Excerpt: 'Spiral of Denial' reveals culture of steroid abuse in football
Saturday, January 3rd 2009
The following is an excerpt from Matt Chaney's "Spiral of Denial: Muscle Doping in American Football," a comprehensive analysis of steroid use in football and its impact on society. Chaney used anabolic steroids as a college football player for Southeast Missouri State in 1982. He has worked for decades on the issue as a witness, researcher, and writer. "Spiral of Denial" is available on Thursday here.
Just before 11 o'clock on a gray Tuesday morning in southern Pennsylvania, November 2005, a white limousine bus approached Gettysburg. The travelers were middle-aged men and ex-football players, Steelers of yore, late for the funeral of former teammate Steve Courson.
Now, one of the Men of Steel called ahead to the church, St. James Lutheran, where about 150 mourners waited. People had been gathering in town since Monday. Like a tardy schoolboy, the player apologized on the phone, saying his group was prevented a timely departure from Pittsburgh, a four-hour journey. Some of them had risen before dawn but to no avail, he said, and he requested delaying the funeral until their arrival. Church officials relented and the holdup was announced, to the chagrin of many in the pews. A "busload of Steelers" was promised, exciting no one.
Entering old Gettysburg, the great battlefield spread about the local hills, the ex-Steelers knew what, and who, awaited them: a potentially adverse situation with people unimpressed by football mythology. This would be no autograph session with loyal fans, no one celebrating the Super Bowl glory years.
Instead, the funeral congregation was family and close friends of Steve Courson, people who understood the issue of muscle drugs in football, and who personally knew Courson and his 20-year fight to shed light on its consequences. The Steelers' franchise and alumni players were not highly regarded by most people waiting at the church.
For ex-Steelers on the bus, steroid use on their historic teams was no secret. Rather, it framed context for this funeral experience. Worse, a determined reporter waited at the church: Jeff Barker, Baltimore Sun, sought to confirm Courson's allegations of steroid abuse among Steelers in the 1970s and '80s. Barker had already phoned a couple of the guys, inquiring whether they ever used steroids.
In 1985, Courson, as an All-Pro NFL lineman, publicly disclosed his anabolic-steroid use and football's widespread problem. He then waged an intellectual battle his remaining two decades. He became a lay expert on muscle doping and the blatant abuse of anabolic steroids, synthetic growth hormone and other tissue-building substances in American football - high school, college and the NFL. Along the way, he overcame alcoholism, obesity and heart disease, coached football, counseled thousands of young people, wrote a book, and twice testified before Congress. But he paid for telling the truth and attacking the machine. He was blackballed from pro football, losing more career opportunities, and dying in financial debt.
Courson, 50, had followed a simple code of right and wrong, believing honesty could make an impact in the superficial lives of a self-indulged people. Other old Steelers fashioned themselves warriors of conquest, victors upholding team and fans' honor, but Courson always disagreed. A few months before his death in a tree-cutting accident, Courson discussed a warrior's mission in a letter to a former doping teammate, a rider on the limousine bus who still refused to confess. "Warriors throughout history, starting with even tribal cultures, protected the weak." Courson wrote. "Gladiators fight for spoils, ego and survival."
Courson did not mail the letter, perhaps because the former teammate and others would not budge off their code of silence on drugs. Old teammates never backed him in public but continued in their livelihoods as businessmen, teachers, coaches, broadcasters, Christian speakers and combinations thereof while watching him suffer alone on his path. They practiced and upheld football's denial of muscle doping, as practically everyone in the game had done for 40-some years.
Officials of the Steelers and NFL ignored Courson's funeral, and the "busload" of ex-teammates attending were conveniently late, thus avoiding any interaction with the waiting congregation beforehand - except for Jeff Barker, the reporter who greeted them outside the old church as the charter pulled up at 11:10 a.m. About 10 men exited down onto the sidewalk, several hobbling on arthritic legs. Most brushed past Barker, with a few pausing to deny knowing anything about steroids on the Steelers, and certainly nothing like Courson had alleged. Had they discussed steroids on the trip? No, they told Barker, just "Steve stories" since leaving Pittsburgh. Then they entered the church clustered together like fraternity boys.
