A MAN IS MENTALLY AND PHYSICALLY STRONG
Our bodies are our gardens—our wills are our gardeners.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
My career in professional football nearly ended just after it started.
We opened the 1989 season, my second, by hosting the San Diego Chargers at the Los Angeles Coliseum. Partway through the third quarter, it had already been a busy day for me. I’d returned four punts and two kickoffs, and caught one pass for eight yards. When Marion Butts ran in a one-yard touchdown to bring the Chargers within two touchdowns of us at 28–14, it was time for me to get on the field for another kickoff.
I caught the ball and veered left. We were set up for a middle return, and it looked like this could be a big one. I was just past the twenty when a big number 59, San Diego’s Ken Woodard, came my way. I tried to plant my left foot so I could cut back to the middle. It was a move I’d made a thousand times, one that should have had the defender grabbing for air. But on this day, the Coliseum grass didn’t hold my cleats.
My left leg slid and extended. I was an easy target. Woodard hit me in the right shoulder and crushed me into the turf. As I struck the ground, I felt my left knee bend and something in my leg collapse. It didn’t hurt (I found out later I’d torn nerves, which explained the lack of pain), but something felt loose. I stayed down.
The trainers came onto the field to check me out. One held up his hand. “Tim,” he said, “how many fingers do you see?”
I shook my head. “I wish it was my head,” I said. “It’s my knee.”
I walked off the field without help. In fact, I wanted to play more. We were having a great game and I wanted to be part of it. “C’mon H-Rod,” I said to trainer Rod Martin as I sat on the sideline. “I want to get back in. Let me go back in.”
“Timmy,” he said. “Look at your knee.”
I looked. It was like a gate swinging in the breeze. My kneecap was on the left side instead of in the middle. I knew this wasn’t good.
It turned out I’d torn my medial collateral and posterior cruciate ligaments, two of the four major ligaments of the knee. The combination of the two was a rare and significant injury. I needed surgery at Cedars-Sinai Hospital the next morning. My season was over.
The news got even worse just before I was wheeled into the operating room. The doctors weren’t sure if my knee would be all right after the surgery. They were talking more about trying to get me to walk straight than if I’d ever play football again. One doctor said, “It’s probably time to start looking at other ways to make a living.”
Those weren’t the words I wanted to hear, but I wasn’t shocked. I already knew the situation was serious. Actually, right after that conversation, I felt thankful. I kissed my Notre Dame class ring before handing it over to a nurse. My parents had always emphasized how important it was to get a college education, something they’d never had the opportunity to pursue. I’d earned a sociology degree with a minor in business. I knew that if this was the end of my football days, there were still other things I could do in life.
A couple of weeks later, I started rehab with the Raiders’ trainers. My Monday-through-Friday workouts focused especially on leg lifts as we tried to build back strength in my knee and leg. The workouts ended with what the staff called “hell time.” I had to lie on my stomach on a table while a trainer used his shoulder to bend my lower leg back toward my body. The idea was to go a little farther each day and eventually break up the scar tissue in my knee. If I heard a pop, I knew it was working. I also felt the worst pain I’d ever experienced. I wouldn’t wish those knee cranks on anyone.
As the weeks passed, my progress seemed to falter. In November, fellow receiver Mervyn Fernandez pulled me aside. “Dude,” he said, “they need to go back in and fix you up. They obviously didn’t do it right.”
That was a tough time. I wanted to be back on the field with my teammates, who were on their way to an 8-8 season. Now I was having issues with my rehab. I wondered what kind of NFL career I had left.
Finally, in December, the trainers and I went to a specialist. He gave them a bad time for the rehab program they’d been using on me and showed them ways to twist and massage my knee and leg. The new plan worked. Within a week, I was making progress again.
Six months after the injury, the staff told me the knee was healed, that we just needed to add range of motion. But they kept babying it, preventing me from doing anything close to what happens on a football field. Finally, I’d had enough. I had to know.
