- Joined
- Jun 20, 2010
- Messages
- 35,576
- Name
- The Dude
Sean Pamphilon recorded during this meeting. This was edited for time but you can listen to it in its entirety here. (link shut-down due to overload)
For Sean Pamphilon's take on the experience, read the following.....
"TRU DAT"
On January 13th, 2012, I was in a San Francisco hotel with one of my dear friends, Steve Gleason. He was a long-time New Orleans Saints special teams ace, (2000-2007). He was a yoga loving, long-haired, counter-culture fan favorite, who became a New Orleans icon. He married a local girl, made the city his off-season home, lived in modest places and mingled freely with the every man.
He became a local legend September 25th, 2006, after his punt block on the first series back, re-opening the Super Dome, after Hurricane Katrina.
As one of the locals in attendance described to me, “It was the biggest beer spill in history.”
Seriously, a man blocking a punt in a football game actually kickstarted an entire region and gave a morale boost that transcended sport.
**To listen to the uncut audio from the January 13th meeting click here http://dl.dropbox.com/u/19899434/Willia ... io_All.m4a
I met Steve a year ago through a mutual friend, whom he had battled with on the football field. I had just learned Steve had been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease).
I had spent the previous year working on a film called, “The United States of Football” and spoke to Steve about being part of the documentary. On the second day we met, in March 2011, I was hooked on the energy that is Steve Gleason and we decided to do a film about he and his wife Michel, as they “stare(d) into the eye of the tiger,” and face his diagnosis with a dignity and uncommon grace.
Steve and I are co-directing his film and also creating a video library (legacy time capsule) for his children (Michel gave birth to their first child, Rivers, in October).
Words simply cannot define they way they approach their lives. They are beautiful people.
****
On this January 13th Saturday night before the playoff game with the San Francisco 49ers, I was filming for a few documentary projects I have been working on for the past two years. Steve is a small part of my USOF film because two of the main people profiled (NFLPA Executive Committee members Sean Morey and Scott Fujita) fought hard for him to ensure he wouldn’t get screwed by the disability system for former NFL players. Of which, a former player told me “you have to be paralyzed for them to give you disability.”
It’s a system so flawed that the NFL was called on the carpet in front of congress in 2009. At the time congresswoman Linda Sanchez (interviewed in the USOF) spoke of the NFL being like the tobacco industry, with absolutely no moral compass. Who is responsible for taking care of these men, she wondered.
A main character in the USOF film, Kyle Turley, was also inspired by Steve Gleason’s diagnosis. Turley wrote a beautifully sad song, “Fortune and Pain,” which is a tribute to the many men who played tackle football and are now suffering it’s effects. Kyle states with dejection in his voice and heart that if the league would only do right by men who were “hurt on the job,” these men would gladly sacrifice their bodies if they didn’t feel discarded and used on the back end. If the maladies that manifest after their five-year post-retirement insurance runs out, they are screwed. Kyle was diagnosed as CTE symptomatic (Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy), which eventually leads to a downward spiral. CTE usually doesn’t reach it’s full bloom until a players early 40’s.
For most players, this is many years after they retire and their insurance has run out.
Recently, I interviewed Dave Pear, a former All-Pro and Super Bowl Champion, who has fought for his disability for 30 years. He made about 600k in his six-year career and claims to have spent approximately that same amount on medical bills since he retired. When we sat down for our interview he splayed on the counter a handful of long screws and bolts that had previously been surgically implanted in his body.
“That’s the reality of football for me,” Dave Pear said as he stood for half of our interview because the pain was too much from the chairs we sat in.
***
On this January 13th night, before this playoff game against the 49ers, as per usual, Steve and I had access to all things Saints. Drew Brees showed up outside the team hotel before dinner, greeted Steve with a hug, glanced at me and said, “Hey Sean.”
The best part about following this team all year is that I wasn’t looked at as one of them, the media. Familiarity and standing next to Steve Gleason, afforded me a level of trust.
Less than 36 hours before kickoff, I had decided to go back home to the Bay Area where I grew up and sit two feet behind the bench, on the sideline of an NFL playoff game. I had been on the sidelines working for approximately 15 games over the years (many at Candlestick Park), so I knew how to “act like I’ve been there before.” Still, it was an unbelievably beautiful day. T-shirt weather in January!
I would have been just as happy watching the game in HD on my couch, but I was stoked to be with Steve watching a game and talking a little football. I’d speculate about a play and he would point out things I never considered, before they would happen. I used to cut hi-lites at ESPN, but Steve understands the subtle detail and nuance of football as if it were a language in which he is fluent. I’ve been a religious NFL fan for 35 years, but when players say ‘you don’t know unless you played,’ you should know they are telling the truth on many levels. We don’t have their football brains and we never felt their football aches and pains.
On this January 13th night I would get an education I was shocked by and truly wanted no part of. It has forever changed the way I will watch football. But the fact is, I will still watch, each and every Sunday, Monday and now Thursday because I am committed to it in a way that has outlasted any of my personal relationships.
I gave up gluten. I gave up sugar. I gave up caffeine.
I gave up cigarettes!
But I simply cannot give up football.
***
Earlier in the season, I was with Steve Gleason behind the bench, two yards away from Drew Brees, as he threw for four touchdowns and ran for one, against the eventual Super Bowl Champion, New York Giants. Before that Monday Night Football game I told Steve that Drew was going to throw for five Td’s and the Saints would win by 20. As we were walking out of the SuperDome, Steve looked at me with a wide smile and shining eyes, “Only won by 18, Fly,” he remarked. He nicknamed me “Fly” because of my ability to silently blend into the scenery when shooting our film. I have never been considered “sneaky,” but when you document intimate moments with a camera you should think of yourself as wallpaper, not a sound system.
Within seconds of Steve’s jab, Saints rookie running back Mark Ingram took one to the house from 35 with just over a minute left and the Saints won by 25. “Well done, Fly,” Steve-O remarked as we left the Superdome.
Being around this team was hella fun and never felt like like working.
After one of Brees’ big plays, Saints defensive coordinator Gregg Williams looked right in Steve’s and my direction and said, “I’ve been around a lot of shitty quarterbacks. Our guy is pretty good!” Williams said this with an emphasis that honestly made me laugh out loud.
To date, that is my favorite behind the curtain moment of my entire Saints experience.
