CHAPTER ONE MIRACLE I had no idea, when I lined up to attempt a thirty four-yard field goal against the Chicago Bears on September 7, 1980, that an incredible, improbable series of events over the next few seconds would constitute both the highlight of my career in the National Football League and one of the most popular plays in the long and storied history of the Green Bay Packers. Sometimes, when I think about the play, it seems like it happened in another lifetime. And in a sense, it did. The kick, and what happened in those few chaotic seconds afterward, comprised the last good moment I had in a Packers uniform. You might say my life started going downhill the moment the play was over; that is not far from the truth. I was not quite thirty-one years old and starting my ninth N.F.L. season when we opened against the Bears, our hated rivals. The game was a dull affair for four quarters and went into overtime tied, 6-6. I had kicked field goals of forty-one and forty-six yards and my counterpart, Bob Thomas, had matched me with field goals of forty-two and thirty-four yards for Chicago. The fact that the score was tied after regulation was an accomplishment in itself, considering we had just finished a dreadful pre-season in which we were outscored in five games by a combined 86-17. We were not a very good team and, in fact, the Bears would crush us, 61-7, at Soldier Field in Chicago exactly three months later (appropriately, some would say, on Pearl Harbor Day). By then, I was no longer a Packer. But on September 7, I was wearing my number thirteen jersey and my single-bar helmet with the "G" on the side, and standing on the sideline as our quarterback, Lynn Dickey, led a drive in overtime, highlighted by his thirty-two- yard pass to James Lofton. The drive stalled and with nine minutes left in the extra period, Bart Starr, our coach, sent out the field goal unit. I found out later that in the Bears' huddle, Alan Page, the future Hall of Famer, told his teammates to be alert because he was going to block the kick. Page was good at a lot of things, and blocking kicks was one of them. Meanwhile, in our huddle, Larry McCarren, our center and offensive captain, was wincing in pain. He'd undergone hernia surgery on August 14 and missed the last three exhibition games. Because Larry had started sixty three consecutive regular-season games, Starr told him he could start the game to extend his streak and then would take a seat on the bench. Well, the game went into overtime and poor Larry was still on the field. I lined up, Larry snapped the ball, the hold was good, and I nailed a perfect kick. I looked up, expecting to see the ball sail through the uprights for the sudden- death victory. Instead, I saw nothing but Page's jersey numbers. He had bull-rushed McCarren, timed his leap, and blocked the kick — just as he said he would. A split-second later, I was clutching the ball, which had bounced directly back into my chest. Instinctively, I started to run to my left. Most of the Bears were in a heap on the ground, having gone all-out to try to block the kick. By the time they realized I had the ball, it was too late to do anything about it. Jim Gueno, our left up-back, got in the way of the only Bears defender in the area and threw a little hook block. It wouldn't have mattered; nobody was going to catch me. I held the ball high and tight to my chest and sprinted into the corner of the end zone for the winning touchdown. Lambeau Field went crazy as my teammates mobbed me, screaming and pounding me on the back. I had not only scored a touchdown, but a game-winner and against our hated rivals, the Bears, no less. In the locker room afterward, Starr presented me with a game ball and asked me to lead the team in prayer. I did so with tears of joy streaming down my cheeks. The ball I carried into the end zone is today in the Packers Hall of Fame. But here's the thing about that touchdown that nobody knows: I was under the influence of cocaine when I scored. I had gone into the bathroom at halftime and, while the coaches and players were preparing for the second half, I snorted coke. I don't know if it would be accurate to say I was high when I scored that touchdown two hours later, but I definitely was under the influence. It's not something I'm proud to admit. But it happened and to tell the story of my touchdown without including the part about the cocaine would not be an honest account. I had tried coke for the first time the week before, as training camp was winding down at St. Norbert's College in DePere. I was at a party and a woman asked me if I wanted to buy a gram for one hundred dollars. I vaguely remembered a friend warning me, "Don't ever do cocaine. You might like it and get hooked." But I was drinking — I already had a problem with alcohol at that point — and your intellect doesn't function very well when you're drunk. So I bought the coke and tried it. To say I liked it would be an enormous understatement. Within a very short amount of time, I was buying a quarter-ounce of cocaine a week. I had purchased Kruggerands, gold pieces, as an investment and I remember going to the bank to withdraw them and selling them one at a time so I could buy coke. I ended up putting those Kruggerands right up my nose. My friend was right. I liked cocaine. I REALLY liked it. The second I snorted the drug for the first time, I was hooked. During the 1980 season, until I was cut by Coach Starr, I used cocaine before every game. When I discovered cocaine, it was the beginning of the end. Between alcohol, the prescription drugs I was abusing, and coke — especially coke — I was hardly ever sober anymore. In short order, I became an absolute mess. That's why the Packers cut me. I couldn't perform because of my drug use, though the team had no way of knowing that cocaine, alcohol, and pills were the reason for my erratic kicking. Drug-testing in the N.F.L. was still years away. I'm sure my decline baffled Starr and the coaching staff. I was Example A of the destructive power of drugs. I'd come into the N.F.L. as a cocky kid with a powerful leg; in my mind, I was the best kicker in the game. Eight years later, I was a drug addict, sick, scared and alone. All my confidence was gone, my cocky persona shattered. Only a few people knew about my drug use and absolutely no one knew how much I was using and how desperate I'd become, even though I was losing weight and becoming moody and distant. Maybe people just thought I was stressed out because I wasn't kicking well. I was scared and paranoid and I wanted to ask for help, but in those days you didn't walk into the coach's office and tell him you had a problem with cocaine. It took a long time for me to be able to look in the mirror and like the guy who was looking back at me, but I've finally gotten past the humiliation and embarrassment and self-loathing caused by my disease. Sure, I have plenty of regrets. I went from Polish immigrant at age fifteen to N.F.L. rookie of the year at twenty-three to a suicide attempt at thirty-six. Until now, I really haven't wanted to bare my soul. Some of the memories are extremely painful. I hurt a lot of people emotionally, damaged relationships — some irreparably — and lived a life of deceit and shame and guilt. But as funny as it sounds, I wouldn't trade the mistakes I made for anything because the whole package, good and bad, made me who I am today. I'm in a very good place. I have a great family, a terrific and fulfilling job as a drug and alcohol counselor, and a rich, full life. The touchdown I scored in 1980 against the Bears has been called "Marcol's Miracle." The real miracle is that I'm still alive and kicking.