FFootball is one of the most violent sports in the world—a fact that is both its downfall and its allure. As players, we are acutely aware of the risks we take when we step onto the field. And when we aren’t, it’s often a chosen ignorance, a conscious decision to embrace the reckless freedom the game demands. I don’t know a single teammate from my NFL or college career who doesn’t suffer the daily pain of their playing days. Yet that pain often triggers memories of cherished moments—the camaraderie of the locker room, the grind in the weight room, the battles on the field. In the NFL, these injuries can feel like medals of honor, testaments to survival in a game that those who haven’t played it can’t quite imagine. Despite the suffering, most of us continue to play the game we love while we still can, accepting the consequences of the lives we’ve chosen. Few regret it, though some do. And tragically, some lose their lives too soon because of it. But what happens when the risk ultimately outweighs the reward?
The recent health debate over Miami Dolphins quarterback Tua Tagovailoa has reopened a familiar debate: when is it time for a player to retire? After his third documented concussion in two years, many in the football world urged Tua to retire, to “call it quits.” People are pointing out that he has already earned $73 million – enough to provide for the 26-year-old and his family for life. Why risk his health for a job that could kill him? But leaving is no simple choice; it’s a deeply personal reckoning that goes beyond the physical.
Focusing on health and money alone misses the bigger picture. Players sacrifice much more than just their bodies to stay in the game; we also give up parts of our humanity and identity. From a young age, we’re taught that success in sports requires immense sacrifice—giving up social obligations, relationships, and hobbies—all for the greater good of the team. And while risking our bodies is important, it’s often the least of our worries. Over time, this lifestyle erodes our mental health in ways we can’t always understand. The brutal truth is that as players, we’re constantly deteriorating from the inside out, our minds being affected in ways beyond our control.
I know this struggle firsthand. In 2019, I became the first NFL player to come out as bisexual, a decision that weighed heavily on me for years. I had to suppress my identity to fit into the rigid mold that football demands. The pressure wasn’t just about my sexuality. Playing during the Colin Kaepernick era, I had to make a choice every game: kneel in protest of social injustice or protect my vulnerable spot on the roster. For many players, the fear of being labeled a “distraction” keeps them silent, causing them to hide their true selves to avoid jeopardizing their careers. This pressure magnifies the already immense sacrifices we make and erodes parts of who we are.
So when people urge Tua to walk away, they’re not just asking him to think about his health; they’re asking him to consider what football means to him. Are you giving up a sport that you’ve given up so much for? This isn’t just about preventing further injury; it’s about grappling with what leaving the sport means for your self-esteem.
Tua now faces a decision: keep playing or walk away. To outsiders, it may seem simple, but it’s much more complicated. Unlike Tom Brady coming out of retirement, Tua’s departure would be an admission—not just to himself, but to the world—that he’s not mentally or cognitively fit to play the most cerebral position in football. It’s an irreversible move that will come with a heavy emotional toll.
For many of us, football becomes more than a job; it is our identity. We have invested everything in it – our time, our youth, our health, even our sense of self-worth. Leaving means losing a part of who we are. While leaving can mean a safer life, it also means facing an uncertain future and recognizing that the game may have taken more from us than we are willing to admit. Who is to say that a life away from the game, even a safer one, will be more fulfilling? Is that even a choice?
When I was a college player at Purdue University, the great Mike Alstott returned to his alma mater to talk to the team and share his hard-won wisdom. Known as one of the most avid runners at both the college and professional levels, Alstott embodied the mentality of a fighter—a player who took forever to fall and never stayed down for long. He was the kind of athlete who didn’t know when enough was enough. While he gave us a lot of valuable advice that day, there’s one quote that stuck with me: “All athletes die twice—once when your career is over, and once when your life is over.”
Now, in what feels like my second or third act of living away from football and after grieving the loss of my football self, his words have never felt more true. I see it in my former teammates, some of whom are still grieving their first deaths years after they left the game. When I look at Tua’s situation, I can’t help but wonder: if you could choose your first death, would you? Or would you do everything in your power to keep fighting and keep living?
The outpouring of concern for Tua is heartening, but framing his decision as one of personal responsibility misses the deep internal conflict that players face. Walking away isn’t just about avoiding further injury; it’s about facing the reality of life without football. It forces a player to ask themselves, often at a young age: What does my life mean to me without this sport? Can I be whole without this part of myself?
Yet it is also important to recognize that leaving football can open doors to new beginnings. Some players find fulfillment in new careers, advocacy work, or personal growth. This path can lead to a healthier, more secure life, but the transition is fraught with uncertainty and emotional turmoil, making the decision even more complicated.
Ultimately, the choice to quit football is an intensely personal one, weighed down by factors that only those who have experienced it can truly understand. And even then, brain injuries occupy their own complex domain, requiring difficult decisions. Tua’s story reminds us that the sacrifices players make for this sport aren’t just measured in concussions or broken bones. They’re measured in the fragments of ourselves we give up to play the game we love. And sometimes the hardest part is deciding when enough is enough.
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RK Russell is a former NFL player for the Dallas Cowboys and Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
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