“We need to find out now if this thing is going to work next season or not,” I said. “Let’s see if everything’s healed in there. Let’s put it to the test.”
I convinced the trainers, Rod Martin and Todd Sperber, to join me on the goal line on one of our practice fields. “I’m going to run, spin, cut, double juke, triple juke, everything I can do to see where we are with this knee,” I said. “If I make it through, I hope everyone’ll be satisfied and we can go full speed ahead. If I don’t make it through, then we’ll know we’ve got an issue and we have to go back in and get this thing redone.” They weren’t excited about it, but they were willing to let me try.
With a deep breath, I took off. I sprinted. I ran routes. I put moves on phantom defenders. After months of rehab and confinement, it was great to be out in the open, just cutting loose. Before I knew it I was at midfield, then the forty . . . the twenty . . . and the opposite goal line. Running those hundred yards into the end zone felt as good as any kickoff I’d ever returned for a score.
The trainers and I met near midfield, in front of the entrance to the locker room. “All right,” I said, “is everybody satisfied now? Let’s get to work.”
As much as a football player depends on his body to thrive in the ultracompetitive NFL, the first step to success actually takes place in his mind. It’s all about attitude. That’s especially true in relation to injuries. Every player who takes the field risks the chance of a season-ending or career-ending injury. But it’s critical that he put those thoughts out of his mind. The player who enters a game focused on not getting hurt is a liability to his teammates. He’ll be tentative and likely out of position, which actually makes him more likely to end up injured.
That’s one of the reasons I always wanted to get back in the game as fast as I could after I’d been hurt. I didn’t want to allow myself even a moment to doubt my ability to perform or think about the possibility of injury.
In 1990, my first season after the knee surgery, we played it cautious in the first preseason game. Once I got through that obstacle, though, I went full out. I didn’t have any problems, but it wasn’t until our third game, a victory over the Steelers, that I truly believed I was back. I returned three punts, including one for more than thirty yards, and also caught a pass. More important, I just felt right. I could turn on my usual burst of speed when I needed it.
I went home excited that night. My NFL future looked bright again. When I woke up, however, I had a problem. I couldn’t straighten or flex my knee.
Uh oh.
I limped into the Raiders facility later that day, walking on tip-toe with my left leg because I couldn’t put it flat on the ground. “What are you doing?” Rod Martin asked me.
“Man, I can’t walk.”
“Don’t be playing around,” he said.
“No, I’m serious.”
H-Rod’s face turned white. “Well, we’ll have to wait for the doctors. It’s one of two things. Either you tore an adhesion, which is a good thing, or you ripped something. And that’s a problem.”
Soon a doctor arrived, who drained fluid from my knee. When that syringe started filling up with a pinkish liquid, I thought it was blood. “No, no, no, that’s not good,” I said.
“No, Timmy, that’s not blood,” someone said. “You’re all right.” Once they finished draining my knee, I was good as new.
Injuries and the fear of getting them can drive a player crazy. You’re healthy. You’re hurt. You think you’re rehabbed but you’re not. You think you’ve reinjured yourself but you’re okay. If you dwell on it, you get yanked up and down like a yo-yo.
That’s why it is so important to be mentally strong. You can’t play scared in the NFL. Yes, you need to be smart and protect yourself. If there’s a fumble, you don’t just carelessly throw your body into the pile of players and expose yourself to serious injury. You want to be able to walk away and help your team on the next play. But at the same time, you can’t be afraid to go after the ball. That’s your job.
The worst thing for a player is to watch film of a game and see himself back away from blocking an opponent or not go for a catch because he’s afraid of getting hurt. Receivers can develop what we call “alligator arms”—when they don’t fully extend their arms while reaching for a ball because they fear taking a big hit. Once opponents see you with alligator arms, you never live it down. That’s when it’s time to get out of the game.
