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Mike Curtis strives for Canton facing new foe
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Dave Scheiber is a general assignment columnist for FOXSports and FOX Sports Florida, bringing fans an inside look at major stories around the state, focusing on the Rays, Bucs, Lightning, USF and human interest profiles across the sports spectrum.
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November 30, 2011
“I just think Mike (Curtis) had such a great career that in my mind, it’s only a matter of time until the selection committee decides to put him in. I do believe he had a Hall of Fame career as a linebacker for me.”
— Hall of Fame coach Don Shula
“His motor was always running full speed ahead. I don’t know how many times we played against one another. But certainly, each time in preparation for the game, you’d look at films and I was just always tickled with his enthusiasm, the way he was just no quit and playing with a smile on his face -- kind of a vicious smile. I just really appreciated his all-out effort every time we played.”
— Hall of Fame Jets QB Joe Namath
SOUTH PASADENA, Fla. -- A huge closet in the hall of his spacious apartment holds pieces of history for an iconic name from National Football League past.
Shelves hold an array of inscribed footballs for former Baltimore Colts linebacker Mike Curtis — a cornerstone of the great defenses forged by a young head coach named Don Shula, a player renowned for his hard-nosed, relentless style of play that helped carry the Colts into Super Bowls III and V. He is also known for famously flattening a drunken fan who'd dashed onto the field and began running with the football much to his instant regret.
"Colts 24, Rams 17, Presented to Mike Curtis 11/8/71" reads one ball.
Another bears the words "Colts 18, Patriots 13, Dec. 13, 1973, Mike Curtis, Defensive Team Captain."
There's a prized pigskin from the "Expansion Bowl" when the Seattle Seahawks beat the Tampa Bay Bucs 13-10 on Oct. 17, 1976, late in his stellar 14-year career.
Beside it is one from Oct. 9, 1977: "Redskins 10, Bucs 0" — a standout game for Curtis during his final NFL stint playing for his hometown Redskins.
The shelves feature all kinds of memorabilia from the playing days of old No. 32 — bobbleheads, keepsakes from his dominating high school days at Richard Montgomery in Rockville, Md., his All-America days at Duke University, worn pairs of cleats, a Colts Player of the Year Trophy and more.
"I didn't know what I had until we started opening up all these boxes," he said on a recent day from his high-rise home overlooking the Gulf of Mexico.
At 68, his brawny 6-3, 240-pound frame is still imposing, and his chiseled facial features, wavy brown hair and rugged good looks suggest a mild resemblance to an actor in a framed black-and-white photo hanging inside the closet: The Duke. John Wayne.
"The older I get, the more I look like him," Curtis added with a smile, hazel eyes sparkling behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
The hall and the adjoining walls bear even more awards, honors and photos, showcasing a player uniformly regarded as one of the toughest and best linebackers of his generation, a no-nonsense Colt captain appropriately nicknamed "Mad Dog."
But to date, his exploits have not found him a place in the hall he thinks most about these days — the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio.
Curtis admits he never spent a lot of time after his retirement following the 1978 season thinking about having a bronze bust in Canton. Though his name appeared regularly on the ballot following the mandatory five-year waiting period, his vote totals always fell shy of induction. He had no interest in politicking or lobbying friends or sportswriters.
Besides, he was already off and running on a new pursuit — channeling the competitive fire that fueled his football prowess into real estate, establishing himself in a league of his own buying and selling apartment complexes in Virginia, Maryland and DC.
"At one point I sold more apartments than anyone in the nation," he said. "First, I had to learn more than anybody about apartments, and I spent a lot of time doing that. I just liked the competition. It was all about pushing the envelope and being the best in your field."
But why did a player widely regarded as one of the best on the field for more than a decade never get the ultimate recognition of his sport?
One of Curtis' old Duke teammates, Sonny Odom, wondered that as well. And about two-and-a-half years ago, Odom began an informal campaign to get his friend elected as a senior nominee.
During a visit to the Hall around that time, talking to friends who'd been enshrined, Curtis began to realize how much induction meant to him after all, and felt that his accomplishments made him worthy of the honor.
"I started to pay more attention to it, and I went into the warehouse to get these boxes that I had packed away 40 years ago," he said. "When I opened them, I was like, 'Gee whiz, I didn't know I did all that.' I just never paid too much attention."
The treasure trove of football achievements — including his status as the only NFL player named All-Pro at both middle and outside linebacker — spurred the efforts on behalf of Curtis to open the doors to a place in the Hall.
Spearheaded by Odom, his management team and family members, including oldest son Clay Curtis and daughter-in-law Lauren Curtis of St. Petersburg, Fla., the push has gone into overdrive. They have solicited and received more than 35 letters from Hall of Fame players and contemporaries of Curtis, recommending him for nomination.
The roll call reads like a Who's Who: Don Shula, Joe Namath, Roger Staubach, Mike Ditka, Gino Marchetti, Ozzie Newsome, Lem Barney, Jim Otto, Bobby Mitchell, Paul Hornung, Lenny Moore, Art Donovan, Charlie Sanders ...
And the list goes on … Fran Tarkenton, Sonny Jurgensen, Bob Lilly, LeRoy Kelly, Mel Blount, Nick Buoniconti, Mike McCormack, Harry Carson, Kellen Winslow, Dave Wilcox, Mel Renfro, Ronnie Lott, Chris Hanburger ...
