, raise the issue and advocate for seeing a professional. Silence only contributes to the crippling stigmas of mental health in the military community.

Carmen Martinez’s favorite quote is also her wish for her son’s legacy.

No day shall erase you from the memory of time.

June 4, 2021 will mark 10 years since Matthew Martinez’s death. The Martinez family is planning a gathering to celebrate Matthew’s life and preserve his memory. Friends and family will join to reminisce on a life cut far too short.

“He was a hero to us,” Dale said. “He forever will be.”