Unsinkable Culverhouse helping former players stay afloat

Doctors gave her five years to live. That was seven years ago.

Nobody ever said Gay Culverhouse isn't a fighter.

The 63-year-old former president of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers is taking 22 pills a day while undergoing chemotherapy to treat myelofibrosis, a bone marrow disorder she says stems from the World Trade Center attacks on Sept. 11, when she was walking her dog on the streets of New York City.

Culverhouse now focuses on fighting for others as the founder of the Players' Outreach Program, designed to help former National Football League players access health and disability benefits.

On Monday night, she will lead an informational meeting in Tampa that is expected to attract at least 150 former players, including many ex-Buccaneers.

"We're alerting all the players in the Florida area to come to this meeting," said Culverhouse, daughter of former Buccaneers owner Hugh Culverhouse. "I'm bringing them together to explain what their benefits are under the NFL plan ... what they are entitled to. The majority of players do not know the benefit packages that are sitting on the table, waiting for them to apply."

Culverhouse, who holds a doctorate in special education, has always been a champion for those in need.

"I look at this as a natural progression from what I started long ago," she said. "When I went to first grade, there were kids there who had suffered from polio. Those kids became my friends. They were interesting. They were old souls. They needed someone to open the door for them."

Jennifer Smith, a retired-player advocate living in Dallas, can't say enough about Culverhouse's dedication to the cause.

"She's seen it all from the owner's side and Gay's passion, resources and intelligence make her unstoppable," Smith said. "I don't think these players could have a better advocate."

In October, Culverhouse traveled to Washington to testify at a House Judiciary Committee hearing.

She suggested NFL teams should employ independent neurologists to ensure unbiased medical care, rather than relying on team doctors whose judgment is clouded by "vested interests."

Former Tampa Bay linebacker Scot Brantley, a member of the Players' Outreach Program's board of directors, is recovering from a stroke last year that affected his vision and short-term memory.

"Gay's a rebel with a cause," Brantley said. "She always wears her heart on her sleeve and I love people like that. She understands that her dad, as great a businessman as he was, wasn't a great owner. She wants to set things straight and this is her mission."

When this dynamic grandmother of six isn't breeding Paso Fino horses, she's reaching out to former players in need.

Culverhouse says the NFL, an $8 billion industry, should start taking player safety issues more seriously.

"The league has not responded to my efforts," she said. "Am I surprised? No. Would you want to give away that much money? If every player vested in the NFL accessed the funds for which they are entitled to, it could easily bankrupt the league."

As she researched her new manuscript, "Violence: The Underbelly of the NFL," Culverhouse became more aware of the debilitating effects of concussions on former players, marked by symptoms that didn't surface until decades after retirement.

Then she realized why struggling players are hesitant to go on the offensive.

"When you've been a hero in a town, when people have requested your autograph at the grocery store, those players are reluctant to come forward and be any less than the hero the fans remember," she said. "They're embarrassed they are in this situation. They are embarrassed they need help. They don't want you to know they're broke or can't remember your name."

Smith and Brantley are confident Culverhouse won't stop until her mission is complete.

Taking on country club, kidnapper

This isn't the first time she has taken on the establishment or seen her name in headlines.

Before she resigned from her three-year tenure as team president in 1994, Culverhouse had threatened to sue Palma Ceia Golf and Country Club for its refusal to allow her to use the Bucs' corporate membership because of her gender. She was president of the Bucs at a time when few women held executive positions in the male-dominated NFL.

In 1995, Culverhouse and her daughter were the targets of an elaborate kidnapping plot that was foiled only when she changed her routine by backing into her garage one evening.

"He's still in federal prison with no chance for parole," Culverhouse said of career criminal Ralph Gene Johnson. "He had checked the five wealthiest families in Florida and he figured we were the most liquid.

"The whole episode has had a huge effect on my daughter. She went from a perky, cute college student to a reclusive girl who would cry at the drop of a hat. She won't discuss it to this day. That episode made me leave Florida. Nobody knows where I live - and that's the way I want it."

She won't be underestimated

Nothing rankles Culverhouse like the thought of being dismissed as a privileged lightweight.

Two NFL executives found that out the hard way when Culverhouse was club president.

A few days before a home game, the Bucs had not received the Halloween candy promised in a league directive.

When Culverhouse and a few members of the NFL's marketing department discussed the oversight on speaker phone, she was assured the candy would arrive in time to be dispersed to fans at Tampa Stadium.

"They thought I had hung up, but I didn't," she said, with a raised eyebrow. "Then they ripped me apart, not knowing I could hear every word. They called me the spoiled rich bitch, who does she think she is? They ripped me as the owner's daughter and paid me no respect. Then they left the room."

Culverhouse called the executives back to the phone and told them to enjoy a nice lunch.

"All I told them was next time, make sure you hang up the phone," Culverhouse said.

Then she drove to her father's office and related what happened.

"Let's just say when the VP of marketing for the NFL returned, he and his assistant were no longer employed by the league," Culverhouse said. "And, yes, our fans did get their candy."

When working for the Bucs, she served on 24 boards and initiated a variety of anti-drug programs. As head of the Chamber of Commerce, she fired the executive director, rather than pass on the grim task to her successor.

"When I saw something that needed to be done, I did it," she said. "It's true that I haven't always been taken seriously, but that won't stop me. It's like riding a horse that doesn't really want to be trained. That horse is going to bend to my will."

Culverhouse said her health was fine until she encountered the toxic cloud of ash and chemicals while walking her dog on the streets of Manhattan on Sept. 11.

"I didn't own a TV and I didn't know what was going on that day," she said. "Doctors think one of my genes began to mutate because I was exposed to benzene, which triggers a lot of leukemias. It took a while for the gene to go awry, but I'm fine. Dying doesn't scare me in the least. I figure I'm on two years of borrowed time and I've got a great team of doctors.

"I just do what I think is right. If it goes against the grain, I can't help it. I've never been part of any clique. In school, I was put in the gifted program early on. The minute they label you as a nerd, you're an outcast. I figure I got thrown under the bus a long time back."