Throughout the effort, those closest to Curtis — his family, a handful of friends and his managers — have been motivated by another factor beyond the former linebacker's many accomplishments and unknown to those whose endorsements they have solicited.
It has to do with why Curtis moved to the St. Petersburg area last year in the first place. He had bounced from DC to Dallas to Idaho, where he lived with friends and hoped to make a go of it selling ranches and make a fresh start in the great outdoors he'd always loved.
Or perhaps he would pursue an early dream at Duke of becoming a veterinarian.
But little by little, something was clouding the picture — something virtually imperceptible to anyone who didn't know Curtis well.
Finding him a home near family gradually became a priority — and with that came a heightened sense of purpose in finding him a home among pro football's immortals.
*****
You wouldn't know anything was different from a casual conversation. Mike Curtis never misses a chance to inject his dry, self-effacing sense of humor into whatever subject is at hand. He weaves in vivid, detailed references to games he played in and the many colorful personalities he played with and against.
He's an avid reader, a history buff whose collection on a living room shelf includes such varied books as “The History of China,” “Men, Ships and the Sea” and “Butkus: Flesh and Blood.”
In fact, he always looked at education as a competition, just like football — signing up for 21 credits with a pre-med focus as a Duke freshman, before realizing he had gotten in way over his head with the academic load. But that was his approach to life: taking on any challenge full-tilt.
Contrary to his reputation as a guy with a well-defined mean streak, Curtis conveys a sense of charm and amiability, packaged in a plain-spoken manner. He attributes the dual nature of his personality to his parents — the gritty, "strapped T-shirt" father from the DC area who never ran from a fight, and the refined, kind-hearted mother from Norfolk, Va., whose family could trace its heritage back to a relative who signed the Declaration of Independence.
Sitting with his daughter-in-law Lauren at a local eatery on a recent morning, Curtis noticed a little boy in a Tampa Bay Rays jersey as he walked by the booth with his mother — and stops in mid-sentence to give the child a thumbs-up and smile.
Obviously, the youngster and his mom had no way of knowing the friendly greeting came from a man whose interception in Super Bowl V set up Jim O'Brien's game-winning field goal in the final seconds to defeat the Dallas Cowboys 16-13.
Or that he was the former No. 1 pick by Baltimore in 1965 who went on to finish with 25 career interceptions and earn such lifetime honors as AFC Defensive Player of the Year, a spot on the All-time, All-Madden Super Bowl team and the Colts' 50th Anniversary All-Time Team.
Today, he's a man at a crossroads, dealing with the early symptoms of a medical condition that has risen to the forefront in the NFL the past five years: an injury to the brain.
At first, his children and other family members observed little things in his behavior — increased forgetfulness from a man who was always disciplined and organized, and instability in his work situation from a businessman whose acumen in apartment real estate had earned him a small fortune.
"He's very bright and he's very disarming," said Clay Curtis, a former college lacrosse player at Duke and now in the private jet charter business. "He's always been impeccably dressed and well-groomed. But I began noticing things relating to day-to-day activities and responsibilities of life. I'd get calls from people around the country who he was staying with. He really didn't have his own place, more like a gypsy and that wasn't like him."
Clay and wife Lauren, a St. Petersburg attorney, also noticed he seemed to have a problem concentrating "I think that over time we've all been concerned just to make sure about his ability to focus and his short-term memory," she said.
The couple had read about the stories relating to the NFL concussion issue. But the light bulb came on in early November of last year when Lauren's brother-in-law John Skemp called to say he had heard about something called the "88 Plan" — a support program for NFL veterans coping with problems related to injuries from their playing days — on a sports talk radio show in Tampa.
That very same day, Curtis' sister Karen Norris called from her home in South Florida to say she'd read about the plan in a newspaper report. Curtis happened to be coming to town soon to celebrate Thanksgiving with Clay and Lauren and their three young children. To his son and daughter-in-law, the uncanny timing seemed like a sign. They decided it was the perfect opportunity to confront the issue.
First, they set out to learn more about the "88 Plan." The program grew out of the prolonged struggles of Curtis' former Colts teammate, Hall of Fame tight end John Mackey, whose severe dementia eventually led him into a full-time assisted living facility.
Initially, Mackey had been declined disability because the NFL Players Association didn't recognize the connection between football and brain trauma. But in 2007, the NFLPA and NFL introduced the "88 Plan," named after Mackey's jersey number. The initiative allows for two options: either $88,000 a year for care in a supervised facility or $50,000 per year in home care assistance.
Still, Curtis' family wasn't sure what was happening, only that something seemed amiss. In addition, in a relatively short span, he had watched a handful of close friends from his football and sporting circles fall seriously ill or pass away. His marriage of 28 years — a union that produced three children, sons Clay and Ryan and daughter Caitlyn — ended. And his beloved dog died as well.
"I think he went into a tailspin a little bit," Clay said. By November of last year, the family's concern had grown strong enough to arrange for a full evaluation of Curtis — made possible by the "88 Plan" — at the University of South Florida's Department of Psychiatry and Behavior Medicine.
Curtis insisted that he felt fine. He explained that he never suffered a diagnosed concussion during his career, and that he had his "bell rung only once."
