An Army of One

Back in the day, the great Mercury Morris ran nearly as fast as his mythological namesake.

An integral part of the fabled 1972 Miami Dolphins' 17-0 perfect season, he earned a spot in pro football's Hall of Fame record books with fellow Dolphin Larry Csonka by being the first tandem backs to gain 1,000 yards in NFL history. Second in NFL history among running backs, he averaged of 5.14 yards per carry.

Morris was one of the most feared men in the backfield, capable of scoring anywhere, anytime.

Well, the NFL should fear him again.

This time he wages a war for himself and the rights of hundreds of other NFL alum who have, in Morris' view, been denied their rightful retirement benefits.

It all stems from the day Mercury Morris broke his neck:

"Morris knows the moment... It came on a Monday Night Football game in 1973 when he was tackled by the Steelers' Mel Blount on the hard artificial turf in Miami. He landed with his body twisted back and Blount falling on top of him.... That night, the Dolphins' team doctor took X-rays and told him he had a sprained neck -- an injury through which he played the rest of the season. It wasn't until after the season was over and he had to take a thorough physical in San Diego for the Pro Bowl that the doctors noticed something was wrong. The AFC coach, John Madden, was the one who had to tell him he had two cracked vertebrae in his neck...The California doctors told Morris he had to wear a neck brace for six weeks or face serious long-term problems. But when he got back to Miami the doctor told him the Pro Bowl physicians had overreacted and he didn't need the brace at all, Morris said. Conditioned by years of treating team doctors' word as gospel, Morris took off his brace and left it in the doctor's office."

Six years later, he would finally have surgery to repair his broken neck. When, as a result, he tried to get disability benefits from the NFL retirement plan, he was turned down.

But Morris read the fine print and has spent the last twenty years fighting for what he's due, fearlessly facing down an intransigent NFL. When recalling the Wall Street Journal article from a couple years ago in which the plan's lawyers bragged about how many claims they've successfully shut down, Morris gets angry:

"It's the principle. The money will be the prize. I would have dropped out a long time ago if it was about the money."

Morris still loves football. But he loves justice too:

"You know, I'm going to win. I can't let these guys get away with it."

We football fans count down the days to the Super Bowl so we can be thrilled, between swigs of beer and handfuls of Doritos, by the bone-crushing, body-bending theatrics of our favorite team.

But Morris' one-man crusade reminds us that there's a price to be paid for that entertainment.

And it should come out of the NFL's pocket, not just the players' hides.