My favorite moment overall was very public. On September 25th, 2011, 73,000 people in their seats got to witness Steve do the “Who Dat” chant on the five-year-anniversary of his blocked punt re-opening the Super Dome. My 13-year-old son Alix and I were but a few feet away–cameras rolling–documenting the moment, working together. It was the most meaningful moment of my 20-year career. I had been out of town shooting three different football documentaries and spent nearly half my time on the road, for months. The opportunity to give my kid that once-in-a-lifetime moment was incredible. I let him cut school and we both wore Steve’s #37 jersey’s. As we passed by the Saints logo in the middle of the field, the hair on my arms and legs were electric. I had three layers of goosebumps and when I looked at my wide-eyed son, his camera so steady and focused, my eyes welled up with pride.
Two days later, Drew Brees would sign a personalized ball for my boy (“Alix, Welcome to Team Gleason…Drew”). The only other time I had a player offer any form of memorabilia to my boy was Ricky Williams giving him a helmet and game ball. I didn’t do this because I’m a jock sniff. I did it because I wanted my son to feel connected to the projects that kept me away so often.
***
For me, being around the Saints was intoxicating. I had been in locker rooms and team facilities throughout my career in sports television. But often times as a media member you were treated like an intruder vs. a welcomed guest. Being in their locker room felt comfortable and familiar. Walking down the hall at the team facility and chatting up Jonathan Vilma, was casually cool. I told him I lived in Brooklyn for 13 years and was a temporary Jet fan. I lamented the trade, but wished “JV” –as Steve called him–well. Vilma couldn’t have been classier. Great smile, awesome energy, legit eye contact. “This is the type of dude you root for,” was my immediate impression after literally a conversation of less two-minutes. I’d been around him as an observer when he was dealing with other people and he was the same guy as when my camera was fixed on him. Solid dude.
If Jonathan Vilma ever paid a man $10,000 to hurt another man, I need a cancelled check or a verified cash payment by two witnesses. When I studied journalism at Boston University they taught us that we needed two impeccable sources if we were going to make public anything that could ruin a man’s reputation and put a tag of “criminal” or “thug” next to his name.
If the Jonathan Vilma I met did what whoever leaked this crap says he did, you could cut his jersey in tiny pieces, put it in a cereal bowl and feed it to me slowly, while selling it on pay-per-view. Call it intuition, if you will. But until I see proof that he did this, I rest secure in the fact that this man was raised correctly and doesn’t roll that way.
If I am wrong, put the milk in the bowl and throw Fireman Ed’s high school jock strap and replica 42 Jets jersey in, mix it well and give me a big spoon.
If I am right, spread that jersey around and give it to every media member who smeared his name without a shred of proof (beyond leaked information from 280 Park Avenue). For whatever reason, if people are famous or make money in this country, we revel in their failure and assume the worst of their character. Somehow it makes us feel better. We celebrate and promote the stupid and vilify those most willing to piss on the paradigm.
And the standards of journalism I was taught, makes me feel twice my middle age, from another world, in a distant time.
***
On this January 13th,–as we had done earlier in the season,–I met up with Steve Gleason at the Saints hotel the night before the game. Once again, I had exclusive access to some of the most compelling material I have been privileged to shoot. A true expansive look behind the curtain. The main meeting of the evening was led by the incomparable Joe Vitt. Vitt is the assistant head coach and the linebackers coach. In addition, he is the most fired up and tunnel vision focused motherfucker I have ever met in football. He swears like a sailor, so I’m sure this description would make him smile. Each time I saw him at these games or meetings, he took special time to come over and connect with Steve, but also with every member of Steve’s crew–Fly’s included.
Joe Vitt is an old-school football lifer and unbelievably charismatic. But when Steve Gleason would show up, Joe sincerely paused and put football on the back burner. He is an unrivaled storyteller, a genuine man and you would love him as an honored guest at your dinner table.
[hil]In the interest of full disclosure on the night of September 24th when Joe Vitt gave his speech he asked that the camera’s be turned off. I got the first two off within ten seconds. And the third, which was on top of his projector, I nervously had to reach around him to it turn off.
Gregg Williams never asked for such courtesy.
I’ve been shooting three documentaries over the past two years and any time a subject asked me to turn my camera off, it was off before they finished their next sentence. That’s the way I roll.[/hil]
Earlier in the season, Vitt introduced Steve before an inspirational speech Gleason gave to the team, which no doubt, forever impacted anyone who was tuned in and paying attention. The next day, the Saints came from 11 down in the fourth quarter–against the Houston Texans–and won on the 5th years anniversary of the Superdome re-opening after Hurricane Katrina.
The night after the Texans game, Saints general manager Mickey Loomis and coach Asshole Face presented Steve Gleason with a Super Bowl ring for the 2009 team, even though he played his last down of football in 2007. Another Saints icon, running back Deuce McCallister was afforded the same honor.
Deuce and Gleason; two of the guys who helped shape the foundation, but didn’t get to taste the champagne.
On this trip, Steve-O and I stayed up with a group of his friends into the wee hours. We all laughed so hard our ribs hurt. It was a great visit. We told stories into the evening, talked about the next days game and made predictions about the outcome.
Mine wouldn’t be so on the mark this time.
***
Playing it cool, aside, I did look forward to this game because you can hear a football game on television, but you can’t really feel football through your plasma screen–even with the microphones on the field or inside players shoulder pads. And when I went to Saints games with Steve, I could feel the crowd and palpable energy and flavor of the SuperDome. But this game was at Candlestick Park.
In the early 90’s I was on the sideline for a 49er game and Cowboys wide receiver Alvin Harper caught a 20 yard out pass pattern, near the sideline. As he caught the ball he got jacked by a 49er defensive back. I could hear the pads collide like two collapsing bumpers in a high speed car wreck. I could feel the vibration of the ground, as they careened out of bounds, landing just a few feet away. I could hear their grunting and the release of air from Harper’s body. I could hear the exultation of the defender.
In that moment I could feel the way football really sounds and I loved it.
I couldn’t give care less if Harper got hurt. I was in my mid-20‘s and was entertained.
It was also my first season in my fantasy football league. Ten years later, I still hadn’t won a championship. By this time, I would be rooting for players to get knocked out of games early, if the team I was playing that day was starting said player. I didn’t want them to blow out their knees or anything serious. But a forearm and getting knocked unconscious? Didn’t bother me at all because they would play the next week against someone else’s fantasy team. Or they would go on injured reserve and I figured they’d get paid anyway. I had no idea about the significance of head trauma and neither did the players. I’m not saying they wouldn’t have played anyway. But if a single person understood the gravity of this issue and didn’t share it, they should be thrown in jail.
Like most football fans I didn’t care if these guys got hurt because “they make all that money and they know what they got themselves into.”
