Breaking the Cycle

THE SOUND IS SEARED INTO my memory. Heavy footsteps. Pounding. Screaming. A storm of violence on the other side of my bedroom wall. More heavy footsteps and a slammed door. Eerie silence.

I was just seven years old when my mom’s boyfriend, the father of my younger brother, terrorized our family. He was a jealous, controlling man with a volcanic temper. If another man as much as looked at Mom on the street, she was in for a beating.

My brother and I cowered, terrified. When the storm had passed, I crept through the apartment, eventually finding my mom sprawled uncon-scious and bloody. I ran into the hall and knocked on neighbors’ doors. No one dared answer. I had to go to the bar next door to call 911 on a pay phone.

I grew up to become a star defensive player and a high-ranking executive for the National Football League. During my 15 seasons in the NFL, I