In that NFL era, of course, players routinely toughed out hits to the head, and Curtis was as tough as they came, often playing in pain — once with a thumb that had been broken the week before, then placed in a cast after surgery days later — without giving it a second thought.
Now he talks openly about his evaluation at USF, injecting his account with the usual dose of low-key humor and matter-of-fact delivery.
"I had a physical to see if I had a loose brain," he said. "I didn't have any ego issues with going. It was an eight-hour physical and they saw certain signs that the brain had scar tissue or something in it. That was a sign, theoretically, that you're a head case."
The report noted that Curtis denied any cognitive problems, but acknowledged feeling angry and depressed over recent years and having difficulty in managing his finances. Among the battery of tests performed, his memory scores revealed significant impairment. Then there were the words that shook the family, even as Curtis himself shook them off: "Test data are consistent with dementia."
"Put it this way, if I had scar issue, it didn't affect my business up until a year or so earlier," he said. "I didn't notice any difference. I'm trying to think whether there's any difference now."
Nonetheless, doctors recommended a medical regimen to assist with memory impairment and suggested that Curtis and his family start discussing long-term health care planning.
Suddenly, where he would live to get the necessary medical support and proper monitoring — and how he would afford it over the long term — had become a pressing question.
The answer, in its own way, came from the path blazed by ailing former teammate Mackey — a man whose 75-yard touchdown reception in Super Bowl V had preceded Curtis' game-changing interception in the Colts' championship win. Armed with the results of the "88 Plan" evaluation at USF, the family contacted the NFL's Player Care Foundation, aided by player outreach expert Mitchell Welch. That set the wheels in motion for Curtis to be considered as a candidate for long-term care by the league.
"My understanding is that in many of the cases, it's very hard to see evidence of injuries to the brain," Lauren said. "But this case was clear and they could see it. He qualified to be under care for the long term. They don't know how it will progress, so we have the base line and will do follow ups."
Mackey died at age 69 this past July. By then, Curtis had already relocated to St. Petersburg, living in comfortable quarters, opting for the $50,000 in annual support provided by the "88 Plan."
"Everyone involved in assisting my father was incredibly helpful," Clay said. "From the NFL Player Care Foundation to the '88 Plan' to the staff at USF, they all were top notch. USF worked him in right away and had the results in a matter of weeks. It made going through such a difficult experience much easier to deal with."
And helped a gridiron great begin to make his way in an uncertain new game.
*****
He lives today on a top floor in a high-rise complex. Many of the residents are older and in need of managed care. They have no clue about the big man with the broad shoulders who smiles at them in the lobby or holds the elevator door for them, sliding to the side to make room for walkers or wheelchairs.
Unlike the assisted living population around him, Curtis comes and goes in an independent living setting. His apartment on a top floor of the building is spacious and filled with images of his life in and out of the game.
In addition to the myriad football honors and tributes hanging on virtually every wall, there are other mementoes: a letter of sympathy from then-Maryland Governor Spiro T. Agnew when Curtis' mother passed away; his late father's Army cot from his World War II service in the Philippines, vintage photos from his hometown of Rockville, Md. — and even plaques and medals from an Arthur Murray Studio event five years ago for his standout moves in the Tango, Closed Rhumba, Open Swing, Samba and Viennese Waltz. Always the competitor, in any pursuit.
"I'd like to get back to it — I've just been moving around too much," he said.
In a small study overlooking a picture window to the gulf, he often checks his schedule of autograph show appearances on a new laptop, or converses with the Naples-based managers he and his family have hired to help keep his affairs organized and book his autograph shows.
Curtis is thrilled with his new digs. When he's in town, he loves spending time visiting with Clay and Lauren and their three children. The man who cultivated the image of an animal on the field is a big softy around his grandchildren, playing with their pet guinea pigs, and often attending their Little League and flag football games and school performances.
His lifeline is a white SUV he relies upon to stay moving — revealing the same independent streak that has defined him in every pursuit he's undertaken. But now there's an underlying restlessness and desire to remain active and productive. Much of the time, he heads to the DC area or other points north for various events, like a recent a high school reunion, a Redskins "Hogettes" charity golf tournament, an appearance at a car show and a Cal Ripken function outside of Baltimore.
All the while, he gets by on support from the NFL on the "88 Plan" and whatever he can earn from his memorabilia and autograph ventures.
That leads back to his quest to earn admission to the Hall of Fame. He believes he has credentials worthy of Canton. So do others, starting with his former head coach, Shula.
Contacted at his home in Palm Springs, Calif., the former Colts and Dolphins coaching legend was unequivocal in his support of Curtis.
"Mike was just such a special talent," Shula said by phone. "For size and speed and toughness, intelligence, I would rank him with anybody I've ever had the opportunity to coach.
"Originally, I thought he was going to be an offensive player. I tried to make him a fullback. But I found out in a hurry that that wasn't going to work. He just belonged on defense. He was a very smart guy and just a gentleman in everything you'd want in a young man. Then when the game started, he turned on that other side that was a ferocious defensive football player."
As for a place in the Hall, Shula added, "I just think Mike had such a great career that in my mind, it's only a matter of time until the selection committee decides to put him in. I do believe he had a Hall of Fame career as a linebacker for me."
One of Shula's most distinct memories of Curtis happened almost 40 years ago, on Dec. 11, 1971. It wasn't from a hit he delivered to an opposing player, but to the inebriated fan who dashed onto the Memorial Stadium field in a big game against the Miami Dolphins, the team that Shula had moved to by then.
