Donating his brain for research means my dad now speaks for the living
NOT for the squeamish, it was unmissable science in action.
The dissection of a human brain unlocks more secrets about a person’s character than we could conceal in a treasure trove of love letters.
Your correspondent was privileged to watch Steve Gentleman (bottom right), a professor of neuropathology at Imperial College London, decipher the code of neurons, stem cells and blood vessels in one preserved encephalon at the Parkinson’s UK Brain Bank.
One day his research, based on the donation of human brains, could stop the march of Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s and other insidious enemies.
Former England striker Jeff Astle donated his brain, in the name of medical science, after his death at the age of 59.
Better late than never, it revealed the concussive effects of heading leather footballs, and turned his family’s campaign for essential research into the subject from a torch into a raging bushfire.
Fifty years ago this month, Astle (below, diving to score) finished the season as leading marksman in English football’s top flight.
His 25 goals for West Brom earned him a place in Sir Alf Ramsey’s England squad.
The tenacity of his family, led by Astle’s daughter Dawn, in pursuit of the truth behind his death has shone a light in some uncomfortable corners for the game.
“By dying, and donating his brain for medical research, my dad now speaks for the living,” said Dawn.
“Everything that football gave him – England caps, the winner in an FA Cup final – football took away again.
“Normally, he was so easy-going and he never got worked up
– his glass was always half-full.
“But years before he fell ill, he watched a TV programme about organ donation and suddenly he piped up, ‘I don’t understand why people wouldn’t donate parts of their body after they pass away – they are no good to you when you are gone.’
“He was unusually passionate about it, so we had no hesitation in offering his brain to medical science.
“Without that donation, we would never have known that, in the end, his brain looked like the brain of a boxer.”
When he died in January 2002, Astle’s health had already been in manifest decline for four years, his dementia accelerated by repeated heading of leather footballs.
The coroner’s verdict – death by “industrial disease” – rang alarm bells immediately. “We knew my dad couldn’t possibly be the only one,” said Dawn.
“He died on my birthday, in my house, choking on my food, and the image haunts me to this day. But when you go through something so traumatic, it hardens your resolve to find the truth.”
It would take 12 years before the family arranged with Dr Willie Stewart, a consultant neuropathologist in Glasgow, to re-examine Astle’s brain tissue.
He confirmed their deepest suspicion: Astle had not been suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s but CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), a degenerative condition consistent with punch-drunk boxers. “Dr Stewart told us if he hadn’t known my dad was 59, he would have thought the brain belonged to a man of 90 or more,” said Dawn.
“The truth came out when he re-examined my dad’s brain in 2014 on his birthday, May 13.”
Three of the 1966 World Cup winning squad – the late Ray Wilson and Martin Peters, and Nobby
Stiles, who has advanced dementia – have already been struck down by the curse of neurological disintegration.
Were they all victims of the same trauma as Astle? The circumstantial evidence is stacking up.