I didn’t know that the NFL has split contracts and many players lose a lot of their salary if they don’t make it through the season. Still, as a 25 year-old New Yorker, struggling to pay my rent, I honestly wouldn’t have cared. I just didn’t know any better.
***
But 17 years later, on this disturbing January 13th night I couldn’t help but care.
Was it because I am 42 and no longer got hard-ons watching gladiators landing “kill shots?”
Was it because I don’t go to games with a painted face and scream obscenities at underperforming players in front of young children? Or because I haven’t paid-for-autographed Fathead’s of my favorite ballers to stick on the wall in my home office?
Or was it because I have friends I love dearly who played the game and got their “bell rung” so many times that I fear they won’t remember their children’s faces by the time their kids have kids?
Yep, I’m pretty sure the last one was the reason I wasn’t smiling.
You see, I was sitting next to Steve Gleason in the back of the room as Gregg Williams screamed ‘fuck’ and ‘fuckin’ countless times when instructing his men to hurt other men. Williams wasn’t considering the fact that many of those men have children and all of those men are somebody’s son.
“We make no apologies for the way we play the game,” Williams said in a tone which suggested that he actually had the balls to put on a uniform and do the very things he was ordering his players to do, much less be on the receiving end of the blows he was ordering up.
I don’t have those balls.
You don’t have those balls.
And Gregg Williams most definitely does not have those balls.
It’s a cowards play to send someone off to do your malicious bidding. I’m sure many of his players would have told him this if they weren’t scared to lose their jobs or look like bitches in front of their teammates. Or if they weren’t 25 and couldn’t possibly have a fully developed perspective on life.
“This is a production business,” Williams said emphatically when he began his speech. He repeated that mantra again and again, during the balance of his impassioned, profanity laced diatribe.
Nearly two months before this story broke, I was sitting in a room with a full-frontal picture of the way “Bounty-Gate” really looked and sounded. Reading about it in the paper or hearing talking heads drone on about it–incessantly for the past several weeks–gives you no idea of the way it really goes down.
And it’s comical that so many mainstream journalists kept asking players if it’s like this on their teams?
Seriously?
Who’s going to honestly answer a dumb fucking question like that?
This is the same media who will tell you James Harrison is the second coming of Darth Vader, when this is the way he’s been taught the game his whole life. Instead the talking heads sit around blowing smoke, insisting they know what’s in Harrison’s head when he’s playing the game of football. Look at the replays of Harrison’s three fine-able hits against Cleveland Browns players, closely.
Watch the Colt McCoy hit and understand that Harrison could have put him six feet under if he put all his 6 feet 270 pounds into McCoy. Fact is, when a professional football player wants to hurt you and he has a clean shot, he runs right through your ass…check the tape. Harrison didn’t run through anyone on the hits he was fined for.
I asked McCoy’s teammate Scott Fujita, himself a linebacker, if Harrison’s hit on McCoy was illegal or “dirty.”
“No and No. Bang-bang play. Colt became a ball carrier and threw it at the last minute.”
After Harrison’s “Black Sunday” hits when he said he considered retiring, Fujita pointed out that the league was selling pictures of the hits on their website. Did they kick any of that back to James to help pay for the fine?
That would be a sarcastic, rhetorical question on my part. Hell no, they didn’t.
The second question we should consider is simple. Why is it that offensive players (especially running backs) dip their heads all the time without financial consequence? Isn’t a defender supposed to match that pad level or gain leverage and go lower? If they don’t, they take a helmet to the balls or sternum, get lit up and have their peers laugh their asses off a few days later in the film session.
In the era of the NFL’s attention to health and safety, has any offensive player been publicly shamed or league indicted and fined for initiating contact with the crown of his helmet?
Why is that? Perhaps because the media fosters a world of ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys‘ and we’re all too distracted or self-absorbed to do thoughtful research.
*****
Former Saints All-Pro, the outspoken Kyle Turley would liken what Gregg Williams did to dog fighting with the players being the canines. If you were in the room, as I was, it was clear who was the puppet master as he passed out money for forced turnovers and big plays. He did not reward anyone that night for perpetrated violence. But he did point to beneath his chin when bringing up 49ers quarterback Alix Smith and in a chilling tone, paused and said, “First one’s on me.” At that moment he rubbed his fingers together in a way that cannot be mistaken.
He was ordering his players to maim in as many ways possible. Plain and simple.
He was the only one in the room willing to go into his pocket to reward it.
Anyone who blames the players for this behavior is clearly missing the point. Just as in sexual harassment cases, it’s the person with the power, influence and–most importantly–control, who dictates the behavior. Yes, the players could have said, ‘no’, but Americans play “follow the leader” and these men have families to feed and many dudes willing to come off the street to sacrifice their body for team and do it for less. The fact is the majority of men who play in the NFL are paid league minimum, with non-guaranteed contracts. How do these–mostly 20-something-year-old–men make a stand in this situation fraught with enormous peer pressure?
How does one take a stand against a coach who so clearly controls their destiny?
And did they ever consider the possibility that maybe their names were being called out in the other team’s locker room? Perhaps their heads were on the block, as well?
On this night of January 13th, the Saints defensive coordinator’s message was delivered loud, clear and with specific meaning.
“This is a production business…This is how you get respect in this league.”
***
This defensive meeting was right after the team meeting. I shot part of the team meeting, but it wasn’t going to be a scene in Steve’s film because he wasn’t speaking and what we filmed from earlier in the season, couldn’t possibly be topped.
On September 24th, 2011, the night before the 5th anniversary of the Dome reopening, Steve Gleason stood before the 2011 Saints–most of whom were never his teammates–and put his heart on display.
“We all have fear, right,” he told the assembled team. There was a pause, “Right,” Steve reiterated with his lip quivering, nodding his head, looking around into as many eyes as he could. The energy of the room shifted with the teams tacit acknowledgement that they too are men of flesh, bone and blood. They too, are not immune to the realities of hand to hand combat. The meaner, tougher–and sometimes dirtier they are–the more they are valued. In this sense, football truly is counter to the best interests of our culture.
Conversely, it’s the very reason we love it.
In his San Francisco speech, Gregg Williams specifically was calling out players with concussion histories and telling the men in his employ to “attack the head.”
Again and again, Gregg Williams implored his team to, “Break their will.”
“You break their will, you break their skill.”
But then it became something else. He started talking about 49er receiver and return man, Kyle Williams. He specifically mentioned his concussions and to go after the guy. FYI, this is the same 49ers player who the following week would famously fumble twice in the NFC Championship game. In the paper, Giants players were quoted as saying they specifically went after the lithe Williams because of his concussion history.
