NFL headquarters shooting will spark a new CTE reality check

Column

On Monday, a gunman walked into 345 Park Avenue in Manhattan — a building that houses NFL headquarters — and opened fire. Four people were killed before the shooter took his own life.

In his pocket, police found a three‑page note. In it, 27‑year‑old Shane Tamura wrote of his anguish, his struggles with mental health and his belief that he was suffering from CTE — the degenerative brain disease linked to repeated head trauma. He blamed the NFL, accused the league of concealing the dangers of the sport to protect its profits, and asked that his brain be studied after his death.

There’s no proof Tamura had CTE. There’s no evidence he ever played beyond high school in Los Angeles. And there’s no evidence that football caused his violence. Further, he has no known connection to the NFL.

But this much is true: his note forces us to look, once again, at the sport’s shadow — and at what football does to the human brain.

I’ve written about this before. Dating back to 2014, I’ve detailed the shortcomings of the NFL in confronting CTE head‑on, and the league’s reluctance to truly educate parents about what happens when kids — little kids — start banging their heads on the football field.

I’ve written about the football pyramid: millions of children at its base, funneled into the sport from not long after the time they can walk, creating tens of thousands of college players, and finally, a few hundred men who each fall play in the NFL. The league doesn’t exist without that foundation — a bedrock made up of kids’ brains.

People will point out — and they’re absolutely right — that one former high school football player committing a mass shooting isn’t an indictment of football, or of CTE, or of the damage we know the sport can inflict.

But it can force a conversation. It should be another reminder of what CTE does — and that there are different degrees of this disease.

It’s not always dramatic, Hollywood‑script dementia. Sometimes it’s a slow eroding of the brain. Sometimes it’s a sapping of potential, of thought, of emotional steadiness, of human capacity itself.

That last one matters most to me. Because this is where it gets personal.

I have a grandson. He turned three earlier this month. He’s playful and rambunctious, as he should be. He’s also startlingly intelligent, deeply inquisitive, compassionate, loving, and one of the most pleasant little souls I’ve ever known.

With him, I find myself gripped by a sense of doom‑filled déjà vu.

Just like my son was, my grandson is the kind of boy people will say “looks like a football player.” He’s strong for his age, full of energy, rough-and-tumble in that toddler way that makes you laugh — and worry at the same time.

My son-in-law is a huge football fan. My daughter enjoys the game, too. That’s not unusual; tons of families love football. But I can already picture the day someone — a coach, a friend, a neighbor — looks at my grandson, sees all that energy and strength, and says, “He’d be great on the field.”

I know well what football took from people I’ve played with. I know what I risked when I let my own son play. I know what science tells us about the toll of head blows — even the “small” ones, the hundreds of sub‑concussive hits that add up over time.

I don’t want that for my grandson.

I don’t say this to shame anyone for loving football — I say it because I’ve been there, and I know how easy it is to talk yourself into believing the hits aren’t that bad.

I was the dad on the sidelines when my son was little, convincing myself the hits weren’t that bad, that blows to the head were just part of the game. I let him keep playing — and I’ve carried those regrets ever since.

And I keep coming back to this: every head strike puts someone a little further on that spectrum. Not everyone ends up with full‑blown CTE. But everyone who takes hits to the head gets nudged, in some way, down that line.

When Junior Seau, one of the most beloved linebackers of his generation, shot himself in the chest in 2012, he left no note — but his family knew what he wanted. His brain was sent to researchers. He was found to have CTE.

When Aaron Hernandez, the former Patriots tight end, died by suicide in prison, his written note was there — a goodbye to his fiancée and his daughter — but perhaps the most compelling tale was his autopsy. Boston University researchers said his was the most severe case of CTE ever found in someone his age.

Those are not isolated stories. Over the years, other NFL stars have taken their own lives and left instructions: study my brain. The list includes names like Dave Duerson and Ray Easterling. Each case adding to the weight of evidence, each note a final plea for understanding.

A rarely mentioned precedent: In Wisconsin, a family sued Pop Warner in 2015 after their son — who started playing tackle football at 11 — died by suicide at 25. An autopsy later confirmed CTE.

The family sought $5 million, alleging the youth football organization failed to properly warn players and families about the risks of playing football. Pop Warner quietly settled the case in 2016.

It’s not the kind of headline most parents see — but it serves as evidence that even at the youth level, head trauma has carried devastating consequences and forced real accountability.

The NFL will continue to say it’s making the game safer. And maybe it is, a little.

But the truth remains: millions of kids have to play for the NFL to thrive. Millions of kids have to take those hits, have their brains knocked around — often for decades — to keep the pyramid standing strong.

I don’t hate football. I just can’t. My father has loved Notre Dame football for more than 70 years. My children and many of my friends are fervent fans. I still watch the game. I still get caught up in it, every now and then.

But I do hate what it does. And I do feel a responsibility to say: for my grandson, and for anyone’s child, there’s another way.

My advice for families: Play baseball. Shoot hoops. Pick up a tennis racquet, run track, or play soccer if you must.

But when it comes to football — wait. Wait until they’re old enough to understand what it really means to trade their head for the game.

Because we don’t just risk concussions or memory loss. We risk dimming something irreplaceable: the very best parts of who they are.

Editor’s note: The top photo has been digitally edited to remove a brand name.

_{Top photo: via pexels.com}