Chris Johnson can’t stop crying.
More than a year has passed sincehis diagnosis of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis and the disease is rapidly progressing. Johnson can no longer speak. He can’t keep his head fully upright. He can’t take a step without significant assistance. The former All-Pro running back who could outrun everybody on Sunday afternoons in his prime is now sitting in a gray armchair on this Sunday in August, unable to leave it.
And yet none of that is why Johnson is crying.
A moment ago, at the start of a photo shoot in Johnson’s home, his wife, Brittany, leaned in close to the man she married following his ALS diagnosis in May 2025 after 10 years together. At first Johnson smiled, as she laid her hands on his forearms. Yet then, as Brittany kissed his forehead, his eyes welled and the tears began to flow. They haven’t stopped. Then Brittany, who, in her unending role of caretaker, was using a blue hand towel to wipe saliva dribbling from his mouth, began dabbing his face for another reason while touching his hand. Their decade of love is evident.
One of Johnson’s twin 14-year-old boys, Kaden, comes over to check on him, as does Chris’s cousin Tamika. Then it’s Honey, his 8-year-old daughter. Then it’s his mother, Alma Jackson. Johnson’s nose starts running, all while his deep brown eyes soak his face. As the tears intensify, so does the loving support. Alma is over his left shoulder, rubbing his face. Kaden is on his right. Brittany is crouched to his left. Honey has kneeled down in front of him, her face so strikingly similar to Chris’s it must be like looking into a mirror. Tamika gazes out the window to compose herself. Honey hugs Chris’s left leg. The other twin, Chris Jr., comes over and looks on. You get the sense it’s too much to see his dad like this. You can’t blame him.
In this large, modern house outside Orlando with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, all that can be heard is the ever-running bypass machine pumping oxygen every four seconds and words of support. Alma fixes Chris’s necklace. Chris is still a man. Still the man. He just needs a little help.
None of this love will reverse ALS. It’s a brutal disease that has Chris in its clutches. It won’t let go.
But at this moment, another truth emerges. Neither will his family.
Brittany is sitting in Chris’s office. On the desk is the white Titans helmet from his playing days, adorned with scrapes and gouges. Behind it are a stack of medical forms.
Since Johnson was diagnosed with ALS, it has quickly ravaged him. Also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, after its most noted victim, ALS attacks the brain and spinal cord, leading to debilitating muscle weakness and eventual respiratory failure. Every year, approximately 5,500 Americans are diagnosed with it. There is no cure.
Brittany sits behind the desk and thinks. She’s trying to find the words to adequately describe what her family is enduring.
“The hardest part is just watching little pieces of him be torn away and just trying to imagine exactly what it is that he’s feeling,” she says. “And then immediately after that, it’s the kids. So much has been taken from them in a short period of time. We were a really full family that did so many things. A lot of those things were physical. Chris is very hands-on with the kids and their sports, and he was very big on exercising. Honey would go out on five-mile walks with him, and sometimes she would give up, but she enjoyed those things. If it wasn’t that, then every day there’s practice, and then on the weekend there’s the games. He’s always been right there on the sidelines, coaching them.”
Just the day before, the boys had a preseason middle school football game that Chris had to miss. “They’re just used to him being there,” Brittany says, “and so that’s the hardest thing, just watching him go through it, and trying to put myself in his shoes, even though I know that’s impossible. But then [again], thinking about the kids, and just how much they’re losing, and really, truly missing out on.”
After retiring in 2018 after a 10-year career that included three Pro Bowls, a 2,000-yard rushing season, 2009 Offensive Player of the Year and first-team All-Pro honors, Johnson set out to enjoy his post-football life, even if he never strayed far from the game. The twins are both wideouts for their middle school team, and both say they’re now more motivated than ever to perform on the field. Sitting in his chair, Johnson has Facebook pulled up on his tablet. The background picture is of the twins and Honey. He’s watching a college football video.
In early 2025, less than seven years into retirement, Johnson noticed a problem. His right hand felt weak, and he was struggling to grip the weights at his gym. The initial thought was a pinched nerve or some other residual pain from a decade in the NFL. As the weakness progressed, the concern heightened. Brittany made calls and Johnson saw specialists, all to no avail. Last April, he underwent an electromyography test in Nashville, and ALS appeared to be a distinct possibility. A month later, Chris and Brittany were given the official diagnosis by neurologist James Wymer at the Moran Fixel Institute for Neurological Diseases in Gainesville.
As he began to lose his ability to speak, Johnson recorded his voice and incorporated it into a device that he controls with his eye movements. That’s how he communicates now, as he describes how he reacted upon first hearing the confirmation of ALS. “Once it really sank in, my mind immediately went to my family,” Johnson says. “I thought about Brittany and our kids, and about everything I still wanted to be here for. The birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, and all the little moments most people probably don’t think twice about. I was scared. I think anyone would be. There was sadness, there was anger, and there were a lot of questions about what the future was going to look like. I wasn’t thinking about myself as much as I was thinking about what this meant for the people I love.