"I think it's the last time a fan ran onto the field in any game Mike was playing," Shula said with a chuckle.
Curtis has been asked about the play constantly over the years, and always relates the inside story of what happened.
"I was the captain of the team, and we had to beat Miami to get to the playoffs," he recalled. "And this guy comes running out and picks up the football and is gonna run around with it. They couldn't catch him, and the refs kind of herded him. Well, he took all the momentum out of the team. So when I saw that, I just went over and popped him — and popped the ball out — and we went on and won. I didn't hurt him. He was laughing on the way down."
Three years ago, Curtis learned for the first time from his good friend from high school, Duke roommate and best man, Kenny Tuchtan, what had actually spurred the incident.
"Kenny told me he was sitting next to this guy and he told him, 'You know, Mike would love to have you run out on the field and get that football. He didn't want to tell me that all those years because he thought I'd be mad. Heck, I didn't care. Somebody even tried to stage a 40th reunion with me and this guy last summer, but I guess they couldn't hold him down."
Curtis and Shula shared a far more serious link in NFL history two years earlier in Super Bowl III. The young linebacker was a key member of the powerful Colts, who had gone 13-1 and destroyed the Cleveland Browns 34-0 in the NFL title game. That set the stage for showdown with the upstart New York Jets of the fledgling AFL, and their brash young quarterback Joe Namath, who predicted the week of the game that the Jets would knock off heavily favored Baltimore.
It was actually the first NFL-AFL championship officially dubbed "The Super Bowl" — and Curtis still gets aggravated thinking about the historic upset January 12, 1969 at Miami's Orange Bowl: Jets 16, Colts 7.
"That's my worst memory — that affected me the rest of my career and it still does affect me," he said. "We were so much better. We were favored to win by 18 points and we'd smashed everybody throughout the year. It was a good group of guys. And losing was the most painful thing I ever went through. It took away from everything else I did in sports."
One man who stared into those menacing eyes from the other side of the line of scrimmage in Super Bowl III counts himself as a Curtis supporter today.
"Are you kidding?" said Namath, reached at his Palm Beach, Fla. home. "His motor was always running full speed ahead. I don't know how many times we played against one another. But certainly, each time in preparation for the game, you'd look at films and I was just always tickled with his enthusiasm, the way he was just no quit and playing with a smile on his face — kind of a vicious smile. I just really appreciated his all-out effort every time we played."
That was never more true than in the Super Bowl.
"Naturally, he was the focus of my attention," Namath said. "I know he came close to grabbing me a couple of times, but we had the right plays on. In the end, I just think we may have had a little more urgent edge than they did, coming off a 34-0 championship game win."
Namath's ultimate take on Curtis: "I would love to have had him as a teammate. I know he could play for anybody's team, any time. In terms of great players that I have seen, and played with or against, Mike is right up there. I have that kind of respect for him. And as far as making the Hall of Fame, Mike could go in there with his head up — and no one would be surprised to see him there with the guys."
The selection process of a senior hall of fame inductee is an involved one. Nine members of the overall selection committee — drawing from a pool of veteran football writers — consider players whose careers have been over for at least 25 years. They receive a list of preliminary nominees by June 1, including carry-over nominees from the previous year, first-time eligible nominees and nominations from outside sources.
From that initial list, the number is whittled down to 15 by mail. Then five committee members meet in Canton, where they reduce the list to just two candidates to be among the 17 finalists for Hall of Fame election. Two senior consultants, considered contemporaries of the nominees, are brought in to advise in that process, but do not vote.
The final voting for all nominees, modern and senior, takes place the day before the Super Bowl. The sessions often get heated as presenters make their cases and the full group weighs in. Every nominee, regardless of era, must ultimately receive a minimum 80 percent of the vote to earn a place in the Hall.
That's the standard Curtis must meet. Though he missed the deadline to be considered this past June, the push is in a big way for June 2012. He and his family have tried to bolster his candidacy with those 35-plus endorsement letters.
Some supporters have signed form letters. Others, such as Staubach, who faced Curtis while playing for Navy and the Dallas Cowboys, have written their own notes: "Mike is one of the great football players and was a fantastic linebacker. ... He played the game quick, tough and smart."
Or this from Ditka: "He was as good as any linebacker I ever played against." On the back of another envelope reads the words "Good luck Mike!" — penned by Winslow.
While he keeps his sights set on a home in the Hall, Curtis continues to adjust to his new home here on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.
He talks about one day becoming a veterinarian's assistant. He'd like to travel more, returning to the wide open spaces of the West he loves so much. He says he feels just fine, no matter what the studies indicate. Mostly, he wants to stay busy.
"I need a job, because I don't just like to sit here and do nothing," he said.
He keeps in shape pumping iron at a local gym, where sometimes he draws second looks from football diehards who know they've seen that face somewhere.
He gladly adds dates to his appearance schedule as new bookings come in. Then he hits the road for the next trip north, whether to visit old friends or mingle with fans who remember the exploits of Mad Dog Mike Curtis.
It is a road he must ultimately travel now to an unknown destination, dreaming that one of the stops in the journey will finally and forever be in Canton.
