To the naked eye, I went unscathed through college. 

I had a full-ride scholarship to Washington State, but was redshirted in my freshman year at the expense of hurting my knee playing, of all things, fraternity basketball. 

Coming out of Shadle Park High School in Spokane, I never had a significant injury or setback prior to that first year in college, that I can remember. It’s interesting to use that word…

“Remember.”

Because it’s really about what you forget.

As quarterback for the Washington Redskins, I went to Super Bowl XXVI and won. It was one of the greatest honours of my life.

We were an organization that stood for courage, strength, and perseverance. And seven years after that Super Bowl win, I would need all of that and more.

In August of 1998, my three-year-old son Andrew died of a brain tumour.

I started the Rypien Foundation, in his honour.

If we lost that Super Bowl in ‘92, I don't think I would have the same amount of power that I have had in order to run this foundation. We help kids and their families go through the protocol of cancer. We have helped an extremely large amount of families and children try to overcome the obstacles. 

Football has opened a lot of doors for me.

But you’re asking was it worth it? Knowing what I know now, would I go back and do it all over again?

Absolutely I would. Even if it almost cost me my life.

Martin Stadium. It was 1983 or 1984, I’m not sure exactly. My second or third year at Washington State.

Last play of the first half in the spring game that year, I remember rolling out to throw a Hail Mary down the sidelines. As I threw it, I got pushed. I’m watching the ball go down the sidelines to the receiver and the play was broken up. I was so focused on the ball that I hit my head on the artificial turf.

Like I said, it was the spring game. Artificial turf after a good rainfall becomes like cement.

I got up from the turf and everyone’s running to the locker room for half time. I remember following the team in. And next thing I know, I'm asking someone up on campus in my full gear, with my helmet on, where one of my professor’s classes was. That individual looked at me, dumbfounded. I was led back down to the locker room, taken out of the game, and then had my roommate make sure I got home. I had blacked out.

If I had any headaches, I was supposed to call the trainer. I didn’t call. I went on to love every damn minute of my college days.

Roughly 10 years later and one year after winning Super Bowl XXVI, I was playing the Minnesota Vikings at the Metrodome in front of 60,000 fans.

A few minutes left in the game, we’re down 13-12. I remember scrambling to get it down to the right hash as far down the field as possible. At the Vikings’ 25-yard-line, I got hit and tackled hard by Mike Merriweather and Jack Del Rio. 

I hit my head on the ground but got up to call a timeout. We’re going to run one more play then get kicker Chip Lohmiller to win it.

I go to the sidelines. I don’t remember how.

Our head coach, Joe Gibbs, says to me something like, “This is what we’d like to run, Ryp. Double-Left-Spear-50-Gut and let’s get the ball to the left hash and kick the field goal.”

I respond, “Coach…we don’t have that play in our playbook.”

Coach Gibbs goes, “What? Ryp. Double-Left-Spear-50-Gut.”

You have to understand, this is a play we run close to 15 times a game. This is one of our staple plays. But I’m not thinking about our game plan. I’m back in Washington State, I guess, thinking about my college playbook. 

I had blacked out again.

Then I hear coach Gibbs voice, “Ryp. Double-Left-Spear-50-Gut.”

I finally came to and respond, “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

I go out there, run the play, call a timeout, we kick a field goal, and win the game.

Our trainer at the time, Bubba Tyer, goes over to kicker Chip Lohmiller and says, “When you get to the airport, make sure Mark gets home.”

They contacted my wife at the time to make sure I didn’t have any further complications.

Once more I had, well, lost it.

I remember the infamous “Bodybag Game” against the Philadelphia Eagles in 1990.

I actually didn’t play in that game. In fact, all our quarterbacks were out, and Brian Mitchell had to come in to play emergency quarterback. We had five or six guys out that game, and it wasn’t all concussions, but some of them were.

In the NFL at that time, it was never discussed. You wore it like a badge of honour.

It’s bizarre when you think about it now. The trainer comes up to you, gives you the “how many fingers”. You say, “three or four”. Close enough. That was old school football back in my day.