“After those emotions settled in, I made a decision. I realized every day was going to matter even more than it ever had before. I want to spend my time making memories and being present with the people I love.”
While family time has increased, so have the minutes necessary to combat the unrelenting nature of ALS. A typical day begins with Chris and Brittany waking up at 8 a.m. Chris uses the bathroom with assistance and has his teeth brushed. Then it’s two hours of being stretched to keep his muscles as functional as possible. From there, Johnson takes vitamins and trial meds in an effort to slow the progression of his disease. On his medical cart, there are seven medication bottles. In the afternoon, it’s physical therapy or a massage four or five days a week. Interspersed are meals and nutritional supplements fed to him by Brittany. Most days, there are appointments with doctors to create a game plan for the coming weeks. Finally, it’s dinner, time with the kids and football practices. Around midnight, bedtime beckons.
For Brittany, there’s no time off. Even with the help of family and Chris’s best friend, Malachi Bleus, the care is endless. Bleus has proven invaluable to his buddy of 20 years, making a near-daily drive an hour each way from Lake Mary to be a support system, while also flying monthly to Mass General Hospital in Boston to get medication for Johnson, which Brittany administers.
“It is paramount to be a friend to my brother when he’s in need, to make sure he has one of his friends that he was around every day, that was in his social life every day,” Bleus says. “I take that personally, to not let him down. Wherever this goes, I will be his friend.”
As Chris’s condition continues to deteriorate, Brittany finds herself living in a state of limbo. Still, she has a future to think about for herself and for her children.
“I think about the future with hope,” Brittany says. “Of course, some days those little negative feelings creep in and you try to imagine what life would be like if something were to happen, but I try not to focus on that. I pray every day for a miracle that he could be healed from this. I don’t try to think about him not being here. I can’t even imagine a life without him being here, especially with the kids being so young. Honey is only 8. When he was diagnosed, she was only 7 years old. So, yes, I do think about the future, but I think about it in a way that a breakthrough will happen. There will be a treatment that will keep him here with us for as long as possible or as God sees fit for him to be here.”
There’s no known cause of ALS. While 10% of cases are genetic, research has shown that smoking, exposure to environmental toxins and military service are risk factors. Another recent study suggests football could be one as well.
This summer, a study released by Boston University, the Mass General Brigham health care system and the Concussion and CTE Foundation found that former NFL playersare four times more likely to be diagnosed with ALS than the general population.
“I don’t think anyone can say with 100% certainty what caused my ALS,” Johnson says. “Mine isn’t genetic, so there isn’t an obvious answer. But I will say this. When we were first trying to figure out what was wrong, we saw a lot of neurologists, and almost every one of them brought up my football career.”
During his time in the league, Johnson touched the ball 2,472 times. Across his first seven seasons, he missed only one game, and he was never diagnosed with a concussion. Still, he says, most of the doctors he saw felt that the game was a contributing factor to his ALS.
“After hearing that over and over,” says Johnson, “it’s hard not to believe football may have played a role. At the same time, I loved the game. Football gave me opportunities I never would have had otherwise, and I’m grateful for everything it brought into my life. My hope is that we continue investing in research so future players and families have answers that we don’t have today.”
Askedif he would have chosen not to play had he known the risks, Johnson says he would still have played the sport but would have picked a different position. It’s not surprising that Johnson says he would still have embraced football. A quick walk around his home makes clear his passion for the game. Though the walls in the entryway are bare, in the theatre room 34 game balls are on display below the vaulted ceiling, spanning his time with the Titans, Jets and Cardinals. To their right, above a doorway leading out to the pool, are 10 framed jerseys, including autographed ones from Carson Palmer, Vince Young and LenDale White, the last of whom checks on him regularly.
Above Palmer’s signature is an inscription written over grass stains: “My guy. It was a pleasure to play with you. I respect your game but more importantly the man and teammate you are.”
To the left of his game balls hang more uniforms. His Titans jersey from the night he was drafted. Five other personal jerseys, including one from Olympia High in Orlando, his Hawai‘i Bowl duds from East Carolina, two AFC Pro Bowl tops and another from his time in Nashville. In the far corner is an NFL Blitz arcade game.
Earlier this year, the Titans announced that they would be inducting Johnson into the team’s Ring of Honor. He’s already in East Carolina’s Hall of Fame. Yet for Johnson, the Pro Football Hall of Fame remains elusive, despite the fact that he amassed 11,906 yards from scrimmage and scored 64 touchdowns, numbers that were 65th and 33rd in NFL history, respectively, when he retired after the 2017 season.
For Johnson, his Canton case isn’t about cumulative stats but a shorter burst of greatness, a path fellow running backs Gale Sayers and Terrell Davis took to enshrinement. Of the six men who have a 2,000-yard season to their credit and are eligible for induction, only Jamal Lewis and Johnson aren’t in the Hall of Fame. The not-yet-eligible members, Adrian Peterson, Derrick Henry and Saquon Barkley, range from locks to likely inductees.
