STORIES

Decades before American football saw Travis Kelce and Rob Gronkowski, a tight end for the Washington Redskins set the standard for his position in the National Football League. His name was Jerry Smith.

I’m Doc Walker, Super Bowl Champion. Like Jerry Smith, I was a tight end for the Washington Redskins. In the ’60s and ’70s, Jerry dominated with his fearlessness at the line of scrimmage, reliable hands and uncanny ability to get in the end zone. During his 13 seasons, all of which were in Washington, he was named an All-Pro twice and was selected to two Pro Bowls.

By the time Jerry retired, he held the NFL record for most career touchdowns by a tight end, a record that stood for 26 years. As a professional athlete, Jerry lived a life very much in the public eye, excelling at his job to the glee of adoring fans as an integral part of a cherished D.C. institution. However, he held a secret – the kind he feared could ruin everything he had worked for and push those he loved away if it ever got out.

He was gay.

Though he never told his teammates, and it would have been foolhardy to say he would have been wholly embraced if he had, Jerry could have felt his football brothers were in his corner.  As a member of the Burgundy & Gold, Smith was loved and respected in a way that went far deeper than the game. That sentiment quietly grew with both the everyday humdrum and the extremes of being a pro.

I mean, for years he spent countless hours a week with his teammates, traveling, talking, joking together. They experienced the highs and lows of sport on the biggest stage – from winning streaks the city had not seen in decades to losing a Super Bowl. That Washington football brotherhood produced many friendships. Few were as beautiful as that between Jerry and safety Brig Owens.

The two 1965 draftees became roommates at training camp during the Civil Rights era when it was unheard of for Black and White teammates to share quarters. This was before Gale Sayers and Brian Piccolo in Chicago.

When Jerry was warned that there would be talk about the rooming situation, his reply was, “So what?”

Jerry was the teammate you wanted by your side on a Sunday. He was the kind of guy to throw himself in front of an on-rushing linebacker, the type of player who inspired others to pouring themselves into perfecting his craft. The selflessness he displayed during his brightest days did not waver during his darkest.

In late 1985, eight years after hanging up his cleats, Jerry learned he had AIDS. It was the very early stages of the epidemic. Little was known about the disease and how it was spread. It was a time of intense fear.

As the months wore on and AIDS rapidly took its toll, Jerry — who was always about helping — saw an opportunity to do so. He asked renowned reporter George Solomon to come to Holy Cross Hospital. Solomon covered Jerry during his playing days and was sports editor for The Washington Post from 1975-2003. Jerry trusted him to tell his story.

The two were joined at Holy Cross by his best friend Brig. The piece Solomon would publish, they all knew, would draw attention. At the time, the prevailing belief was that AIDS only affected certain populations, populations that professional athletes definitely couldn’t have been a part of.

Jerry was the first pro athlete to announce he had AIDS. It was brave of him to do so. He didn’t have to. But he knew it might make a difference. The more awareness, the better. That’s how you break down the fear, the stigma. That’s how strides in treatments are made.

The publishing of the story came with an outpouring of support. The men he had been in the trenches with on the football field showed up for Smith as he battled in the hospital. When he was there, every third call to Holy Cross was for Jerry, they say. Brig was there almost every day.

Less than a year after being diagnosed, Jerry died of AIDS on Oct. 15, 1986. He was just 43. Twenty-three players from Washington’s 1973 Super Bowl team reunited for his funeral. Several served as his pallbearers.

The saying goes that football is a game of inches, that tiny bits of effort have the power to make a difference. On the field, Jerry Smith did that for his team every time he lined up for his snap. Off the field as he fought AIDS, Jerry looked at the end of his life with similar eyes. His decision to talk about his experience with the disease helped burst the misconceptions and broaden understandings, effects whose ripples can still be felt today.