Derek Sheely's head was bleeding—again.
It was August 2011, and Sheely, a fullback for Frostburg State's football team, was in the middle of ramming his helmet into his teammates, over and over again, on his coaches' orders. (Specifically, Sheely and his teammates were performing a variation of the "Oklahoma drill," which requires two players to run full speed at each other, until one ends up victorious and the other ends up on the ground.)
But it was the fourth time in three days that a wound on Sheely's head had re-opened, and he was suffering a headache, he reportedly told his coach.
The coach's alleged response? "Stop your bitching and moaning, and quit acting like a pussy and get back out there, Sheely!"
Sheely collapsed a few minutes later, and died within the week.
The post-mortem diagnosis: Brain trauma.
NFL vs. NCAA: Why College Players Have It So Rough
The sad story of Derek Sheely began to emerge last week, after Sheely's family filed a lawsuit against the NCAA and several officials at Frostburg State. The timing was interesting; it came just before a settlement in the NFL concussion case made front-page news and wound down that legal front, at least for now. And although the two stories are nominally connected, given their focus on brain injuries, they're actually quite different in details and scope.
First, the NFL settlement itself illustrated that while the league controls the balance of power, its athletes possess a share of leverage—a well-funded group of ex-players were able to go toe-to-toe with the NFL and put the fear of God, or at least billions of dollars in potential losses, into Commissioner Roger Goodell.
And NFL players, too, are acting as working professionals—making an informed judgment to chase dollars, despite potential health hazards—under a collective bargaining agreement negotiated by a strong union.
None of that holds true within the NCAA.
There's no union lobbying on athletes' behalf. In most cases, a coach isn't just the man trying to lead a player to victory on the football field; he's the guarantor of that player's scholarship, too.
It's why even President Obama has called for health and safety reforms to the sport.
But college officials have largely fought these efforts, instead relying on several tired gambits to protect the NCAA—an umbrella organization, keep in mind, that was founded a century ago to protect players, not to make money off of them.
For instance, the NCAA continues to use the ambiguous term "student-athlete," a clever legal maneuver designed to help avoid paying worker's comp.
The NCAA also has tossed the responsibility for head injury prevention and care to its member schools, which are supposed to come up with a "concussion plan" to manage and mitigate potential head injuries.
That plan is famously toothless. And that lack of controls may have helped lead to Sheely's death.
Smaller Schools, Bigger Risks?
As part of their lawsuit, Sheely's family wants to change how the NCAA treats concussions--to ensure that no athlete with a head injury is allowed to return to the field without being cleared by medical personnel.
The family notes their own son wasn't so lucky; while Sheely needed to be bandaged several times over the course of practice that week in 2011, and had a history of brain trauma (he'd had a concussion the previous season), he was never checked for another brain injury. Even as coaches were pushing him to perform the "Oklahoma" drill, a famously brutal and, yes, sometimes bloody test.
(Note a small, sad irony: At this point, football programs like Oklahoma—which last year brought in $58 million in revenue for its university—probably wouldn't be able to let a visibly bleeding player continue to practice, let alone one who complained of symptoms. There are too many coaches, too many school officials, too many sideline reporters, even during practice. Basically, there are too many people watching and there's too much at stake.
Big-time schools are quickly learning this the hard way. When Arizona came under fire for its handling of Matt Scott's concussions last year, the program drew considerable scrutiny—and within days, Arizona's athletic director was forced to take command of his coach's weekly press conference.)
But Frostburg State operates largely on the fringes. It's a D-3 school. The team went 3-7 last year. Its program brought in $530,000 in revenue—for the entire 2012 season. There was no roving gang of sideline reporters to hold coaches accountable.
Why does this matter? Because across the NCAA, there are many more Frostburg States, and schools like Eastern Illinois, and other smaller colleges—which have fewer resources and fewer incentives—to monitor injured athletes and invest in their health than perennial Top 10 programs like Oklahoma.
Hopefully, there won’t be many more Derek Sheelys. Or really, any more. College students shouldn’t have to bleed and die for their lives to mean something greater than a summer football practice.
