Jim Otto: The Pain of Glory

1

Death and Near Death

At the Canton Hall of Fame parade, I rode in the same car as Jim. I asked him about his mind set. I could understand the first surgery, and the second, but not the third, fourth, fifth and sixth. I had a different mind set. Jim spoke about where he grew up, and how football raised him up to accept the downside that comes with it. I can't think of anyone who has had as many surgeries as Jim, and as many artificial replacements. I still struggle with that because my own views are different. I never had a major surgery.

—- Willie Lanier, linebacker, Kansas City Chiefs, 1967-77

I’m Jim Otto. Double O. Oakland Raiders center. Mr. Raider. American Football League legend. Professional Football Hall of Fame Inductee. Football’s consecutive games record-setter. Ironman of ironmen.

That is the Jim Otto who is most recognizable to Americans, the sports page hero. But there is another Jim Otto who isn’t very well known, the broken-down ironman who nearly was an obituary page item three times in the 1990s.

To be either Jim Otto, believe me, has taken incredible courage.

I suffer every day because of injuries directly related to my obsession with being the best center who ever stepped on the gridiron. Football experts believe I achieved that ambition. And in all modesty, I must agree. I can’t think of another center who was any better. Or more heroic.

Only that youthful heroism has turned into a middle-aged horror show. I know what It’s like to face death not once, but several times. It’s a gruesome sight, far more frightening than having to block Mean Joe Greene.

I’ve been so close to death, I could smell its hideous breath, feel its bony fingers reach for me. Somehow, I’ve eluded its grasp, mainly because I’m not ready to die. With all that I’ve endured, I still thirst for life.

However, my weakened, bionic body remains an open invitation to death. My family is in constant fear that my life could end at any moment if I’m not especially careful. Any little germ that creeps into my blood stream could put me instantly at death’s door.

I’ve been wracked with fever that perhaps only a malaria victim could understand. For eight straight days in June 1998, my temperature was stuck at 105. If you haven’t been put in this precarious position yourself, well, a reading of 106 usually means funeral arrangements are pending.

I survived that near-death experience, then spent the next six months without a right knee. How is that humanly possible? I’m the right person to ask. You see, I’ve learned how to live with knees and without knees. Right now, I’ve had one more knee than a cat has lives.

Let’s count. There were the two knees I was born with, then the six artificial right knees and two artificial left knees I acquired over the ensuing 61 years. That’s 10 different knees, eight of them factory-made.

And, still, there’s no relief. My right leg nearly was amputated. Doctors saved it—-for the time being. Because I’ve had 38 major surgeries, 28 of them on my knees, there’s a good possibility I could yet lose the leg.

I understand the risks involved. I’ve understood them all along, and I’ve accepted them. It’s all about priorities. I’d rather be a disabled Hall of Famer than a healthy, retired scrub. I’d also rather be an amputee than a fatality. And it must be understood that surgery is keeping me alive.

I can’t imagine another retired football player, or a retired athlete in any sport, who has suffered more than I have. And if you include my close scrapes with the Grim Reaper, it’s not even a contest.

My body is as much steel and iron as it is flesh and bone. From ironman to iron parts, that’s what Jim Otto has become. I believe I’m the first retired football player to receive an artificial knee—the first, I’m sure, at age 38.

Both of my shoulders are artificial as well.

My back has been broken, fused, re-broken, re-fused. After the first fusion, I was speaking before a group when the rostrum gave way and I fell, breaking my back again. I got back on my feet somehow, finished the speech, then returned to the hospital.

If I could play a football game all busted up, I certainly could complete a speech with a broken back. I only had to talk, not block. But after three surgeries, my back is held together with thick rods and long screws.

I am the American Medical Associations worst nightmare.

You know that automobile phrase, Body by Fisher? I am Body by Zimmer, the foremost maker of prostheses.

I clank when I walk. I clank when I sleep. I have so much metal in me, I am a one-man Steel Curtain. I face my own mortality every morning in the bathroom mirror when I shave. Waking up is the best part of my day.

I haven’t even touched yet on my minor injuries. I better touch lightly because I’m tender all over. I’ve played with a hip pointer, broken fingers, broken ribs, broken jaw, neck stingers, numerous concussions, kicked-in teeth and double pneumonia. Minor injuries, therefore minor distractions.

My nose was broken more than 20 times—I lost count after 20—-to the point where there was no more cartilage left. My nose was S-shaped, and it flopped around like rubber. My wife, Sally, rearranged my nose regularly in the parking lot after Raider games. Kind of like straightening my tie.

I wasn’t a pretty face after 60 minutes of roughhouse football. I was a professional center, not a professional model. I had a job to do, and none of my countless injuries ever prevented me from starting. Or finishing.

