Head Case

Written By: TMC

Posted on May 17, 2007

Note: Upon hearing the NFL’s continued insistence that there is no correlation between repeated head trauma and long-term cognitive difficulties (including dementia, early onset Alzheimer’s disease, decreased motor function, memory loss, and depression), we at Sport is Stranger than Fiction sent our very own investigative reporter to the home of Dr. Ian Casson– a spokesman-physician for the NFL. His goal was twofold. First, he had to avoid speaking to Dr. Casson at all costs, because, come on, what’s the point? Second, he had to rifle through the good doctor’s records to give us as much background information on his mental state and his other beliefs. We’ve transcribed his report below.

Other Note:In order to protect our reporter’s identity, we’ll just call him J. Greco. No, that’s too obvious– let’s call him Joey G.

When I arrived at Dr. Casson’s house, I was disturbed to learn that your promised diversionary tactics– standing under his bedroom window at night and making spooky ghost sounds in order to scare him away– had failed miserably. The house was occupied by Dr. Casson, his wife, two Pomeranians, and some guy with a mohawk. Working on the assumption that the mohawked man was there to work security, I took it upon myself to sneak up on him and choke him with piano wire (you’ll note that I’ve attached a bill for the wire, and for the Purell hand sanitizer I used to clean the spittle off of my hands) and hid his body in a garden shed. I noted that inside the shed Dr. Casson stored several items, including multiple sacks of mulch, a pair of paint-splattered boots, and a ziploc bag full of assorted screws that didn’t seem to fit into anything in particular. Conspicuous by its absence was a lawnmower. As I later learned, however, Dr. Casson does not see any correlation between owning a lawnmower and having shorter grass. This, it seems would be an appropriate time to note that Dr. Casson’s yard is so overgrown that a few weeds tickled my beautiful nose, which, as Kevin Gonzalez knows, is a nose that does not like to be tickled. I stomped through the yard and back toward the house.

I then proceeded to sneak into the family room (a job made easier by the fact that, as I later learned, Dr. Casson does not see any correlation between owning– not to mention locking– doors and deterring intruders), inciting a whirlwind of Pomeranian yippiness that was only quelled when I stopped to pet the dogs. My original plan had been to distract the dogs with a chain of sausage links, but I was hungry and saved the sausage for myself. Once satisfied with my petting, the dogs wandered off and promptly disappeared in the thicket of the backyard. I’m not sure if they ever returned.

Apparently alerted by the barking, Mrs. Casson had strolled into the room and watched the entire scene. She was decidedly unattractive– plumpish and hidden beneath a fake tan and fingernails that curled like scythes. Her eyes were sad, and she looked like a caricature of American unhappiness; I imagined that she’d just come from a McDonald’s, or perhaps from a failed casting call for a reality TV show where they’d told her she wasn’t quite fat enough to be tragic, but was too fat to be funny or likable. I told her I was there to look through their trash and embarrass her husband, and she laughed. She seemed, however, like the kind of woman who would laugh no matter what anyone said, just so she could avoid crying. Her laugh was pretty, and it made me smile, and then she smiled. And I asked her if she could just let me go about my business, and I’d be out of her way soon enough. She laughed again, and then asked where the mohawked man was. I shrugged and pushed past her, promising to stop and talk to her on the way out. I feel badly that I never did stop to talk to her, but I didn’t want to have to touch her.

I climbed the stairs and located Dr. Casson’s bedroom. Because there were no doors, I was able to watch him getting dressed. I noted that his shoes had no laces and his beltless pants drooped below his waist; he continually tugged them upward, frustrated by his inability to keep them in place. On the other side of his bedroom was another doorway, which led to his office, so I knew I had to get through the room. Because I figured it wouldn’t upset him much, I decided the best passage would be to bash him in the head with a blackjack and knock him out; short-term, he’d be in pain, but, of course, he would be in no long term danger. The sound of the blackjack hitting his skull was a bit sickening, but also satisfying, in the sense that I enjoy hitting people in the head with blunt objects.

He crumpled to the floor and I walked past him into his office. The trash can was empty, but, I surmised that this was the case only because he saw no correlation between trash can usage and trash removal. Newspapers and files were stacked chest-high along the walls. The stacks ran four-deep and narrowed the room into a tight walkway between desk and doorway. Scanning the walls, I noted that no degrees had been framed and proudly mounted, as should be the case with doctors. When I eventually found his journal, I learned that the good doctor does not believe that medical training is a necessity to practicing medicine. And who can argue with him? He’s had quite a career.

I mentioned the journal. The journal was the key. It took me hours to scan, because Dr. Casson does not abide by the traditional lines and margins employed by most in writing. He simply puts words on the page in any order– and in any place– he likes. As such, it would be impossible for me to transcribe these diary entries, but, rest assured, I was able to crack his code. I did not take the journal with me, because, after all, it didn’t seem right to steal the man’s journal after killing his mohawked friend, losing his dogs, and braining him with a blackjack. But I read enough to understand.

It seems that when he was hired by the NFL, his job description simply said “to protect the National Football League and its image at all costs.” He had applied for a job as an electrician at NFL headquarters because he was a huge Bills fan and he just wanted to be a part of the game. They hired him and quickly promoted him to his current position, which necessitates that he conduct studies regarding brain injuries and the present his findings to the media. I couldn’t find much about the actual methods of his studies, but it seemed that his first study involved him wearing a helmet and continually running headfirst into a variety of objects (i.e.- a concrete wall, a mountain, an 18-wheeler, a pile of leaves, a stack of Nerf balls, a horse) and then charting how much dumber and/or more demented he had become. Results, as he has said many times, have always been inconclusive.

I also was able to cobble together a list of other things he does not believe in. Besides those that I’ve already described, I found three more worth mentioning. Dr. Ian Casson does not believe in correlations between the following:

- The introduction of Olivia on The Cosby Show and the show’s exponential increase in obnoxiousness.
- The firing of guns and deaths by gunshot wounds
- The Earth’s sun and the generation of heat

He does, however, blame violent video games and rap music for all of the problems in American society.

By the time I’d discovered even this much information, Dr. Casson began to stir in his bedroom. Not wanting to be arrested for murder, I chose to leave the house immediately and go into hiding in my brother’s cabin in the wilderness of Wisconsin. I hope this report has been beneficial and given you the insight into Dr. Casson that you desired. I don’t have much time to waste, but I expect to see my payment in full soon. Good luck with your continued investigation.

PS- If you tell anyone where I am, I’ll cut you.

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