Note: The author of this article does not follow football closely but was not happy to hear the news about Marshawn Kneeland committing suicide. So todays article was written with a spin that will give readers some insight into the authors background and ends with his views on mental health.
Marshawn Kneeland grew up treating life like a strategic board game. He placed every checker with care, each move bringing him closer to the of an NFL career. In his mind, every practice, game and interview was like rolling the dice in an intense backgammon match — a mix of skill, planning and a little bit of luck. From the start he played hard, the kind of hustling presence you’d expect from a player who never let a bad play derail his focus. Even after huge gains, he always planning for the next play he would be a part of.
In high school he made the first big moves. At Godwin Heights in Grand Rapids he converted from safety to defensive end and piled up record tackles, tackles-for-loss and sacks as a senior. But like a rising backgammon player who had only attended one tournament, he received just one Division I college offer despite his production. Still, that underdog status only fueled him. At Western Michigan University he stacked up wins quietly — 57 tackles and 4½ sacks in his final season alone, proof that every checker he moved was a step toward his goal. Over five years he’d racked up 13 career sacks and 28 tackles for loss, a resume that could survive even the wildest roll of the dice. When he ran a blistering 4.75 forty-yard dash (and a 7.02 in the three-cone) at the NFL Combine, it was like doubling the stakes and showing he had more game than ever.
By draft night, his dream was right there on the table. Dallas took him on Day 2, turning his long shot into reality with a second-round pick. Kneeland had been rolling toward this moment for years, and now the Cowboys believed in his ability to bear off so they drafted him and put him under the brightest lights — millions watching — which in backgammon is like playing a tournament final with everyone staring at your strategy. Cowboys owner Jerry Jones reflected on this pressure, noting that an NFL player is under an evaluation almost from the time you get up until you go to bed. No move went unnoticed, nobody gets more scrutiny than the players. As Jones said, no one gets any more attention, no one gets any more scrutiny than these guys. Every day felt like a single high-stakes roll, and Marshawn was determined not to crack under the weight.
He played with his signature high energy and effort. Like a backgammon player carrying a lucky charm, he even wore an urn with his late mother’s ashes on a chain under his jersey — literally carrying her with him every snapdallasnews.com. On the field he was an all-around force; he bounced off blockers, chased down ball carriers, eager to hit his opponent’s from their blind spots by forcing fumbles or sacks. His coaches noted that he never changed; off the field he was the same cat every day — calm, focused, ready to play again. No matter what happened, he kept moving his pieces forward. Even after missing time with injuries, he soldiered on, leaning on siblings and old coaches to bear the pain and stay in the game.
Life’s board isn’t only a competition; sometimes the stakes are personal. Marshawn had quietly endured more than most saw. After his mother died unexpectedly during combine preparations, he had to lock in despite heartbreak. On the outside he was suited up and smiling for every game like any pro, but inside he was feeling his grief during some, if not many, plays. Meanwhile, the Cowboys staff and teammates were focused on the next matchup — football always moves on – and few knew how much he struggled away from the lights.
Here’s the thing, folks: Suicide is never a good thing and should never be anyone’s answer to mental health struggles. Earlier this month, tragedy struck without warning. After a long pursuit, Marshawn was found dead from an apparent suicide. In that moment, the weight of life’s what-ifs became unbearable. The game was over, and a great talent was lost.
With that… Looking back, one painful truth remains: someone should have called an audible when he began to break down. Someone close to him must have seen the signs — the hesitation in his play, the quiet voice behind his smile — and stepped in before the board flipped for good. The hardest games aren’t meant to be played alone, and when one of us starts to lose ground, it takes a teammate, a friend, or even a stranger to help move the next piece forward. Because no matter how heavy life feels, suicide is never the answer — there’s always another move to make, another turn to take, and someone willing to help you keep playing.
May Marshawn Kneeland rest in peace.
Marshawn Kneeland
July 8, 2001 to November 6, 2025
Gone way too young!