Essentially, Gregg Williams is not entirely unique. He’s just the one who was arrogant enough to continue when he was told to stop and eventually, he got popped for it. In his apology statement he said, “we knew it was wrong.”
If he knew it was wrong, why did he keep telling his players not to apologize for the way he instructed them to play the game?
But on January 13th what caught my eye and ear was how open this dialog was. The idea of purposely maiming men, targeting their heads, when information has been out there for a couple years now about the long-term affects of brain trauma. Sadly, many of the players choose not to educate themselves about the toll the game really takes on them. If you really know what you are doing to yourself, would you keep doing it? There’s a difference between career suicide and the journey of slow suicide, many players embark on when they stay in this game at the highest level for too long.
One of my closest friends–who played professional football for a decade, has been post-concussed for the past two years and had to retire because of the affects of head trauma. When he couldn’t go anymore, he didn’t get sympathy. In fact a few of his teammates claimed he “knew too much,” which had left him scared and unable to play with the reckless abandon, which defined his career and kept him employed.
The truly scary thing is that a tragic number of players keep their brains in the sand as they race down the field with the heads on a swivel. It’s been about a decade since Dr. Bennet Omalu discovered Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy in the brain of former Steelers center and Hall of Famer, Mike Webster. It’s been less than a year since Dave Duerson blew a hole in his chest, preserving his brain, so people in our culture would see the light. It reminded me of the monk who protested the Vietnam War by lighting himself on fire.
Only this time, Duerson’s death is already forgotten by many. He made the mistake of killing himself during the player lockout. All fans could focus on–at that time–was getting the gladiators back on the field to entertain them. Duerson made his money. He knew the risks.
Screw him.
Actually, Dave Duerson didn’t know the true risks because no one told him. Hence the reason why hundreds of former NFL players are currently suing the league.
Dave Duerson knew he had CTE and his brain matter confirmed it.
Anyone who plays football in the modern era has no excuse for refusing to educate themselves on this issue.
Any parent who has a young tackle football playing child with an underdeveloped brain is committing apathetic child abuse, if they do not educate themselves on this issue.
And some coaches–who send the best of the best out to slaughter–should feel deep shame when they choose greenbacks and game jerseys over the flesh of a man who has a family to go home to.
What is a traumatic brain injury? What is CTE?
Read up, son!
***
Did Gregg Williams ever consider on that January 13th night that a former player who played balls out– kicking fear’s ass on a weekly basis–was sitting, slumped in a wheelchair within earshot? Does he know that it’s a statistical likelihood that Steve Gleason’s ALS was as a result of head trauma from crashing into other football players at high speeds, since he was in the 8th grade? Gleason emphatically states he could have gotten ALS if he were an architect. The odds say that’s about eight times less likely than if he played football.
Did Gregg Williams ever see the eyes of these men whose heads he was calling for after they got their lights blown out as their limp bodies hit the turf?
Has he seen wives nurse their broken husbands, who hid their injuries as a badge of honor and for their career survival?
I have held their hands and rubbed their backs as they cried, talking about losing their “best friend.”
Has Gregg Williams seen the damage done to men who can’t remember the names of faces of those who love them? The one’s whose life and savings are sapped up in medical bills because the league fights tooth and nail to deny disability claims?
Could he not see Steve Gleason that night because Steve-O was in the back of the room?
Or did he not see the man in the wheelchair because he simply wasn’t looking?
***
In the interest of full disclosure: If this story hadn’t broken and been made public, I would not have shared this it. I would not have compromised my personal relationships and risked damaging Steve Gleason’s relationship with the Saints. I would have crafted these words and sentiments for another forum, perhaps years down the road.
If it weren’t for the fact I feel deeply that parents of children playing football MUST pay attention to the influence of men who will sacrifice their kids for W’s, I would not have written this.
If it weren’t for the fact that a man of conviction and conscience, Scott Fujita has been publicly attached to this scandal on the day he brought his newborn daughter home from the hospital, I would not have written these truths. FYI, his name was leaked directly from the NFL offices to three HUGE sports journalists, one of which broke the “scoop.”
I’m not calling them out by name because nobody pays me to be an asshole.
To date, there has been no evidence Scott Fujita ever paid a man money to hurt another man. The fact that he’s willing to admit paying for turnovers (fumbles, int’s, etc.) is cause for possible suspension. Seriously? If you met him, you would know he wouldn’t sacrifice his well-earned reputation of social activism and authentic charity work, while reveling in the destruction of another human being.
But every time his children google him, this stain (regardless of whether it is retracted) will follow him and he will have to explain that daddy really isn’t one of the bad guys.
In releasing this material, I have severely strained my relations with Michel and Steve Gleason, whom I sincerely love. They had no part in this material becoming public and I may have to find another producer to finish our film project. This was a film which made me have to learn to shoot my camera while crying. This is a film that guitarist Mike McCready from my favorite band, Pearl Jam has committed to doing the music for. No joke. It’s that deep. It’s that powerful. It’s that big of an opportunity potentially lost.
Some will call me releasing this audio for fame or money grab. True haters will call it exploitation.
People of character and conscience call it was it is; tru.
..and so it goes in The United States of Football.
Post-script notes:
Asshole Face and Mickey Loomis have admitted to being complicit simply because they did not put a stop to it. There’s no denying it happened on their watch while they were in the building. But on January 13th–in a room far down the hall–they were nowhere to be seen. And I’ve had two player sources directly tell me that Gregg Williams would often boast of having a “fuck you clause,” in his contract. This gave him total control of the defensive side of the ball. I guess the analogy would be like when Buddy Ryan was the defensive head coach of the Chicago Bears.
I haven’t seen this contract, but if Williams wants to refute his players claims, then he should make his contract public. After all, we all know how much money the players make because the media cannot help but remind you.
And man-crush aside, #9 was nowhere in sight when all this went down. But on January 14th, I expected him to take me one step closer to Disneyland.
The Saints failed to break the 49ers will and in the waning moments, Karma in the form of Vernon Davis, kicked the shit out of Gregg Williams’ game plan. His will was knocked out by the 49ers skill.
Williams insisted in that meeting, “We don’t apologize for the way we play football.”
But then it became public and that’s exactly what he did. And he threw his defense and the Saints franchise under the bus, in order to break his fall.
****
In the interest of full disclosure:
The only reason why I beeped out the audio for the names of the Saints players is because they were getting paid for performance bonuses, $200 for turnovers was the biggest haul I heard. This is a LONG-held league wide practice and in the mind of any reasonable person without an ax to grind, in no way should it be mentioned in the same sentence as a “Bounty.”