Tags: NFL, Indianapolis Colts, Baltimore Colts, Mike Curtis
Mike Curtis strives for Canton facing new foe
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Dave Scheiber is a general assignment columnist for FOXSports and FOX Sports Florida, bringing fans an inside look at major stories around the state, focusing on the Rays, Bucs, Lightning, USF and human interest profiles across the sports spectrum.
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November 30, 2011
“I just think Mike (Curtis) had such a great career that in my mind, it’s only a matter of time until the selection committee decides to put him in. I do believe he had a Hall of Fame career as a linebacker for me.”
— Hall of Fame coach Don Shula
“His motor was always running full speed ahead. I don’t know how many times we played against one another. But certainly, each time in preparation for the game, you’d look at films and I was just always tickled with his enthusiasm, the way he was just no quit and playing with a smile on his face -- kind of a vicious smile. I just really appreciated his all-out effort every time we played.”
— Hall of Fame Jets QB Joe Namath
SOUTH PASADENA, Fla. -- A huge closet in the hall of his spacious apartment holds pieces of history for an iconic name from National Football League past.
Shelves hold an array of inscribed footballs for former Baltimore Colts linebacker Mike Curtis — a cornerstone of the great defenses forged by a young head coach named Don Shula, a player renowned for his hard-nosed, relentless style of play that helped carry the Colts into Super Bowls III and V. He is also known for famously flattening a drunken fan who'd dashed onto the field and began running with the football much to his instant regret.
"Colts 24, Rams 17, Presented to Mike Curtis 11/8/71" reads one ball.
Another bears the words "Colts 18, Patriots 13, Dec. 13, 1973, Mike Curtis, Defensive Team Captain."
There's a prized pigskin from the "Expansion Bowl" when the Seattle Seahawks beat the Tampa Bay Bucs 13-10 on Oct. 17, 1976, late in his stellar 14-year career.
Beside it is one from Oct. 9, 1977: "Redskins 10, Bucs 0" — a standout game for Curtis during his final NFL stint playing for his hometown Redskins.
The shelves feature all kinds of memorabilia from the playing days of old No. 32 — bobbleheads, keepsakes from his dominating high school days at Richard Montgomery in Rockville, Md., his All-America days at Duke University, worn pairs of cleats, a Colts Player of the Year Trophy and more.
"I didn't know what I had until we started opening up all these boxes," he said on a recent day from his high-rise home overlooking the Gulf of Mexico.
At 68, his brawny 6-3, 240-pound frame is still imposing, and his chiseled facial features, wavy brown hair and rugged good looks suggest a mild resemblance to an actor in a framed black-and-white photo hanging inside the closet: The Duke. John Wayne.
"The older I get, the more I look like him," Curtis added with a smile, hazel eyes sparkling behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
The hall and the adjoining walls bear even more awards, honors and photos, showcasing a player uniformly regarded as one of the toughest and best linebackers of his generation, a no-nonsense Colt captain appropriately nicknamed "Mad Dog."
But to date, his exploits have not found him a place in the hall he thinks most about these days — the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio.
Curtis admits he never spent a lot of time after his retirement following the 1978 season thinking about having a bronze bust in Canton. Though his name appeared regularly on the ballot following the mandatory five-year waiting period, his vote totals always fell shy of induction. He had no interest in politicking or lobbying friends or sportswriters.
Besides, he was already off and running on a new pursuit — channeling the competitive fire that fueled his football prowess into real estate, establishing himself in a league of his own buying and selling apartment complexes in Virginia, Maryland and DC.
"At one point I sold more apartments than anyone in the nation," he said. "First, I had to learn more than anybody about apartments, and I spent a lot of time doing that. I just liked the competition. It was all about pushing the envelope and being the best in your field."
But why did a player widely regarded as one of the best on the field for more than a decade never get the ultimate recognition of his sport?
One of Curtis' old Duke teammates, Sonny Odom, wondered that as well. And about two-and-a-half years ago, Odom began an informal campaign to get his friend elected as a senior nominee.
During a visit to the Hall around that time, talking to friends who'd been enshrined, Curtis began to realize how much induction meant to him after all, and felt that his accomplishments made him worthy of the honor.
"I started to pay more attention to it, and I went into the warehouse to get these boxes that I had packed away 40 years ago," he said. "When I opened them, I was like, 'Gee whiz, I didn't know I did all that.' I just never paid too much attention."
The treasure trove of football achievements — including his status as the only NFL player named All-Pro at both middle and outside linebacker — spurred the efforts on behalf of Curtis to open the doors to a place in the Hall.
Spearheaded by Odom, his management team and family members, including oldest son Clay Curtis and daughter-in-law Lauren Curtis of St. Petersburg, Fla., the push has gone into overdrive. They have solicited and received more than 35 letters from Hall of Fame players and contemporaries of Curtis, recommending him for nomination.
The roll call reads like a Who's Who: Don Shula, Joe Namath, Roger Staubach, Mike Ditka, Gino Marchetti, Ozzie Newsome, Lem Barney, Jim Otto, Bobby Mitchell, Paul Hornung, Lenny Moore, Art Donovan, Charlie Sanders ...
And the list goes on … Fran Tarkenton, Sonny Jurgensen, Bob Lilly, LeRoy Kelly, Mel Blount, Nick Buoniconti, Mike McCormack, Harry Carson, Kellen Winslow, Dave Wilcox, Mel Renfro, Ronnie Lott, Chris Hanburger ...
