If you walk past the Mercedes-Benz Superdome in New Orleans, you can’t miss it. There’s a massive bronze statue of a man lunging forward, his hands outstretched to smother a football. It’s called "Rebirth." To most people today, Steve Gleason is the face of ALS advocacy—the guy who hasn't spoken with his own vocal cords in over a decade but has done more for the disabled community than almost anyone alive.
But honestly? Before the diagnosis, he was just a kid from Spokane who loved Pearl Jam, lived out of a van, and played football with a reckless intensity that bordered on the absurd.
The world knows the hero in the wheelchair. But the Steve Gleason before ALS was a different kind of legend. He was a long-haired, undrafted underdog who somehow survived eight years in the NFL purely on grit and a refusal to be told "no."
The Undrafted Kid from Washington State
Steve wasn't supposed to be an NFL star. At Washington State University, he was a standout, sure. He was a two-time captain and a three-time All-Pac-10 honoree. He even helped lead the Cougars to the Rose Bowl in 1997, breaking a 67-year drought.
But scouts weren't exactly beating down his door. He was 5-11. Maybe 212 pounds if he’d just eaten a heavy meal. In the world of NFL linebackers and safeties, that’s tiny. Basically, he was "too small."
He went undrafted in 2000.
The Indianapolis Colts signed him as a free agent, then cut him before the season really started. Most guys would have packed it up and headed back to Washington to find a 9-to-5. Not Steve. He eventually landed on the New Orleans Saints practice squad in November of 2000. He wasn't there because of his 40-yard dash time. He was there because he would hit anyone, anywhere, at any time, as hard as he possibly could.
More Than a Blocked Punt
Everyone talks about September 25, 2006. It’s the "Rebirth" game. The Saints were returning to the Superdome for the first time since Hurricane Katrina had ripped the roof off and turned the stadium into a shelter of last resort.
The atmosphere was heavy. It was electric, but it was sad, too. Then, early in the first quarter, Steve Gleason shot through the line like he’d been fired from a cannon. He blocked Michael Koenen’s punt.
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The stadium didn't just cheer; it shook.
That single play became a symbol for the entire city’s recovery. But if you look at the stats, Gleason’s career was built on more than one night of glory. He played 83 games. He was a special teams demon. He finished his career with 71 total tackles and two fumble recoveries. He was the guy who did the dirty work that never makes the highlight reel.
He was also kind of a nomad.
Before the disease took his mobility, Steve was famously adventurous. He traveled the world. He hiked. He spent his offseasons living in a van, driving around to see his favorite band, Pearl Jam. He was a guy who donated his hair to "Locks of Love" for kids with cancer. He was a philosopher in a locker room full of traditional athletes.
Living Fast and Loud
He wasn't just a football player. He was a guy who cared about the environment and literacy. He started the One Sweet World Foundation long before he had a reason to start Team Gleason.
His teammates remember him as a guy who marched to his own drum. He wasn't obsessed with the glitz of the NFL. He’d rather be on the bayou with his wife, Michel, or exploring a new trail.
"If I don't block the punt, I'm probably not alive," Steve once told CBS Mornings.
That sounds like hyperbole, but it’s how he views his life. That moment gave him the platform he’d later need to fight a terminal illness. But the discipline that allowed an undrafted kid to survive 83 NFL games is the same discipline that has kept him alive for 15 years with a disease that usually kills people in three.
Why it Matters Today
When we look at Steve Gleason now, it's easy to see the tragedy. But if you look at his life before 2011, you see the preparation.
He was an "expert" at being the underdog.
He was an "expert" at ignoring the odds.
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He retired in 2008. He went back to school and got his MBA from Tulane. He was planning a life of business and adventure. The diagnosis in January 2011 changed the "how," but it didn't change the "who."
What you can do next:
If you want to see the "real" Steve, don't just look at his advocacy videos. Go back and watch the 2006 Saints vs. Falcons highlights. Look at the way he moved—not just on the punt block, but on every single kickoff. Then, read his memoir, A Life Impossible. It’s a raw, unvarnished look at a man who was already a warrior long before he ever heard the letters ALS.