Thread by @jameswmullen

Today I am sad. And I am angry. Let me tell you why. A thread (it turns out this was not the last thread I will do, nor, unfortunately, was it the last thread on this issue). 1/15

https://twitter.com/jameswmullen/status/1319739523543240707

This week, another ex-professional rugby player made public the sad news that he has been diagnosed with #CTE – a type of dementia that seems to have a link to those who played certain types of sport (#Rugby #Football #AmericanFootball) 2/15

and who have had repeated concussions or a significant #TraumaticBrainInjury (#TBI). bbc.co.uk/sport/rugby-un… He is 41 years old, the same age as me. 3/15

Some other ex-players took it upon themselves to say how we all knew the risks. We played the game, we took our chances. Now to some extent that is true. 4/15

Every time I pulled on my shirt, laced up my boots, and fronted up on the line I knew, at the back of my mind, I might not come back off the pitch whole. I knew I might not come back at all. 5/15

Rugby is a brutal, physical, game even at the amateur level I played at, and those of us who played it are not idiots. We knew it was brutal, we knew we would rip things, break things, have things stitched, glued or pinned back together. 6/15

We knew we were a bad tackle, a dragged down scrum, a collapsed ruck or maul away from a potentially catastrophic injury. What we did not know (certainly those who are my age or older) was that concussion might be a silent killer years later. 7/15

We did not know that once we’d shaken the effects off that we might still not be OK. I am slightly unusual in that once I had had my last injury it was obvious I was not going to be able to shake it off (although it was not obvious to the original doctors); 8/15

it is almost 23 years ago and my life is still made hard by the lasting impacts of my injury. News such as that of Ryan Jones, or Dylan Hartley before him, make me realise that I cannot be sure that I have done my fixing. I am not prone to drama. 9/15

I am not someone of a nervous disposition. My past work has seen my life threatened by organised criminals and terrorists. My playing days saw me put my body in harm’s way to protect someone else on my team, or the ball, or the ground we had made. 10/15

I am not scared easily (apart from by dogs, but that is not something to explore on such a serious thread). Yet I am shitting myself. Let me say that again. I am shitting myself. 11/15

In addition to the struggles I have daily, I now have a stalking horse. If it comes for me, I will not see it. If I see it, I cannot fight it. I cannot dig in for that last heave, defending the line so it cannot cross. 12/15

If it comes it will slowly, methodically, and cruelly take what is left of me from the day of my injury, piece by piece, until it kills me young. 13/15

The only defences I have are hope and luck. I may not develop early onset dementia. I hope to God I do not for me and my family and friends. It is not me, though, who will stop the try this time, but the attacking team fumbling the ball. There is nothing I can do. 14/15

So when I see the experiences of those already suffering #CTE, and my possible future, reduced to “we knew the risks” by people who should know better, who should count their blessings if this thing does not come for them, I am sad. And I am angry. 15/15