Throughout the effort, those closest to Curtis — his family, a handful of friends and his managers — have been motivated by another factor beyond the former linebacker's many accomplishments and unknown to those whose endorsements they have solicited.
It has to do with why Curtis moved to the St. Petersburg area last year in the first place. He had bounced from DC to Dallas to Idaho, where he lived with friends and hoped to make a go of it selling ranches and make a fresh start in the great outdoors he'd always loved.
Or perhaps he would pursue an early dream at Duke of becoming a veterinarian.
But little by little, something was clouding the picture — something virtually imperceptible to anyone who didn't know Curtis well.
Finding him a home near family gradually became a priority — and with that came a heightened sense of purpose in finding him a home among pro football's immortals.
*****
You wouldn't know anything was different from a casual conversation. Mike Curtis never misses a chance to inject his dry, self-effacing sense of humor into whatever subject is at hand. He weaves in vivid, detailed references to games he played in and the many colorful personalities he played with and against.
He's an avid reader, a history buff whose collection on a living room shelf includes such varied books as “The History of China,” “Men, Ships and the Sea” and “Butkus: Flesh and Blood.”
In fact, he always looked at education as a competition, just like football — signing up for 21 credits with a pre-med focus as a Duke freshman, before realizing he had gotten in way over his head with the academic load. But that was his approach to life: taking on any challenge full-tilt.
Contrary to his reputation as a guy with a well-defined mean streak, Curtis conveys a sense of charm and amiability, packaged in a plain-spoken manner. He attributes the dual nature of his personality to his parents — the gritty, "strapped T-shirt" father from the DC area who never ran from a fight, and the refined, kind-hearted mother from Norfolk, Va., whose family could trace its heritage back to a relative who signed the Declaration of Independence.
Sitting with his daughter-in-law Lauren at a local eatery on a recent morning, Curtis noticed a little boy in a Tampa Bay Rays jersey as he walked by the booth with his mother — and stops in mid-sentence to give the child a thumbs-up and smile.
Obviously, the youngster and his mom had no way of knowing the friendly greeting came from a man whose interception in Super Bowl V set up Jim O'Brien's game-winning field goal in the final seconds to defeat the Dallas Cowboys 16-13.
Or that he was the former No. 1 pick by Baltimore in 1965 who went on to finish with 25 career interceptions and earn such lifetime honors as AFC Defensive Player of the Year, a spot on the All-time, All-Madden Super Bowl team and the Colts' 50th Anniversary All-Time Team.
Today, he's a man at a crossroads, dealing with the early symptoms of a medical condition that has risen to the forefront in the NFL the past five years: an injury to the brain.
At first, his children and other family members observed little things in his behavior — increased forgetfulness from a man who was always disciplined and organized, and instability in his work situation from a businessman whose acumen in apartment real estate had earned him a small fortune.
"He's very bright and he's very disarming," said Clay Curtis, a former college lacrosse player at Duke and now in the private jet charter business. "He's always been impeccably dressed and well-groomed. But I began noticing things relating to day-to-day activities and responsibilities of life. I'd get calls from people around the country who he was staying with. He really didn't have his own place, more like a gypsy and that wasn't like him."
Clay and wife Lauren, a St. Petersburg attorney, also noticed he seemed to have a problem concentrating "I think that over time we've all been concerned just to make sure about his ability to focus and his short-term memory," she said.
The couple had read about the stories relating to the NFL concussion issue. But the light bulb came on in early November of last year when Lauren's brother-in-law John Skemp called to say he had heard about something called the "88 Plan" — a support program for NFL veterans coping with problems related to injuries from their playing days — on a sports talk radio show in Tampa.
That very same day, Curtis' sister Karen Norris called from her home in South Florida to say she'd read about the plan in a newspaper report. Curtis happened to be coming to town soon to celebrate Thanksgiving with Clay and Lauren and their three young children. To his son and daughter-in-law, the uncanny timing seemed like a sign. They decided it was the perfect opportunity to confront the issue.
First, they set out to learn more about the "88 Plan." The program grew out of the prolonged struggles of Curtis' former Colts teammate, Hall of Fame tight end John Mackey, whose severe dementia eventually led him into a full-time assisted living facility.
Initially, Mackey had been declined disability because the NFL Players Association didn't recognize the connection between football and brain trauma. But in 2007, the NFLPA and NFL introduced the "88 Plan," named after Mackey's jersey number. The initiative allows for two options: either $88,000 a year for care in a supervised facility or $50,000 per year in home care assistance.
Still, Curtis' family wasn't sure what was happening, only that something seemed amiss. In addition, in a relatively short span, he had watched a handful of close friends from his football and sporting circles fall seriously ill or pass away. His marriage of 28 years — a union that produced three children, sons Clay and Ryan and daughter Caitlyn — ended. And his beloved dog died as well.
"I think he went into a tailspin a little bit," Clay said. By November of last year, the family's concern had grown strong enough to arrange for a full evaluation of Curtis — made possible by the "88 Plan" — at the University of South Florida's Department of Psychiatry and Behavior Medicine.
Curtis insisted that he felt fine. He explained that he never suffered a diagnosed concussion during his career, and that he had his "bell rung only once."