PERIOD. End of Story.
-Sean Pamphilon
For Sean Pamphilon's take on the experience, read the following.....
"TRU DAT"
On January 13th, 2012, I was in a San Francisco hotel with one of my dear friends, Steve Gleason. He was a long-time New Orleans Saints special teams ace, (2000-2007). He was a yoga loving, long-haired, counter-culture fan favorite, who became a New Orleans icon. He married a local girl, made the city his off-season home, lived in modest places and mingled freely with the every man.
He became a local legend September 25th, 2006, after his punt block on the first series back, re-opening the Super Dome, after Hurricane Katrina.
As one of the locals in attendance described to me, “It was the biggest beer spill in history.”
Seriously, a man blocking a punt in a football game actually kickstarted an entire region and gave a morale boost that transcended sport.
**To listen to the uncut audio from the January 13th meeting click here http://dl.dropbox.com/u/19899434/Willia ... io_All.m4a
I met Steve a year ago through a mutual friend, whom he had battled with on the football field. I had just learned Steve had been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease).
I had spent the previous year working on a film called, “The United States of Football” and spoke to Steve about being part of the documentary. On the second day we met, in March 2011, I was hooked on the energy that is Steve Gleason and we decided to do a film about he and his wife Michel, as they “stare(d) into the eye of the tiger,” and face his diagnosis with a dignity and uncommon grace.
Steve and I are co-directing his film and also creating a video library (legacy time capsule) for his children (Michel gave birth to their first child, Rivers, in October).
Words simply cannot define they way they approach their lives. They are beautiful people.
****
On this January 13th Saturday night before the playoff game with the San Francisco 49ers, I was filming for a few documentary projects I have been working on for the past two years. Steve is a small part of my USOF film because two of the main people profiled (NFLPA Executive Committee members Sean Morey and Scott Fujita) fought hard for him to ensure he wouldn’t get screwed by the disability system for former NFL players. Of which, a former player told me “you have to be paralyzed for them to give you disability.”
It’s a system so flawed that the NFL was called on the carpet in front of congress in 2009. At the time congresswoman Linda Sanchez (interviewed in the USOF) spoke of the NFL being like the tobacco industry, with absolutely no moral compass. Who is responsible for taking care of these men, she wondered.
A main character in the USOF film, Kyle Turley, was also inspired by Steve Gleason’s diagnosis. Turley wrote a beautifully sad song, “Fortune and Pain,” which is a tribute to the many men who played tackle football and are now suffering it’s effects. Kyle states with dejection in his voice and heart that if the league would only do right by men who were “hurt on the job,” these men would gladly sacrifice their bodies if they didn’t feel discarded and used on the back end. If the maladies that manifest after their five-year post-retirement insurance runs out, they are screwed. Kyle was diagnosed as CTE symptomatic (Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy), which eventually leads to a downward spiral. CTE usually doesn’t reach it’s full bloom until a players early 40’s.
For most players, this is many years after they retire and their insurance has run out.
Recently, I interviewed Dave Pear, a former All-Pro and Super Bowl Champion, who has fought for his disability for 30 years. He made about 600k in his six-year career and claims to have spent approximately that same amount on medical bills since he retired. When we sat down for our interview he splayed on the counter a handful of long screws and bolts that had previously been surgically implanted in his body.
“That’s the reality of football for me,” Dave Pear said as he stood for half of our interview because the pain was too much from the chairs we sat in.
***
On this January 13th night, before this playoff game against the 49ers, as per usual, Steve and I had access to all things Saints. Drew Brees showed up outside the team hotel before dinner, greeted Steve with a hug, glanced at me and said, “Hey Sean.”
The best part about following this team all year is that I wasn’t looked at as one of them, the media. Familiarity and standing next to Steve Gleason, afforded me a level of trust.
Less than 36 hours before kickoff, I had decided to go back home to the Bay Area where I grew up and sit two feet behind the bench, on the sideline of an NFL playoff game. I had been on the sidelines working for approximately 15 games over the years (many at Candlestick Park), so I knew how to “act like I’ve been there before.” Still, it was an unbelievably beautiful day. T-shirt weather in January!
I would have been just as happy watching the game in HD on my couch, but I was stoked to be with Steve watching a game and talking a little football. I’d speculate about a play and he would point out things I never considered, before they would happen. I used to cut hi-lites at ESPN, but Steve understands the subtle detail and nuance of football as if it were a language in which he is fluent. I’ve been a religious NFL fan for 35 years, but when players say ‘you don’t know unless you played,’ you should know they are telling the truth on many levels. We don’t have their football brains and we never felt their football aches and pains.
On this January 13th night I would get an education I was shocked by and truly wanted no part of. It has forever changed the way I will watch football. But the fact is, I will still watch, each and every Sunday, Monday and now Thursday because I am committed to it in a way that has outlasted any of my personal relationships.
I gave up gluten. I gave up sugar. I gave up caffeine.
I gave up cigarettes!
But I simply cannot give up football.
***
Earlier in the season, I was with Steve Gleason behind the bench, two yards away from Drew Brees, as he threw for four touchdowns and ran for one, against the eventual Super Bowl Champion, New York Giants. Before that Monday Night Football game I told Steve that Drew was going to throw for five Td’s and the Saints would win by 20. As we were walking out of the SuperDome, Steve looked at me with a wide smile and shining eyes, “Only won by 18, Fly,” he remarked. He nicknamed me “Fly” because of my ability to silently blend into the scenery when shooting our film. I have never been considered “sneaky,” but when you document intimate moments with a camera you should think of yourself as wallpaper, not a sound system.
Within seconds of Steve’s jab, Saints rookie running back Mark Ingram took one to the house from 35 with just over a minute left and the Saints won by 25. “Well done, Fly,” Steve-O remarked as we left the Superdome.
Being around this team was hella fun and never felt like like working.
After one of Brees’ big plays, Saints defensive coordinator Gregg Williams looked right in Steve’s and my direction and said, “I’ve been around a lot of shitty quarterbacks. Our guy is pretty good!” Williams said this with an emphasis that honestly made me laugh out loud.
To date, that is my favorite behind the curtain moment of my entire Saints experience.
