Support has come in other forms, too. Kay Morris has formed a bond with Sylvia Mackey, who has become a leader among wives whose husbands have dementia. And as word spread of Larry Morris' condition, a world of compassion arrived at the Morrises' door. Kay is thankful for the support from family, friends, Bears officials and people she doesn't know. Gridiron Greats, an organization led by Jerry Kramer and Mike Ditka to help stricken players financially, mobilized help immediately upon learning of Morris' situation. "I've been overwhelmed by everyone's kindness," Kay says.

Larry Morris and John Mackey have more in common than a debilitating disease and compassionate wives. Like Morris, Mackey is a member of the All-1960s team. At least three other members of that team — Hall of Famers Willie Wood, Jim Ringo and Gene Hickerson — have dementia, though the causes aren't certain.

What good is glory if it leaves you a shell of yourself? For Mackey, that question comes with a painful twist. Sylvia Mackey isn't sure concussions caused his dementia, but she doesn't discount them, either. Mackey's NFL career remains his only link to reality. Even that link is tenuous and fleeting at best. Mackey can go get the mail because the mailbox is the same number as that worn by Johnny Unitas, the Hall of Fame Colts quarterback to Mackey's Hall of Fame tight end. Sylvia Mackey uses this connection to the NFL to her advantage. When John Mackey didn't want to take pills, she put them in a box from the NFL. Problem solved.

Like others with dementia, Mackey, 65, often does not want to brush his teeth or shower. To get him to do so, his wife constructed a memo from the NFL. The memo demands that all NFL players brush their teeth, wash their face and shower. She signed it, "Paul Tagliabue." It hangs in the bathroom in their Maryland apartment. Permanently.

The Morris family isn't sure when the dementia started, but it could have been as early as his late 40s. In some cases, families need eight to 10 years to identify signs. It became obvious about 15 years ago, when Larry was in his late 50s. Friends noticed it on the golf course. In the early 1990s, he couldn't understand how to play a scramble. Once, around the same time, he turned to his playing partner — who also had been his business partner for years — and said, "Whatever happened to ..." and said the name of the very man he was talking to.

Odd behavior dates further back. For example, he would send a get-well card to someone celebrating a birthday. "We've always called him the absent-minded professor. That was our endearing name for him," Kay Morris says.

At the time, Kay Morris attributed Larry's forgetfulness to high stress and having a lot on his mind. Looking back, she can't help but wonder whether there was more to it.

Larry Morris looks great for a man in his 70s who played 11 years in the NFL. Though he can no longer exercise, he still cuts an impressive figure, and his full head of white hair and handsome features are striking. He walks better than most of the guys his age at the Intercontinental.

He doesn't look a day older than he did in 2002, when he gave an autobiographical interview to Georgia Tech for its Living History project. In a video copy of the interview, which runs for more than an hour, he talks about his life and career. This was at least 10 years after his dementia became obvious, and though he seems somewhat lucid, a check of the details finds some of them inaccurate.

One detail that remained clear in his mind then was the importance of his relationship with Bobby Dodd, the legendary coach of Georgia Tech. Morris' father died when Morris was a young boy, and Dodd became a father figure. Few men played as large a role in Morris' life as Dodd did. Yet while Morris looked through a scrapbook of his old newspaper clippings three weeks ago, he said he never played for Dodd.

Kay, Larry and an in-home nurse play a lot of pingpong on a table set up in the garage in the family home in Flowery Branch, Ga. He still has remarkable hand-eye coordination. When he plays pingpong, there are occasional glimpses of his personality: After a particularly good shot, he does a victory dance.

Larry sat on the couch as his wife talked about their wonderful life of ups and downs together and the pain of enduring dementia's cruelties. He occasionally spoke but never in complete sentences, and much of what he said was unintelligible.

In a two-hour visit, there were three moments of brief lucidity: He said "shucks" after missing a shot in pingpong. He tickled his wife as they posed for a photograph. And he said her name, which he does very rarely, almost never. When he did it that day, though it was just once, Kay's face lit up.

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