Old, worn and broken down – and I wouldn’t change a thing

After five years of high school football, four years of college, 11 years in the CFL and over 25 years of pumping iron, crushing heavy weights and doing things to my body, that in hindsight, couldn't possibly have been good for me the joint in my left shoulder has finally given up.

And why wouldn't it. Like any high performance lever governed by the laws of mechanical physics, it too comes with a shelf life. Having far exceeded the maximum number of useable reps associated with ball and socket joints, I suppose I should be grateful. But admittedly, my joy in having it last as long as it did despite the prolonged abuse it endured has been replaced instead by genuine concern. Is this the start of my slow decline? Is this the beginning of a lifetime of 'procedures' brought on by a career involving violent, high speed collisions?

There are no coincidences when it comes to injuries. All acute trauma, and eventual chronic, can be traced back to a cause and effect relationship. Having already had my left knee reconstructed and now my left shoulder, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why the important joints on the left side of my body have fallen victim to premature failure.

For right guards, the shortest distance to the quarterback will always pass through their inside gap. A heavy inside step with a heavy left arm punch are pre-requisites for success. In other words, for over a decade the only thing preventing the violent assault of defenseless quarterbacks by blitzing defensive lineman was the collective left side of my body.

It would seem, that after seeing the resultant damage in a very revealing MRI and meeting with my orthopedic surgeon, the soft tissue and bone that make up the marvelously constructed joint of my left shoulder, were no match for the onslaught. Farewell left shoulder, you have served me well.

My story is not uncommon. Swapping injury tales and comparing scars is a right of passage for retired athletes. Like fishing tales about the big one that got away, spinning yarns about gruesome injuries and devastating hits will always hold you in high esteem with your peers.

From early childhood to the sunset of my playing days, sports along with athletic competition have influenced my ways more than I could have envisioned. Although reluctant to admit it, my sports career to some degree, has defined who I am and what my life was about. But before any of us were O-linemen, ball players, Argos, Eskimos or Bombers, we were sons, brothers, uncles and fathers. It's the latter I'm most proud of and the one I'm most willing to have others define me as.

But somehow while battling in the trench's for the glory of championships, football players often forget who they really are. Coincidently, that temporary loss of identity lasts just as long as ones professional career. And it's only after the game has past us by, do we try to resume our first and true identity. Fortunately for us, modern medicine, a loving family and the skill of talented surgeons help us in our recovery. The greatest tragedy is not having lifted a Grey Cup above your head; it's not being able to lift your child while playing in the park.

Reminders of my football career are all around me. They sit on my mantle or hang on my walls. What's not as visible as the ring on my finger or the team photos in my den are the scars and pains I live with every day. Football is a violent sport and it's that reality that sometimes gets overlooked. Bones are sometimes broken, muscles sometimes torn. And if not for the skill of a surgeon's scalpel, or the support of countless people that help us through hours of rehab and therapy, football, for all its rewards, can sometimes cause a lifetime of pain and suffering.

When you're 22 years old you are not concerned about the consequences of high speed collisions; you are disinterested in the effects that trauma will have. Young football players are invincible.

Life, unfortunately doesn't come with a rewind button. The choices we make will certainly define the life we lead. How unfortunate for all those players whose choices have led to debilitating disease and a shortened life expectancy. If this is my slow decline and this is my fate, then it's a fate I'll freely accept without any regret.

And some may balk at the choices I've made. They'll criticize you for sacrificing your health and quality of life for a "crazy, stupid game." But in the final analysis, the decision was never theirs to make, it was always mine. And if it was a noble cause, a worthy ambition, carried out with passion, dedication and love, then it's a sacrifice I can live with.