My favorite moment overall was very public. On September 25th, 2011, 73,000 people in their seats got to witness Steve do the “Who Dat” chant on the five-year-anniversary of his blocked punt re-opening the Super Dome. My 13-year-old son Alix and I were but a few feet away–cameras rolling–documenting the moment, working together. It was the most meaningful moment of my 20-year career. I had been out of town shooting three different football documentaries and spent nearly half my time on the road, for months. The opportunity to give my kid that once-in-a-lifetime moment was incredible. I let him cut school and we both wore Steve’s #37 jersey’s. As we passed by the Saints logo in the middle of the field, the hair on my arms and legs were electric. I had three layers of goosebumps and when I looked at my wide-eyed son, his camera so steady and focused, my eyes welled up with pride.
Two days later, Drew Brees would sign a personalized ball for my boy (“Alix, Welcome to Team Gleason…Drew”). The only other time I had a player offer any form of memorabilia to my boy was Ricky Williams giving him a helmet and game ball. I didn’t do this because I’m a jock sniff. I did it because I wanted my son to feel connected to the projects that kept me away so often.
***
For me, being around the Saints was intoxicating. I had been in locker rooms and team facilities throughout my career in sports television. But often times as a media member you were treated like an intruder vs. a welcomed guest. Being in their locker room felt comfortable and familiar. Walking down the hall at the team facility and chatting up Jonathan Vilma, was casually cool. I told him I lived in Brooklyn for 13 years and was a temporary Jet fan. I lamented the trade, but wished “JV” –as Steve called him–well. Vilma couldn’t have been classier. Great smile, awesome energy, legit eye contact. “This is the type of dude you root for,” was my immediate impression after literally a conversation of less two-minutes. I’d been around him as an observer when he was dealing with other people and he was the same guy as when my camera was fixed on him. Solid dude.
If Jonathan Vilma ever paid a man $10,000 to hurt another man, I need a cancelled check or a verified cash payment by two witnesses. When I studied journalism at Boston University they taught us that we needed two impeccable sources if we were going to make public anything that could ruin a man’s reputation and put a tag of “criminal” or “thug” next to his name.
If the Jonathan Vilma I met did what whoever leaked this crap says he did, you could cut his jersey in tiny pieces, put it in a cereal bowl and feed it to me slowly, while selling it on pay-per-view. Call it intuition, if you will. But until I see proof that he did this, I rest secure in the fact that this man was raised correctly and doesn’t roll that way.
If I am wrong, put the milk in the bowl and throw Fireman Ed’s high school jock strap and replica 42 Jets jersey in, mix it well and give me a big spoon.
If I am right, spread that jersey around and give it to every media member who smeared his name without a shred of proof (beyond leaked information from 280 Park Avenue). For whatever reason, if people are famous or make money in this country, we revel in their failure and assume the worst of their character. Somehow it makes us feel better. We celebrate and promote the stupid and vilify those most willing to piss on the paradigm.
And the standards of journalism I was taught, makes me feel twice my middle age, from another world, in a distant time.
***
On this January 13th,–as we had done earlier in the season,–I met up with Steve Gleason at the Saints hotel the night before the game. Once again, I had exclusive access to some of the most compelling material I have been privileged to shoot. A true expansive look behind the curtain. The main meeting of the evening was led by the incomparable Joe Vitt. Vitt is the assistant head coach and the linebackers coach. In addition, he is the most fired up and tunnel vision focused motherfucker I have ever met in football. He swears like a sailor, so I’m sure this description would make him smile. Each time I saw him at these games or meetings, he took special time to come over and connect with Steve, but also with every member of Steve’s crew–Fly’s included.
Joe Vitt is an old-school football lifer and unbelievably charismatic. But when Steve Gleason would show up, Joe sincerely paused and put football on the back burner. He is an unrivaled storyteller, a genuine man and you would love him as an honored guest at your dinner table.
[hil]In the interest of full disclosure on the night of September 24th when Joe Vitt gave his speech he asked that the camera’s be turned off. I got the first two off within ten seconds. And the third, which was on top of his projector, I nervously had to reach around him to it turn off.
Gregg Williams never asked for such courtesy.
I’ve been shooting three documentaries over the past two years and any time a subject asked me to turn my camera off, it was off before they finished their next sentence. That’s the way I roll.[/hil]
Earlier in the season, Vitt introduced Steve before an inspirational speech Gleason gave to the team, which no doubt, forever impacted anyone who was tuned in and paying attention. The next day, the Saints came from 11 down in the fourth quarter–against the Houston Texans–and won on the 5th years anniversary of the Superdome re-opening after Hurricane Katrina.
The night after the Texans game, Saints general manager Mickey Loomis and coach Asshole Face presented Steve Gleason with a Super Bowl ring for the 2009 team, even though he played his last down of football in 2007. Another Saints icon, running back Deuce McCallister was afforded the same honor.
Deuce and Gleason; two of the guys who helped shape the foundation, but didn’t get to taste the champagne.
On this trip, Steve-O and I stayed up with a group of his friends into the wee hours. We all laughed so hard our ribs hurt. It was a great visit. We told stories into the evening, talked about the next days game and made predictions about the outcome.
Mine wouldn’t be so on the mark this time.
***
Playing it cool, aside, I did look forward to this game because you can hear a football game on television, but you can’t really feel football through your plasma screen–even with the microphones on the field or inside players shoulder pads. And when I went to Saints games with Steve, I could feel the crowd and palpable energy and flavor of the SuperDome. But this game was at Candlestick Park.
In the early 90’s I was on the sideline for a 49er game and Cowboys wide receiver Alvin Harper caught a 20 yard out pass pattern, near the sideline. As he caught the ball he got jacked by a 49er defensive back. I could hear the pads collide like two collapsing bumpers in a high speed car wreck. I could feel the vibration of the ground, as they careened out of bounds, landing just a few feet away. I could hear their grunting and the release of air from Harper’s body. I could hear the exultation of the defender.
In that moment I could feel the way football really sounds and I loved it.
I couldn’t give care less if Harper got hurt. I was in my mid-20‘s and was entertained.
It was also my first season in my fantasy football league. Ten years later, I still hadn’t won a championship. By this time, I would be rooting for players to get knocked out of games early, if the team I was playing that day was starting said player. I didn’t want them to blow out their knees or anything serious. But a forearm and getting knocked unconscious? Didn’t bother me at all because they would play the next week against someone else’s fantasy team. Or they would go on injured reserve and I figured they’d get paid anyway. I had no idea about the significance of head trauma and neither did the players. I’m not saying they wouldn’t have played anyway. But if a single person understood the gravity of this issue and didn’t share it, they should be thrown in jail.
Like most football fans I didn’t care if these guys got hurt because “they make all that money and they know what they got themselves into.”
I didn’t know that the NFL has split contracts and many players lose a lot of their salary if they don’t make it through the season. Still, as a 25 year-old New Yorker, struggling to pay my rent, I honestly wouldn’t have cared. I just didn’t know any better.