Silence and glares met them in the sanctuary, a reception hardly befitting Steelers' status in Pennsylvania, even if the men were shriveled and normal-looking compared to their former hulking physiques in black and gold. None fit the gridiron images in films, posters, photos anymore, but so what? To this day they saw those images pasted throughout Steelers Nation, hard copies and in cyber, testifying to their legend.
Maybe they were the antithesis of true warriors now, but they were football heroes, Super Steelers, and they would unite against anybody, including mourners of Courson. Their greatest nemesis was silent now, anyway, sealed in that coffin up front. And they were the only franchise representatives making an appearance, along with a couple other ex-players who came independently. Besides, the old Steelers had accomplished plenty for fans and had even helped Courson, when he was down-and-out and ill from heart disease. It all justified their silence about performance-enhancing drugs in football and especially where the team was concerned. They were "protecting the game," as one of them had scolded Courson in the past.
But their rationale had been as groundless to him as it was now for the vast majority at the funeral. Their dead teammate's words stood in defiance, "It's not personal because I am no longer the scapegoat anymore," he wrote. "The sad thing is if all athletes spoke out together, none of us would be (solely blamed). ... Everyone has to do what is right for (his family), but a media and public once educated are also accountable for what they know. This is not just going to disappear. All I can do is relate what I know to help you understand it deeper. Sometimes the seemingly safe route in time becomes perilous."
The old Steelers took a pew reserved for them in a forward row, and the service began, officiated by the Rev. Lois K. Van Orden, a Courson family friend. Rev. Van Orden endorsed Courson's example, comparing him to Job and the Apostle Paul. "Nothing could separate Steve from his confidence that something good comes to those who try," she said.
Steve's brother, Bruce Courson spoke. Both had been adopted as infants by their parents, Iber, deceased, and Elizabeth Courson, a retired nurse. Steve had been proud of his family. The 1973 Gettysburg High graduate regularly noted his mother's scientific rationale, and the military service of his father and brother, veterans of World War II and Vietnam.
"Steve changed professional sports," Bruce said. "He changed me. I think he changed a lot of us for the better."
Bruce saw several "heroic plays" by his brother, especially Steve's singlehandedly rocking the mighty football institution. "Certainly, the team owners weren't happy. A lot of the professional athletes probably still are not happy." Down in front, the old Steelers sat quietly, seemingly oblivious to the glances aimed their way.
"I always thought that being recognized publicly for being truthful, in an effort to address this issue, was in essence part of regaining my honor as a human being," Courson had written. "It never really had anything to do with money...
"Sometimes, knowing too much about something is a difficult burden, but it is better than existing in a void absent of personal honor, serving a myth, even a popular one. Myth and fantasy I was forced to (discard) in 1985, when I was interviewed by Sports Illustrated about steroid use. I had a choice, tell the truth or lie. ... It's not complicated: Either you behave like a standup person or you don't."
The short service concluded and the congregation joined in The Lord's Prayer. Then Rev. Van Orden said, "Let us commend Stephen to the mercy of God, our maker and redeemer... Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant, Stephen. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light."
"Amen," the mourners answered.
The body would be cremated - there was no money for burial - and pallbearers escorted the coffin outside to a hearse. Most everyone stayed for refreshments and fellowship in the dining room downstairs. And still the old Steelers stuck together, moving by cluster to a table against a wall. Hardly anyone approached them.
A microphone was ready for comments about Steve, and his girlfriend, Denise Masciola, went first. More testimonials followed, until expectancy in the room turned to the table of old Steelers that included self-avowed Christians.
The former teammates must have felt the burning eyes, for they got up, all at once, and approached the microphone in a cluster. Silence hung heavy and one of them stepped forward, resorting to standard football tales to break the pall. But this was not a VFW gathering, and recounting wild times of the distant past with Steve, or "funny stories" about living loose as young players, fell flat in the church. The audience was generally unresponsive, neither amused nor stirred.
A second former Steeler took the more appropriate tact of discussing Steve's religious faith. He said Steve "made mistakes" in life but, by returning to the path of Jesus, had found redemption. The teammate said nothing about steroids, football brutality or more problems his fallen friend had taken so seriously. The teammate did not address "mistakes" made by himself or anyone else in his group.
The fellowship session concluded and everyone departed. The old Men of Steel found haven in their bus for the return to Pittsburgh, leaving behind the silent inquisitors.
