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New York, New York Age-old tradition dictates that when a Hall of Fame honors its newest class – the previous inductees – the true lions of that sport – are on hand to celebrate. In the case of at least one living legend, that will most certainly not be the case this month in Canton, Ohio. When the Pro Football Hall of Fame honors the NFL Class of 2007, Mike Ditka will stay away. On purpose. In protest. During the years, I've gained a particular insight into Coach Ditka and shared, shall we say, a tempestuous past. It started in his final season as head coach in Chicago and my decision to write an unauthorized biography. A decision, he made clear at the top of his lungs, he did not endorse. The result was a hard-edged portrait of a monster of a man – larger than life in every imaginable respect. Coach Ditka wasn't all that impressed with my effort to be fair. He was, rather naturally, quite pissed about how deeply I dug into parts of his life off the field. But to his everlasting credit, when we were thrown together for the first time in years at a CBS Sports seminar, he accepted my hand, my explanation, and we moved on. To this day, I find him a fascinating figure, the kind of man you want on your team or at your side in a fight or foxhole.  The center of the Steelers' Super Bowl dynasty, Mike Webster, died in 2002 demented and destitute at 50, the victim of too many concussion and, critics charge, not enough care from NFL Players Association. Now Iron Mike finds himself on the front lines of another battle, this time with the National Football League Players Association (NFLPA). He and other veterans of the NFL wars are demanding justice, justice in the form of increased disability payments from a union, they charge, that has abandoned many of the men who helped build the league in its time of need. So there he is, carrying the flag: speaking out on HBO Sports and network news, testifying before Congress. Calling out NFLPA President Gene Upshaw. Citing a set of figures that boggle the mind. NFL revenues are estimated to reach $7.1 billion this season. According to the latest Department of Labor filings, more than $100 million of those dollars will flow into the coffers of the NFLPA, which had $183 million in net assets on hand as of May 31, 2007. Last year only about $20 million in benefits went to former players. Or as NFLPA lawyer Douglas Ell so eloquently informed a Congressional subcommittee: "Only 317 conformed to meet the [disability] plan's requirements." That's right. 317. Or $63,000 each. During the years I've talked to several of those 317 for stories such as the role of NFL team doctors; major surveys linking multiple concussions with depression; and the landmark legal fight waged by the family of Hall of Fame center Mike Webster for additional disability benefits, a difference of about $1.5 million. Webster was as iconic a figure as to ever play the game. Offensive captain, team leader, he was literally in the center of all the Super Bowl success in Pittsburgh. But, sadly, in 2002, he died demented and destitute at the age of 50. During the reporting of his story for HBO's Inside the NFL, I learned a great deal about the Bert Bell/Pete Rozelle NFL Player Retirement Plan and its Retirement Board, a six-person panel that hears all appeals on disability decisions. It's made up of three members appointed by the league and three by the union. Critics charge it's actually stacked against the players – packed with FOGs or Friends of Gene, ex-union leaders with strong personal ties to Upshaw.
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