***
But 17 years later, on this disturbing January 13th night I couldn’t help but care.
Was it because I am 42 and no longer got hard-ons watching gladiators landing “kill shots?”
Was it because I don’t go to games with a painted face and scream obscenities at underperforming players in front of young children? Or because I haven’t paid-for-autographed Fathead’s of my favorite ballers to stick on the wall in my home office?
Or was it because I have friends I love dearly who played the game and got their “bell rung” so many times that I fear they won’t remember their children’s faces by the time their kids have kids?
Yep, I’m pretty sure the last one was the reason I wasn’t smiling.
You see, I was sitting next to Steve Gleason in the back of the room as Gregg Williams screamed ‘fuck’ and ‘fuckin’ countless times when instructing his men to hurt other men. Williams wasn’t considering the fact that many of those men have children and all of those men are somebody’s son.
“We make no apologies for the way we play the game,” Williams said in a tone which suggested that he actually had the balls to put on a uniform and do the very things he was ordering his players to do, much less be on the receiving end of the blows he was ordering up.
I don’t have those balls.
You don’t have those balls.
And Gregg Williams most definitely does not have those balls.
It’s a cowards play to send someone off to do your malicious bidding. I’m sure many of his players would have told him this if they weren’t scared to lose their jobs or look like bitches in front of their teammates. Or if they weren’t 25 and couldn’t possibly have a fully developed perspective on life.
“This is a production business,” Williams said emphatically when he began his speech. He repeated that mantra again and again, during the balance of his impassioned, profanity laced diatribe.
Nearly two months before this story broke, I was sitting in a room with a full-frontal picture of the way “Bounty-Gate” really looked and sounded. Reading about it in the paper or hearing talking heads drone on about it–incessantly for the past several weeks–gives you no idea of the way it really goes down.
And it’s comical that so many mainstream journalists kept asking players if it’s like this on their teams?
Seriously?
Who’s going to honestly answer a dumb fucking question like that?
This is the same media who will tell you James Harrison is the second coming of Darth Vader, when this is the way he’s been taught the game his whole life. Instead the talking heads sit around blowing smoke, insisting they know what’s in Harrison’s head when he’s playing the game of football. Look at the replays of Harrison’s three fine-able hits against Cleveland Browns players, closely.
Watch the Colt McCoy hit and understand that Harrison could have put him six feet under if he put all his 6 feet 270 pounds into McCoy. Fact is, when a professional football player wants to hurt you and he has a clean shot, he runs right through your ass…check the tape. Harrison didn’t run through anyone on the hits he was fined for.
I asked McCoy’s teammate Scott Fujita, himself a linebacker, if Harrison’s hit on McCoy was illegal or “dirty.”
“No and No. Bang-bang play. Colt became a ball carrier and threw it at the last minute.”
After Harrison’s “Black Sunday” hits when he said he considered retiring, Fujita pointed out that the league was selling pictures of the hits on their website. Did they kick any of that back to James to help pay for the fine?
That would be a sarcastic, rhetorical question on my part. Hell no, they didn’t.
The second question we should consider is simple. Why is it that offensive players (especially running backs) dip their heads all the time without financial consequence? Isn’t a defender supposed to match that pad level or gain leverage and go lower? If they don’t, they take a helmet to the balls or sternum, get lit up and have their peers laugh their asses off a few days later in the film session.
In the era of the NFL’s attention to health and safety, has any offensive player been publicly shamed or league indicted and fined for initiating contact with the crown of his helmet?
Why is that? Perhaps because the media fosters a world of ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys‘ and we’re all too distracted or self-absorbed to do thoughtful research.
*****
Former Saints All-Pro, the outspoken Kyle Turley would liken what Gregg Williams did to dog fighting with the players being the canines. If you were in the room, as I was, it was clear who was the puppet master as he passed out money for forced turnovers and big plays. He did not reward anyone that night for perpetrated violence. But he did point to beneath his chin when bringing up 49ers quarterback Alix Smith and in a chilling tone, paused and said, “First one’s on me.” At that moment he rubbed his fingers together in a way that cannot be mistaken.
He was ordering his players to maim in as many ways possible. Plain and simple.
He was the only one in the room willing to go into his pocket to reward it.
Anyone who blames the players for this behavior is clearly missing the point. Just as in sexual harassment cases, it’s the person with the power, influence and–most importantly–control, who dictates the behavior. Yes, the players could have said, ‘no’, but Americans play “follow the leader” and these men have families to feed and many dudes willing to come off the street to sacrifice their body for team and do it for less. The fact is the majority of men who play in the NFL are paid league minimum, with non-guaranteed contracts. How do these–mostly 20-something-year-old–men make a stand in this situation fraught with enormous peer pressure?
How does one take a stand against a coach who so clearly controls their destiny?
And did they ever consider the possibility that maybe their names were being called out in the other team’s locker room? Perhaps their heads were on the block, as well?
On this night of January 13th, the Saints defensive coordinator’s message was delivered loud, clear and with specific meaning.
“This is a production business…This is how you get respect in this league.”
***
This defensive meeting was right after the team meeting. I shot part of the team meeting, but it wasn’t going to be a scene in Steve’s film because he wasn’t speaking and what we filmed from earlier in the season, couldn’t possibly be topped.
On September 24th, 2011, the night before the 5th anniversary of the Dome reopening, Steve Gleason stood before the 2011 Saints–most of whom were never his teammates–and put his heart on display.
“We all have fear, right,” he told the assembled team. There was a pause, “Right,” Steve reiterated with his lip quivering, nodding his head, looking around into as many eyes as he could. The energy of the room shifted with the teams tacit acknowledgement that they too are men of flesh, bone and blood. They too, are not immune to the realities of hand to hand combat. The meaner, tougher–and sometimes dirtier they are–the more they are valued. In this sense, football truly is counter to the best interests of our culture.
Conversely, it’s the very reason we love it.
In his San Francisco speech, Gregg Williams specifically was calling out players with concussion histories and telling the men in his employ to “attack the head.”
Again and again, Gregg Williams implored his team to, “Break their will.”
“You break their will, you break their skill.”
But then it became something else. He started talking about 49er receiver and return man, Kyle Williams. He specifically mentioned his concussions and to go after the guy. FYI, this is the same 49ers player who the following week would famously fumble twice in the NFC Championship game. In the paper, Giants players were quoted as saying they specifically went after the lithe Williams because of his concussion history.