In that NFL era, of course, players routinely toughed out hits to the head, and Curtis was as tough as they came, often playing in pain — once with a thumb that had been broken the week before, then placed in a cast after surgery days later — without giving it a second thought.
Now he talks openly about his evaluation at USF, injecting his account with the usual dose of low-key humor and matter-of-fact delivery.
"I had a physical to see if I had a loose brain," he said. "I didn't have any ego issues with going. It was an eight-hour physical and they saw certain signs that the brain had scar tissue or something in it. That was a sign, theoretically, that you're a head case."
The report noted that Curtis denied any cognitive problems, but acknowledged feeling angry and depressed over recent years and having difficulty in managing his finances. Among the battery of tests performed, his memory scores revealed significant impairment. Then there were the words that shook the family, even as Curtis himself shook them off: "Test data are consistent with dementia."
"Put it this way, if I had scar issue, it didn't affect my business up until a year or so earlier," he said. "I didn't notice any difference. I'm trying to think whether there's any difference now."
Nonetheless, doctors recommended a medical regimen to assist with memory impairment and suggested that Curtis and his family start discussing long-term health care planning.
Suddenly, where he would live to get the necessary medical support and proper monitoring — and how he would afford it over the long term — had become a pressing question.
The answer, in its own way, came from the path blazed by ailing former teammate Mackey — a man whose 75-yard touchdown reception in Super Bowl V had preceded Curtis' game-changing interception in the Colts' championship win. Armed with the results of the "88 Plan" evaluation at USF, the family contacted the NFL's Player Care Foundation, aided by player outreach expert Mitchell Welch. That set the wheels in motion for Curtis to be considered as a candidate for long-term care by the league.
"My understanding is that in many of the cases, it's very hard to see evidence of injuries to the brain," Lauren said. "But this case was clear and they could see it. He qualified to be under care for the long term. They don't know how it will progress, so we have the base line and will do follow ups."
Mackey died at age 69 this past July. By then, Curtis had already relocated to St. Petersburg, living in comfortable quarters, opting for the $50,000 in annual support provided by the "88 Plan."
"Everyone involved in assisting my father was incredibly helpful," Clay said. "From the NFL Player Care Foundation to the '88 Plan' to the staff at USF, they all were top notch. USF worked him in right away and had the results in a matter of weeks. It made going through such a difficult experience much easier to deal with."
And helped a gridiron great begin to make his way in an uncertain new game.
*****
He lives today on a top floor in a high-rise complex. Many of the residents are older and in need of managed care. They have no clue about the big man with the broad shoulders who smiles at them in the lobby or holds the elevator door for them, sliding to the side to make room for walkers or wheelchairs.
Unlike the assisted living population around him, Curtis comes and goes in an independent living setting. His apartment on a top floor of the building is spacious and filled with images of his life in and out of the game.
In addition to the myriad football honors and tributes hanging on virtually every wall, there are other mementoes: a letter of sympathy from then-Maryland Governor Spiro T. Agnew when Curtis' mother passed away; his late father's Army cot from his World War II service in the Philippines, vintage photos from his hometown of Rockville, Md. — and even plaques and medals from an Arthur Murray Studio event five years ago for his standout moves in the Tango, Closed Rhumba, Open Swing, Samba and Viennese Waltz. Always the competitor, in any pursuit.
"I'd like to get back to it — I've just been moving around too much," he said.
In a small study overlooking a picture window to the gulf, he often checks his schedule of autograph show appearances on a new laptop, or converses with the Naples-based managers he and his family have hired to help keep his affairs organized and book his autograph shows.
Curtis is thrilled with his new digs. When he's in town, he loves spending time visiting with Clay and Lauren and their three children. The man who cultivated the image of an animal on the field is a big softy around his grandchildren, playing with their pet guinea pigs, and often attending their Little League and flag football games and school performances.
His lifeline is a white SUV he relies upon to stay moving — revealing the same independent streak that has defined him in every pursuit he's undertaken. But now there's an underlying restlessness and desire to remain active and productive. Much of the time, he heads to the DC area or other points north for various events, like a recent a high school reunion, a Redskins "Hogettes" charity golf tournament, an appearance at a car show and a Cal Ripken function outside of Baltimore.
All the while, he gets by on support from the NFL on the "88 Plan" and whatever he can earn from his memorabilia and autograph ventures.
That leads back to his quest to earn admission to the Hall of Fame. He believes he has credentials worthy of Canton. So do others, starting with his former head coach, Shula.
Contacted at his home in Palm Springs, Calif., the former Colts and Dolphins coaching legend was unequivocal in his support of Curtis.
"Mike was just such a special talent," Shula said by phone. "For size and speed and toughness, intelligence, I would rank him with anybody I've ever had the opportunity to coach.
"Originally, I thought he was going to be an offensive player. I tried to make him a fullback. But I found out in a hurry that that wasn't going to work. He just belonged on defense. He was a very smart guy and just a gentleman in everything you'd want in a young man. Then when the game started, he turned on that other side that was a ferocious defensive football player."
As for a place in the Hall, Shula added, "I just think Mike had such a great career that in my mind, it's only a matter of time until the selection committee decides to put him in. I do believe he had a Hall of Fame career as a linebacker for me."
One of Shula's most distinct memories of Curtis happened almost 40 years ago, on Dec. 11, 1971. It wasn't from a hit he delivered to an opposing player, but to the inebriated fan who dashed onto the Memorial Stadium field in a big game against the Miami Dolphins, the team that Shula had moved to by then.