More than a few, though, should have put me on injured reserve. Yeah, fat chance. My attitude was that of the gladiator —a true athlete answers every call, even if he limps into the arena. Time off is for the off-season.

Therefore, isn’t it amazing what some ice will do for broken, stretched or torn body parts? And Otto's motto was "ice makes nice.’

I was paid to play football, not hang out in the training room. That’s why I didn’t miss one regular-season game during my 15-year career. I played in a pro football-record 210 consecutive games before retiring. George Blanda and I actually shared that record, but George sometimes only place-kicked during a game, while I played every offensive play. And George's streak began in Houston; my 210 games remain a Raiders record.

Actually, I played in 308 games as a Raider if you include the preseason, postseason and all-star games. When I think of all the wear and tear on my body, 308 is the number I use. However, I must confess, I missed some preseason games along the way. Well, nobody’s perfect.

Toward the end of my career, when teammates started calling me Pops, I no longer stood on two sturdy legs. My body had begun its swift deterioration into the medical malaise that now is my daily lot in life.

I always thought Pops was the ideal gladiator. To watch him play—the beating he took, the bleeding—the guy was incredibly tough. Nobody was going to take his job. I loved that attitude. He showed me his legs a few years ago. They were all fat, except for two muscles that were working He was so proud of those two muscles. We always said Pops loved pain, but I dont think he wanted this much.

— Phil Villapiano, linebacker, Oakland Raiders, 1971-79

You won’t hear me complain that I was mistreated medically I’m not a wimp-out. Nobody told me I had to play every week. So I’m not going to sue my former team like other retired players. I’m simply not made that way.

The decision to be out there every game, sometimes every play, came straight from the heart, even though Al Davis did coax me early in my career into becoming an ironman. But neither Al nor the Raiders forced me to play in the autumn of my career, when I was a terrible mess physically. They were surprised, in fact, that I could play at all.

That will, that drive, to continue playing was derived from self-motivation. All because I loved football more than I can possibly explain in words that make sense to those who’ve never played the game. I couldn’t even explain that motivation to teammates, who thought I was out of my mind to play with injuries that ordinarily sideline football players.

It was that intense passion for the game—-plus miles of tape, a ton of pain pills, and knee surgery every off-season— that kept me on the field at the end, when it hurt just to bend over and snap the football.

I needed more help, more repairs, and more tricks as an aging gladiator to survive against younger, larger, healthier opponents. My reflexes had dulled by that time. My instincts were good, but my body was disintegrating. Double O now was translatable into Old and Over the hill.

Nevertheless, I held my own through experience and fierce pride. I hated it any time someone beat me on a run block or pass rush. When that happened, I was driven to get even on the next play.

I knew many ways to get even within the rules. But if someone did something unprofessional to me, I knew how to get even outside the rules.

Whatever the case, and no matter what the circumstance, I would be back the next play. And the next game. You could count on me showing up.

I never had a gram of quit in me.

I actually did see myself as one of those Roman gladiators. You know, the poor Christians who were forced to play a prevent defense against those blitzing lions, and then became easy lunch meat shortly after kickoff.

I also fought against the Lions, not to mention the Bears, Broncos, Colts, Falcons, Eagles and Rams. I was clawed at, stomped on, mauled, but I always fought back—fought back to win. I refused to lose after enduring those painful franchise struggles with the Raiders in the early 1960s.

I proudly wore the scars of a gladiator—a raspberry on the cheek, a chipped tooth, and surgical stitches that crossed my mangled legs like railroad tracks. To me, these wounds represented trophies of the battle.

How obsessed was I? One injury explains it best.

Playing Buffalo during the 1972 preseason, I snapped the ball for a field goal, and the whole right side of the Raiders offensive line fell on my right leg. I tore five ligaments on just that one play

The leg was absolutely crushed, and so was I, emotionally. That injury looked devastating even to me, someone who had as much pain tolerance as anyone who ever played football.

Fearing the worst, the Raiders sent me to Mt. Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. Dr. Robert Rosenfeld, our team physician, tested the knee in a three-and-a-half-hour fluoroscopic examination. It’s a procedure where he went inside the knee to probe for damage, without operating.

But I knew surgery was the next step. Dr. Rosenfeld knew it, too. My leg was black from the groin down to the toes from excessive internal bleeding. Dr. Rosenfeld informed me I wouldn’t play any more that year. And with the seriousness of this injury, he doubted if I would ever play again.

Not play that year? Did he think he was talking to an accountant? And if he really was recommending I retire, then he was out of his mind.

So unbeknownst to Dr. Rosenfeld, I sought a second opinion.