Essentially, Gregg Williams is not entirely unique. He’s just the one who was arrogant enough to continue when he was told to stop and eventually, he got popped for it. In his apology statement he said, “we knew it was wrong.”
If he knew it was wrong, why did he keep telling his players not to apologize for the way he instructed them to play the game?
But on January 13th what caught my eye and ear was how open this dialog was. The idea of purposely maiming men, targeting their heads, when information has been out there for a couple years now about the long-term affects of brain trauma. Sadly, many of the players choose not to educate themselves about the toll the game really takes on them. If you really know what you are doing to yourself, would you keep doing it? There’s a difference between career suicide and the journey of slow suicide, many players embark on when they stay in this game at the highest level for too long.
One of my closest friends–who played professional football for a decade, has been post-concussed for the past two years and had to retire because of the affects of head trauma. When he couldn’t go anymore, he didn’t get sympathy. In fact a few of his teammates claimed he “knew too much,” which had left him scared and unable to play with the reckless abandon, which defined his career and kept him employed.
The truly scary thing is that a tragic number of players keep their brains in the sand as they race down the field with the heads on a swivel. It’s been about a decade since Dr. Bennet Omalu discovered Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy in the brain of former Steelers center and Hall of Famer, Mike Webster. It’s been less than a year since Dave Duerson blew a hole in his chest, preserving his brain, so people in our culture would see the light. It reminded me of the monk who protested the Vietnam War by lighting himself on fire.
Only this time, Duerson’s death is already forgotten by many. He made the mistake of killing himself during the player lockout. All fans could focus on–at that time–was getting the gladiators back on the field to entertain them. Duerson made his money. He knew the risks.
Screw him.
Actually, Dave Duerson didn’t know the true risks because no one told him. Hence the reason why hundreds of former NFL players are currently suing the league.
Dave Duerson knew he had CTE and his brain matter confirmed it.
Anyone who plays football in the modern era has no excuse for refusing to educate themselves on this issue.
Any parent who has a young tackle football playing child with an underdeveloped brain is committing apathetic child abuse, if they do not educate themselves on this issue.
And some coaches–who send the best of the best out to slaughter–should feel deep shame when they choose greenbacks and game jerseys over the flesh of a man who has a family to go home to.
What is a traumatic brain injury? What is CTE?
Read up, son!
***
Did Gregg Williams ever consider on that January 13th night that a former player who played balls out– kicking fear’s ass on a weekly basis–was sitting, slumped in a wheelchair within earshot? Does he know that it’s a statistical likelihood that Steve Gleason’s ALS was as a result of head trauma from crashing into other football players at high speeds, since he was in the 8th grade? Gleason emphatically states he could have gotten ALS if he were an architect. The odds say that’s about eight times less likely than if he played football.
Did Gregg Williams ever see the eyes of these men whose heads he was calling for after they got their lights blown out as their limp bodies hit the turf?
Has he seen wives nurse their broken husbands, who hid their injuries as a badge of honor and for their career survival?
I have held their hands and rubbed their backs as they cried, talking about losing their “best friend.”
Has Gregg Williams seen the damage done to men who can’t remember the names of faces of those who love them? The one’s whose life and savings are sapped up in medical bills because the league fights tooth and nail to deny disability claims?
Could he not see Steve Gleason that night because Steve-O was in the back of the room?
Or did he not see the man in the wheelchair because he simply wasn’t looking?
***
In the interest of full disclosure: If this story hadn’t broken and been made public, I would not have shared this it. I would not have compromised my personal relationships and risked damaging Steve Gleason’s relationship with the Saints. I would have crafted these words and sentiments for another forum, perhaps years down the road.
If it weren’t for the fact I feel deeply that parents of children playing football MUST pay attention to the influence of men who will sacrifice their kids for W’s, I would not have written this.
If it weren’t for the fact that a man of conviction and conscience, Scott Fujita has been publicly attached to this scandal on the day he brought his newborn daughter home from the hospital, I would not have written these truths. FYI, his name was leaked directly from the NFL offices to three HUGE sports journalists, one of which broke the “scoop.”
I’m not calling them out by name because nobody pays me to be an asshole.
To date, there has been no evidence Scott Fujita ever paid a man money to hurt another man. The fact that he’s willing to admit paying for turnovers (fumbles, int’s, etc.) is cause for possible suspension. Seriously? If you met him, you would know he wouldn’t sacrifice his well-earned reputation of social activism and authentic charity work, while reveling in the destruction of another human being.
But every time his children google him, this stain (regardless of whether it is retracted) will follow him and he will have to explain that daddy really isn’t one of the bad guys.
In releasing this material, I have severely strained my relations with Michel and Steve Gleason, whom I sincerely love. They had no part in this material becoming public and I may have to find another producer to finish our film project. This was a film which made me have to learn to shoot my camera while crying. This is a film that guitarist Mike McCready from my favorite band, Pearl Jam has committed to doing the music for. No joke. It’s that deep. It’s that powerful. It’s that big of an opportunity potentially lost.
Some will call me releasing this audio for fame or money grab. True haters will call it exploitation.
People of character and conscience call it was it is; tru.
..and so it goes in The United States of Football.
Post-script notes:
Asshole Face and Mickey Loomis have admitted to being complicit simply because they did not put a stop to it. There’s no denying it happened on their watch while they were in the building. But on January 13th–in a room far down the hall–they were nowhere to be seen. And I’ve had two player sources directly tell me that Gregg Williams would often boast of having a “fuck you clause,” in his contract. This gave him total control of the defensive side of the ball. I guess the analogy would be like when Buddy Ryan was the defensive head coach of the Chicago Bears.
I haven’t seen this contract, but if Williams wants to refute his players claims, then he should make his contract public. After all, we all know how much money the players make because the media cannot help but remind you.
And man-crush aside, #9 was nowhere in sight when all this went down. But on January 14th, I expected him to take me one step closer to Disneyland.
The Saints failed to break the 49ers will and in the waning moments, Karma in the form of Vernon Davis, kicked the shit out of Gregg Williams’ game plan. His will was knocked out by the 49ers skill.
Williams insisted in that meeting, “We don’t apologize for the way we play football.”
But then it became public and that’s exactly what he did. And he threw his defense and the Saints franchise under the bus, in order to break his fall.
****
In the interest of full disclosure:
The only reason why I beeped out the audio for the names of the Saints players is because they were getting paid for performance bonuses, $200 for turnovers was the biggest haul I heard. This is a LONG-held league wide practice and in the mind of any reasonable person without an ax to grind, in no way should it be mentioned in the same sentence as a “Bounty.”
PERIOD. End of Story.
-Sean Pamphilon