Over time, I was labeled an injury-prone liability. Not because I had a soft head or anything, but it was the shoulders, the knees. I was beat up, but never out. I bounced back.

But after the 1993 season, and with one year left on my contract, the Redskins called and said, “Hey, listen. We’re not going to honour your current contract.”

They offered me one fifth of what it was, and, at the time, it was a slap in the face. I was a competitive athlete with more to give. You play the sport to play the sport. To be on the power play, on the plate with the bases loaded in the 9th inning, the ball in your hand with another Super Bowl on the line. 

That was still me.

So I went to the Cleveland Browns.

Then St Louis, next Philadelphia. In the middle of it all, my son Andrew died, as I mentioned, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. I walked away from a deal in Atlanta in 1998 to cope with Andrew’s death. 

Three years later, I went to Indianapolis.

I’m backing up Peyton Manning, one of the greatest to do it, and someone who, whether you’re up 30 or down 30, doesn’t want to leave the field.

I said to Peyton, “Hey, I don't want to see the field here I'm just here to look at film with you and not get in your way.”

Not being on the field as a starter in those final years of my career -- I look back and am grateful I didn’t take any more hits.

When I retired in 2002, and the lights turned off for good, I quickly realized I wasn’t around my teammates anymore. No one is telling me how great I am. Football was no longer a distraction.

Depression, anxiety, and rage. I felt it like never before.

I wasn’t the same person to my wife or my kids. Sporadic behaviour. Mood swings. I angered quickly. There are some things I have done that I don’t want to mention here.

But I’ll say this.

On my youngest daughter’s birthday, I took a bunch of pills, something like 150 Advil, and washed them down with a bottle of Merlot. I had decided I was going to check out. I felt like a burden to everyone around me.

In golf, if you hit a bad shot, you get a mulligan. Unfortunately, if you decide one day that you’re not going be here anymore, and you choose that day, you don't get a mulligan. 

For me, I got one.

My wife found me on the floor. She poured hydrogen peroxide and activated charcoal down my throat so I would throw up the pills. I didn’t know how many I had swallowed, so we just kept going until I didn’t have anything left to vomit.

There’s no suicide letter. It wasn’t premeditated. Tuesday is a good day. Wednesday is awesome. Thursday is a good day. Friday, OK. But come Saturday, I'm gone. I wanted to be gone.

It just hit me. And I was thrown into that dark place.

They have a name for it now. Chronic traumatic encephalopathy. CTE.

A cumulative effect on the brain due to multiple hits to the head. The ones I remember. The ones I’ve forgotten. The ones I thought weren’t serious.

I was a confused soul with a confused mind. 

And then my cousin, beloved NHL player Rick Rypien, died in 2011.

Rick, to the naked eye, had the world at his fingertips. He was, at the time, a fan-favourite for the Vancouver Canucks. He had his own struggles with depression and went to a facility to take care of them.

He was a role model there. And it was mentioned he was going to come back stronger than ever and become a mental health advocate to help others.

It wasn't three months after he graduated with flying colours from this institute that Rick took his own life. 

Rick was as tough as they come. He was a fighter. And I thought, how powerful those demons must have been. Well, I didn’t have to think. I knew.

I witnessed the suffering of his dad, his mom, his stepmom, and stepdad. Wes, his brother.

The pain in their eyes.

I put myself in my brother's shoes. What if it had been me? I imagined leaving behind that grief.

Rick didn’t want this.

I didn’t want this.

Talking to you now, I have more pains and aches and I have ever had my entire life. But I have coping mechanisms now. Your family always cares about you, but I have teams of professionals who have helped me to where I am today and continue to help me.

Brain trauma doesn’t go away. CTE develops in phases. What about the next 10 years? I really don’t know how much harder it is going to get.

What I do know is that I’m still here and I don’t want to become another statistic.

This is how I want to honour Rick. This is how I want to honour my son. By living until I take my last breath by natural causes and by God’s will. 

My call in this world wasn’t to win Super Bowls. Hell, at the end of day, no one gives a true rat's behind if I win a Super Bowl or don't win a Super Bowl. But it led me to sharing my story today.

It is to be Rick’s voice, and anyone else’s, who has struggled in silence.