“I do believe I belong in the Hall of Fame,” Johnson says. “When I look at what I accomplished during my career, I think I’ve earned the right to be part of that conversation. And, yeah, it matters to me. It matters a lot. Every kid who grows up playing football dreams about making the Hall of Fame. I’ve spent my whole life working for that, so of course it’s important. At the same time, I know there are things in my life now that are bigger than football. My family will always come first. But if that call ever comes, it would mean the world to me.”
To this point, Johnson has not yet reached the semifinalist stage of the voting process.
On a wall behind his exercise bike hangs a large, framed cover of Sports Illustrated. The issue date is Aug. 23, 2010. Johnson is sitting on the bench during a game in Houston, forearm muscles rippling and dreadlocks falling around his face. The headline? “Crash Course: Hard Hits and Short Careers.”
The camera keeps clicking, and Johnson now has a smile on his face, formed by the upturned corners of his mouth, and a gleam in his eyes. The tears are gone. His kids are huddled around him, seemingly forming a forcefield against the outside world as they pose for a photo.
To look at someone’s children is to look at their legacy. Johnson, barring a miracle, isn’t long for this world, but his daughter, his twin boys and his stepson are thriving. Honey is a spitfire, a kid who wants nothing more than to dress fashionably and win at UNO. On this day, she’s done both. The twins are handsome, soft-spoken athletes, just like their father. Lee is entering his junior year at Florida A&M, pursuing a doctorate in dermatology.
Still, Johnson says he carries regret. He first went public with his ALS diagnosis in an interview with Michael Strahan on Good Morning America on June 29 and now says he wishes he had done so sooner. His children weren’t given the official diagnosis until just before the interview, more than a year after he and Brittany found out.
Now, as his family navigates the impact of his care on their lives, Johnson is trying to raise awareness. He’s succeeding, as the Ice Bucket Challenge, originally made famous in 2014—and amplified by the participation of former New Orleans Saints special teams ace Steve Gleason, who was diagnosed with ALS in 2011—is now back en vogue. On the ALS Association page, there are legions of social media posts of people completing the challenge. The vast majority are in tribute to Johnson. Across the NFL players past and present have doused themselves in ice for the cause, and on NBC’s broadcast of the Pro Football Hall of Fame Game, former Steelers coach Mike Tomlin and his Football Night in America colleagues wore shirts honoring Johnson as well.
Johnson hopes that shining a light on his situation will help other families who face the disease. He longs for a cure, whether it saves him or someone down the line. Most of all, he is motivated by those around him.
“I want to walk Honey down the aisle one day,” Johnson says. “I want to watch my twins achieve their dreams, whatever those dreams may be. I want to see Lee graduate from college and become a doctor. I want to be there for all of those moments. Those are the things I think about every day. At the end of the day, I just want more time with the people I love. Those moments mean everything to me.”
As the hours roll by, so do the Florida storms. Thunder cracks in the distance and rain begins to pelt the windows. Outside, the pool deck appears to be lightly used. The palm trees bordering the pool died in the February freeze. The back lawn has large patches without grass.
Nobody inside the house cares, nor should they. Those things can wait. Those things are fixable. Some things are not.
“Imagine waking up every day and your mind is still there and you still think the same, and you still have the same thoughts, you still have the same dreams and creativity and things of that nature from before, but you can’t use that same mind to control your body,” Lee says. “I still see a great person. Even before it progressed, he was still trying to do the same things that he did before. Show up for everybody, do what he can, be there for the twins, be there for Honey, be there for me if I need something. I know I can ask him. Really nothing has changed from what he tries to do; it’s just, from a physical standpoint, that he can’t control his body in the same way that he used to.”
“To be honest, I haven’t processed it fully,” says Alma. “It hurts. It’s unbearable. It’s everything but good. But I have to be there to support my son and to keep him strong. And Chris is a fighter. He’s fighting, which helps. And we’re fighting for him. And just hopefully and prayerfully, he’ll be back on his feet.”
The photo shoot is done. Everyone is packing up, including some extended family members who must now head home. There are hugs and tears once more, because any time spent apart feels like a lost opportunity.
Johnson remains in the same chair he was in hours ago. Nothing has changed. The bypass machine still pumps away while the kids move about the house. Brittany is close by and Alma hasn’t left the room, either.
As the sun begins its retreat and darkness sets in behind gray clouds, Johnson looks through the window wall and into the distance.
The eyes that were crying before are now dry. They, and he, are ready to face the days ahead.
Add us as a preferred source on GoogleFollowPublished 
MATT VERDERAME
Matt Verderame is a national NFL staff writer for Sports Illustrated, writing features, columns and more. Before joining Sports Illustrated in March 2023, Verderame wrote for FanSided and SB Nation. He’s a proud husband to Stephanie and father of two girls, Maisy and Genevieve. In his spare time, Verderame is an avid collector of vintage baseball cards.
Share on XFollow MattVerderameOriginal Article