At least 90 percent of the guys on every team in the NFL are fully dedicated to doing all they can for the team to win. But if three or four or five guys aren’t selling out for the cause, they are the ones who often make the difference between winning and losing. Your attitude has to be, “I’m going to get it done no matter what.”
The same is true for any aspect of life. The corporate manager worried more about losing money than about making deals that will take his company to the next level is a manager about to be replaced. The guy always afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing in front of his girlfriend isn’t going to keep that girlfriend. A man has to approach his life with total commitment and confidence. That’s an attitude of strength.
In my case, my injury did alter my thinking in one significant way. I believed my NFL career was likely to be short. I felt that every practice, every game, and even every play could be my last. I thought, If this is my last one, I want to make it my best one. Instead of holding back or worrying about getting hurt, I went the other way. I gave it my all on the field and my preparation for each practice and game, mentally and physically, was over the top.
How so? If we had a game scheduled for Sunday, I didn’t talk to Taylor or my mother after Friday. I didn’t have sex after Thursday. Yes, you read that right. I wanted to save all my energy for the game.
Saturday was my day to get in the zone. I went to morning practice and was home by eleven. Sometimes I watched the Notre Dame game on TV. Otherwise, I sat by myself. In my mind, I went through the upcoming game, the plays we planned to run and the likely response of the other team’s players. My thoughts ran something like, How am I going to deal with this guy? I might need some help on this play because I might not be able to handle the crackback block by the linebacker. Some guys took the opposite approach. They wanted to stay active on Saturdays and put football completely out of their minds. But what worked for me was to be alone and focus.
On game days, I did everything I could to stay in the mental zone I’d created. I was a monk—I didn’t talk much to my teammates. Instead, I listened to my gospel music with a towel over my head, then lay on the floor and thought more about our plays, my routes, and the film we’d watched of the other team. By the time the whistle blew for the opening kickoff, I was so prepared mentally that I felt I almost knew what was going to happen on the field.
Of course, I prepared physically as well. I worked out hard, in season and out. I got my rest. On game days, I always stretched in front of my locker for thirty minutes. I taped ankles, wrists, and my big toes, and just before I walked onto the field I taped each joint on my fingers. I often applied heat plasters to my back, hamstrings, and hip flexors. I added extra padding to my shoulder pads. If you watch film of me over the years, it looks like I was still growing—that’s because I kept adding more padding as I got older!
You didn’t see other guys on the Raiders preparing for games the way I did. When they got to the locker room, most of them were laughing, joking, and talking on their cell phones. It was only just before game time that they got serious. I’m not saying they were any less dedicated than I was, but the approach was different.
In the early years of my career, some of the veterans—guys like defensive end Greg Townsend and linebacker Jerry Robinson—used to give me a bad time over my routine. They’d lift up my towel, peek in at me, and chide, “Hey, you scared? Are you scared in there?” But once I made the Pro Bowl again in 1991, the teasing pretty much stopped. They saw that what I did worked for me.
I’ll admit, my approach was a little OCD. But I thought it was necessary for me to be successful. And I never wanted to see my career end because I hadn’t done everything I could to prepare myself mentally and physically. The two reinforced each other. By staying focused and mentally strong, it was easier to play well and stay committed to keeping my body in shape. And by knowing my body was at its best, it was easier to adopt a confident and strong attitude.
I believe that’s true for any man. Even if he’s not an athlete, he’s going to perform better in his job and have better relationships when he feels strong in mind and body. He’s better prepared to tackle that new project at work or help his wife or child deal with a challenge at home when he’s at his best mentally and physically. My NFL days are over, but I still work out and often run with the high school track team I coach. I know what a difference that makes for me.
Staying strong mentally and physically is biblical, as verses like these show: “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind” (2 Tim. 1:7 NKJV) and “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit. . . . Therefore honor God with your body” (1 Cor. 6:19–20). It also just makes sense. When a man knows his mind and body are both in peak condition, he’s ready to take on the world.