Darryl Talley’s story is a painful reminder of football’s heavy tolls

Of all the great players from the Buffalo Bills’ Super Bowl era, none was more respected by teammates and fans than Darryl Talley. He may not have earned a sculpted bust in the Pro Football Hall of Fame like Jim Kelly, Bruce Smith, Thurman Thomas, Andre Reed and James Lofton did, but he secured a special place in Western New Yorkers’ hearts.

Many fans viewed Talley as they viewed themselves. Part of it had to do with shared Rust Belt roots and sensibilities. He was a Cleveland native who put on his hard hat and gave an honest effort every play, every practice, every game. Do your job and don’t make any excuses. That was Talley’s motto—and their motto, too. But the quality that resonated most deeply with fans and teammates was Talley’s toughness. The most relatable Buffalo Bill was also the grittiest. 

“I played with and against a lot of tough guys in the NFL, but nobody had a higher pain threshold than Darryl Talley,” Bills special teams star Steve Tasker told me several years ago when we collaborated on a book about Buffalo’s Super Bowl run. “He was like the Black Knight in ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’; even with his arms and legs cut off, he would still want to fight you. He’d be out there with broken bones and torn muscles and strained ligaments, and you wouldn’t hear a peep from the guy. You could count on him every Sunday.”

Talley wound up playing 14 seasons at linebacker in the NFL, including a dozen with the Bills. When he left the team following the 1994 season, he took out a full-page ad in the Buffalo News thanking the fans.

Talley was back in the Buffalo News Thanksgiving morning, the subject of a riveting, sad story written by my friend Tim Graham. A meticulous reporter and masterful storyteller, Graham paints a picture of a broke and broken down 54-year-old former football star who believes his body and mind were wrecked by the game he loved. We learn that Talley often is depressed to the point of tears and has contemplated suicide.

“I’ve thought about it,” he tells Graham. “When you go through the (expletive) that I’ve gone through, you start to wonder: Is this really worth it? Is it worth being here, worth being tortured anymore? It would be easy to call it a day. But there are two reasons why I won’t. First of all, my parents didn’t raise a coward. The most important is I want to be around for my grandkids.”

Despite those assurances, his family and former teammates remain frightened for him. They have noticed his deteriorating mental state, which Talley attributes to brain damage caused by years of butting heads on the football field and too many concussions. “I don’t see it getting any better,’’ Janine Talley, his wife of 34 years, told Graham. “This’ll kill him one way or the other.” Gabrielle Talley, the younger of their two daughters, added, through sobs: “Hope is not in abundance right now.”

We’ve read too many tragic tales in recent years of football players who became severely depressed and took their lives at relatively young ages. Former San Diego Chargers linebacker Junior Seau, Chicago Bears safety Dave Duerson and Philadelphia Eagles safety Andre Waters are among Talley contemporaries who committed suicide and were found afterward to have suffered from chronic traumatic encephalopathy, a degenerative brain disease caused by repeated head trauma. I fear these stories are just the tip of the iceberg. I have serious concerns about the long-term future of a sport that we love deeply but has caused so much carnage.

Since the publication of Graham’s story, there has been a tremendous outpouring of support for Talley, who lost his business ventures and struggles to get by on his NFL pension. Lifelong Bills fan Frank Thomas Croisdale set up “Circle the Wagons for Darryl Talley” on the Internet fund-raising site, GoFundMe.com. As of Wednesday morning, more than 3,000 people had donated close to $150,000. Sunday, before waving the ceremonial flag at the Bills game against the Cleveland Browns at Ralph Wilson Stadium, Kelly pulled on his friend and former teammate’s old No. 56 jersey. Talley, who also is struggling with severe physical pain, including the remnants of a broken neck, has been overwhelmed by the tsunami of kindness. He has broken down and cried on several occasions.

Talley is a prideful man and has been reluctant to accept charity. He said his purpose in going public with his story wasn’t to garner sympathy, but rather to call attention to the way the NFL discards players and denies the physical and mental damage caused by playing the game. Here’s hoping Talley swallows his pride and accepts the helping hand—if not for himself, then for his wife and daughters. And here’s hoping that the NFL does right by these men who helped popularize pro football and whose sacrifices aided it in becoming a $13 billion-a-year industry.

It’s been a difficult few years for Buffalo’s boys of autumn. In 2011, center Kent Hull, another respected tough guy from Buffalo’s Super Bowl teams, died of liver disease. Joe DeLamielleure, the Hall of Fame guard who opened holes for O.J. Simpson to run through, has been diagnosed with the abnormal brain protein characterized by CTE damage. And we all know the hell Kelly’s endured with his bouts of cancer, though he is now fortunately cancer free and no longer relying on feeding tubes for nourishment.

These stories remind us that these seemingly indestructible men are mortal, too. And that the game we’ve come to love can exact an enormous physical, mental and emotional toll from its long-time participants. DeLamielleure, who loved playing football as much as any person I’ve met, told me that if he had to do it all over again, he would not have played the game. That’s a damning response from a guy with a bust in Canton, Ohio, and it makes me wonder if damaged, depressed Darryl Talley might not feel the same way.

Scott Pitoniak is an award-winning columnist, best-selling author, radio talk show host and television correspondent in his 42nd year of practicing journalism.