"I think it's the last time a fan ran onto the field in any game Mike was playing," Shula said with a chuckle.
Curtis has been asked about the play constantly over the years, and always relates the inside story of what happened.
"I was the captain of the team, and we had to beat Miami to get to the playoffs," he recalled. "And this guy comes running out and picks up the football and is gonna run around with it. They couldn't catch him, and the refs kind of herded him. Well, he took all the momentum out of the team. So when I saw that, I just went over and popped him — and popped the ball out — and we went on and won. I didn't hurt him. He was laughing on the way down."
Three years ago, Curtis learned for the first time from his good friend from high school, Duke roommate and best man, Kenny Tuchtan, what had actually spurred the incident.
"Kenny told me he was sitting next to this guy and he told him, 'You know, Mike would love to have you run out on the field and get that football. He didn't want to tell me that all those years because he thought I'd be mad. Heck, I didn't care. Somebody even tried to stage a 40th reunion with me and this guy last summer, but I guess they couldn't hold him down."
Curtis and Shula shared a far more serious link in NFL history two years earlier in Super Bowl III. The young linebacker was a key member of the powerful Colts, who had gone 13-1 and destroyed the Cleveland Browns 34-0 in the NFL title game. That set the stage for showdown with the upstart New York Jets of the fledgling AFL, and their brash young quarterback Joe Namath, who predicted the week of the game that the Jets would knock off heavily favored Baltimore.
It was actually the first NFL-AFL championship officially dubbed "The Super Bowl" — and Curtis still gets aggravated thinking about the historic upset January 12, 1969 at Miami's Orange Bowl: Jets 16, Colts 7.
"That's my worst memory — that affected me the rest of my career and it still does affect me," he said. "We were so much better. We were favored to win by 18 points and we'd smashed everybody throughout the year. It was a good group of guys. And losing was the most painful thing I ever went through. It took away from everything else I did in sports."
One man who stared into those menacing eyes from the other side of the line of scrimmage in Super Bowl III counts himself as a Curtis supporter today.
"Are you kidding?" said Namath, reached at his Palm Beach, Fla. home. "His motor was always running full speed ahead. I don't know how many times we played against one another. But certainly, each time in preparation for the game, you'd look at films and I was just always tickled with his enthusiasm, the way he was just no quit and playing with a smile on his face — kind of a vicious smile. I just really appreciated his all-out effort every time we played."
That was never more true than in the Super Bowl.
"Naturally, he was the focus of my attention," Namath said. "I know he came close to grabbing me a couple of times, but we had the right plays on. In the end, I just think we may have had a little more urgent edge than they did, coming off a 34-0 championship game win."
Namath's ultimate take on Curtis: "I would love to have had him as a teammate. I know he could play for anybody's team, any time. In terms of great players that I have seen, and played with or against, Mike is right up there. I have that kind of respect for him. And as far as making the Hall of Fame, Mike could go in there with his head up — and no one would be surprised to see him there with the guys."
The selection process of a senior hall of fame inductee is an involved one. Nine members of the overall selection committee — drawing from a pool of veteran football writers — consider players whose careers have been over for at least 25 years. They receive a list of preliminary nominees by June 1, including carry-over nominees from the previous year, first-time eligible nominees and nominations from outside sources.
From that initial list, the number is whittled down to 15 by mail. Then five committee members meet in Canton, where they reduce the list to just two candidates to be among the 17 finalists for Hall of Fame election. Two senior consultants, considered contemporaries of the nominees, are brought in to advise in that process, but do not vote.
The final voting for all nominees, modern and senior, takes place the day before the Super Bowl. The sessions often get heated as presenters make their cases and the full group weighs in. Every nominee, regardless of era, must ultimately receive a minimum 80 percent of the vote to earn a place in the Hall.
That's the standard Curtis must meet. Though he missed the deadline to be considered this past June, the push is in a big way for June 2012. He and his family have tried to bolster his candidacy with those 35-plus endorsement letters.
Some supporters have signed form letters. Others, such as Staubach, who faced Curtis while playing for Navy and the Dallas Cowboys, have written their own notes: "Mike is one of the great football players and was a fantastic linebacker. ... He played the game quick, tough and smart."
Or this from Ditka: "He was as good as any linebacker I ever played against." On the back of another envelope reads the words "Good luck Mike!" — penned by Winslow.
While he keeps his sights set on a home in the Hall, Curtis continues to adjust to his new home here on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.
He talks about one day becoming a veterinarian's assistant. He'd like to travel more, returning to the wide open spaces of the West he loves so much. He says he feels just fine, no matter what the studies indicate. Mostly, he wants to stay busy.
"I need a job, because I don't just like to sit here and do nothing," he said.
He keeps in shape pumping iron at a local gym, where sometimes he draws second looks from football diehards who know they've seen that face somewhere.
He gladly adds dates to his appearance schedule as new bookings come in. Then he hits the road for the next trip north, whether to visit old friends or mingle with fans who remember the exploits of Mad Dog Mike Curtis.
It is a road he must ultimately travel now to an unknown destination, dreaming that one of the stops in the journey will finally and forever be in Canton.
Tags: NFL, Indianapolis Colts, Baltimore Colts, Mike Curtis
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