My own.

Not long after he left my room, I consulted with myself, and immediately got dressed. Without telling anyone, I walked out of the hospital on my crutches and caught a cab to the airport. By now, I was putting weight on the damaged leg, and it felt fine. I felt encouraged.

Injured reserve, my eye.

After the plane landed in Oakland, I climbed in my Volkswagen. Using my right leg on the accelerator and my left leg on the clutch and brake—hey, what’s five ligament tears in a cramped VW Bug?—I headed for the Raiders training camp in Santa Rosa, a 75-minute drive. The right knee held up well.

I can play!

When I arrived at the El Rancho Tropicana Motel, our summertime practice site, afternoon practice was starting. The team was on the field. I told George Anderson, the Raiders trainer, to tape my knee because I was suiting up. He stared at me in disbelief.

You’re out of your mind, he said. Madden's going to be madder than hell.

I persisted, and George taped me up. I walked out on the field and, sure enough, coach John Madden was madder than hell.

Otto, what are you doing here? he yelled at me while waving his arms about wildly, like he did on the sideline during Raider games. You left the hospital without the doctor’s permission. You’re not practicing. You’re injured. Now get outta here and take off that uniform.

I didn’t fight him. I obeyed him and left without another word. The way I looked at player-coach relationships, John was the coach and I always tried to respect my coach. However, I must admit, I didn’t respect some of Madden’s coaching predecessors in Oakland.

Although I didn’t object to John’s running me off, I was emotionally upset. If he, too, believed I was disabled for the year and even beyond, then he was crazy, too.

I waited after practice and begged John to let me practice the next day I told him if I couldn’t do the necessary work, then he would know right away, and he could do whatever he wanted with me. But, at least, give me a chance.

Finally, John agreed. The following day, I went through the same drills as everyone else without missing a beat. I had made my point, yet the coaches and players stared at me in utter amazement, wondering if I had been born with rubber parts.

I was muscle mass just like they were, but I also was the Raiders team captain. And it was my job to set an example for the younger players, who needed someone to teach them the Raider way.

In my mind, the Raider way meant if you could walk, you could play

"Jimmy's always been the toughest guy. You couldn't keep him out of the lineup. You’d say Jimmy you can't go out there. He’d go out there. There was nothing you could do. Even in practice, he never knew how to go halfway. He had that same attitude as Michael Jordan. Jimmy always gave 100 percent, a true competitor. That tremendous effort, that stamina … it cost him later. They don't make them like Jimmy anymore."

— Dr, Robert Albo, longtime Raiders team physician

I started the season opener against Pittsburgh. Although my leg remained as black as coal that first month, George taped it up every day and I made it through the entire season. I played well enough to be selected to the Pro Bowl, my 12th postseason all-star game.

After that, I had surgery on that so-called career-ending injury, and I played another two seasons for the Raiders.

Only after I stopped playing football did I begin paying huge debts for my total commitment to dressing for battle each and every weekend. And that is why I now have replaceable knees and removable shoulders.

And all four joints could kill me.

That’s because potentially fatal bacteria will enter my internal system largely through the knees and shoulders; Death’s side doors.

My legs look as if a Sherman tank ran over them. They no longer resemble normal legs. Having new prostheses installed all the time has taken away my dimpled knees. My calves lack normal definition. A gouge in one calf gives the impression a hungry bear might have chomped on the leg.

In the spring of 1996 an artery burst in that leg. I quickly lost 12 pints of blood. If doctors hadn’t gotten a tourniquet on the leg in a hurry I would have bled to death.

The doctors managed to save my life, then my leg. They filled that big crevice with packing. I would need six surgeries over the next five days. I can say with authority that keeping Dick Butkus off our quarterback’s neck was a much easier task than having to go through this ordeal.

An earlier near-death experience had occurred in 1990. It was my second back surgery, an excruciating procedure that lasted 11 hours, and, unfortunately, didn’t end for me in the operating room.

A bacterial infection later developed in my kidneys and bladder from a catheter that had been placed inside me for urinating purposes. That infection lasted six months. I was sicker than a dog. Jim Henson, founder of The Muppets, died of the same thing. Fortunately, my doctors found the right antibiotics and broke the fever.

I never believed I would be that sick ever again. Was I ever wrong. In June 1998, I developed a fever that came on like 90 miles an hour. My temperature shot up to 105. I was burning up. I could hardly breathe. I went into septic shock. My body turned a scarlet color.

My kidney, lungs and liver were shutting down. And my knee doctor was in Salt Lake City, Utah, 1,300 miles from my home in Auburn, California. Time was of the essence if I was to receive a third reprieve on life.