The Full Monty: Why Detroit Lions RB David Montgomery runs so damn hard
You see him carrying bodies on his back every single week. But why? Go Long sits down with the heartbeat of the Detroit Lions, a man dealing with more pain and more family trauma than anyone knows.
ALLEN PARK, Mich. — The running back who shrouds himself in mystery is coated in tattoos and battle scars. A crucifix behind one ear. The image of teeth and lips smiling between his thumb and index finger with the message: “Why so serious?” Bruises and scabs blot both knees. And as David Montgomery digs at one gash on his left knee, your eyes are naturally drawn to the massive tattoo on the inside of that calf.
Stretching all the way down to his ankle is an illustration of The Joker, the menacing Heath Ledger version: death-stare glare, lips pursed, weathered skin, two streaks of paint down the face with hair slicked back.
For good measure, underneath this mug is the vintage comic strip of the Joker with the word, “BASH!”
Gotham City’s antagonist is inscribed on his skin permanently for a reason.
“I embody who he is,” Montgomery says. “I don’t think he’s a villain. He’s a misunderstood human.”
He’s as passionate on this topic as any. As Montgomery explains, all Arthur Fleck wanted in life — initially — was to be accepted. But he was different. He was mocked. And once he became a “villain,” Fleck finally felt noticed. So, he accepted that role. He became The Joker. Even as a professional athlete who’s now rushed for 5,069 yards and 44 touchdowns, who’s earned millions, who’s become the thundering presence on a Super Bowl contender, Montgomery feels enormously misunderstood.
“People look at me and think they know who I am and they don’t know me — by any means at all,” he says. “They label me for what they think that I am.
“I’m not that at all.”
What the world sees is a running back throwing the Detroit Lions offense on his back to KO the Los Angeles Rams in overtime of Week 1. One hesitation, one burst, one high step and he shreds through helpless arm tackles for 21 yards off right tackle. Next, he muscles through 1… 2… 3… 4 defenders for nine yards to the left. On third and 1, he carries a pile of bodies to the goal line. And, of course, he caps it all off with the game-winner.
In the end zone, Montgomery flexes, nearly tears his helmet off, and Ford Field goes berserk.
What the world sees is a V8 engine bashing away for 122 yards in Detroit’s 20-13 win in Glendale, Ariz., two weeks later.
More scars, more bruises, more pain.
No position in football spotlights individuality quite like the Great American Tailback. It’s why we all pretended to be Barry or Thurman or The Bus or Sweetness or Bo in our backyards and basements. We juked, spun, high-kneed, stiff-armed and accrued a goose egg (or five) blasting into walls as our Dads played ZZ Top at maximum volume. The nerdification the sport hasn’t changed the fact that when the ball’s placed in the bread basket of a running back, anything can happen. This remains the purest form of art in the sport.
The way bodies pile on top of Montgomery — one by one — is cartoonish. His legs keep churning for yardage. He’s everything Dan Campbell could’ve created in the running-back laboratory because this is not someone who runs the ball merely because he’s good at it. No, it can’t be. There must be a deeper purpose.
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Broach the subject initially and he peels back one layer of onion.
“For me, it’s more so ensuring that I don’t let my teammates down,” Montgomery says. “I can’t let them down. When I’ve got the ball in my hands — them trusting in me — especially in crunch time and overtime, it felt good to know my team trusts me in that position to be able to contribute. If I don’t, I’d be failing them and myself. I couldn’t live with that.”
Broach the subject a second time, and he peels back another layer. He points to a football world telling him he’s never been “that dude.”
“That drives me and fuels me to not prove them wrong, but prove myself right. Everybody told me I wasn’t good enough.”
The Cincinnati, Ohio native transformed Iowa State football. Now, he’s the animal spirit of the Detroit Lions. He personifies everything the general manager and head coach preach. Because while Scottie Montgomery (no relation) acknowledges that the word “grit” has been co-opted and hackneyed by everyone in the sport, he also insists David is the essence of those four letters repeated nonstop at Allen Park. Certain people are “special,” the coach begins. They’ve got something inside no 40 time, no 15-minute highlight clip could ever measure.
He calls him the hardest worker on the team. The Lions knew they were getting a rock-solid player. They didn’t know he’d lead to this extreme.
Then, the coach notes this 27-year-old is a father and a brother who pours himself into family.
“He likes the responsibility,” says Scottie Montgomery, who’s also the assistant head coach. “That’s what people miss out. You’ve got a player who likes the responsibility of being coached hard, who likes the responsibility of wanting the ball at the end of the game.”
One more hint…
“His family makes him,” Scottie says. “Like 100 percent. Caring for his… he’s been through a lot. He’s been through a lot with his family, even as of recent. They make him. They drive him. He will do anything for his family. If that means he’s got to run into a brick wall on fourth and 1? He’s doing it for the building, but he’s doing it for his family now.”
There’s everything he experienced as a kid. It’s no coincidence he hails from the same city as another player with his own take-no-prisoners mentality: David Long Jr. Both were hardened in the same streets. Montgomery witnessed a friend take his last breath. A role model was murdered in a home invasion. One half-brother’s still in prison for murder. He never knew his own father. That same scowl you see when the NFL cameras zoom into Montgomery’s eyes two seconds before the ball’s snapped is what’s seen here. Details are not offered on a silver platter. But piece… by piece… by piece, he opens up.
Until, finally, David Montgomery opens up on family trauma for the first time publicly.
“Every day,” he says, “changes the trajectory of your life.”
His nephew, Yhzrah, was diagnosed with leukemia two years ago. He’s alive and fighting.
His sister, Kiki, got into a horrible car accident this past February. She’s Yhzrah’s mother. She’s now paralyzed from the neck down.
“A family that prays together,” David says, “stays together.”
The burden is heavy. Much heavier than the row of 45-pound plates he slides onto the squat rack and the number of bodies that leap atop that pile to tackle him. All of those scars covering his limbs will heal. His sister’s condition doesn’t improve, and that hurts most. His only answer? Keep his legs churning. Take the Lions with him. Run harder, only harder. Sacrifice as much as he possibly can on the field and smile through the pain.
He’s right.
Nobody has a clue.
Hardened
All of this was very normal. When bills went unpaid, and the entire family needed to improvise basic daily tasks, Montgomery never thought twice.
No hot water? To bathe, they’d purchase gallons of water at the nearby Speedway and boil it. No heat during the winter? His family opened the oven door and cranked that temperature knob as far as it’d go. No lights? Whenever their electricity was shut off, Montgomery’s family grabbed a book of matches and lit candles throughout the home.
Home to home to home. They lived where they could afford to live.
“The typical shit,” Montgomery says.
His mother worked doubles as a nurse’s aide in dialysis. His stepfather worked double shifts, too. Both were laid off multiple times. All paychecks barely kept heads above water — there was no such thing as discretionary income. There were four kids in all, three sons and one older daughter who eventually moved out. Usually, they wouldn’t even see Mom until 11 p.m.
Everyday life shaped Montgomery.
So did everything he saw.
“I lost a lot of people,” he says. “I’ve seen death. I’ve seen it all.”
He’s hesitant to relive those moments — for a moment — before then taking a deep breath and sharing the most vivid, most traumatizing of them all. In middle school, Montgomery hung out with his friend and friend’s cousin after a football game. Together, the three watched Michael Myers in the first “Halloween” movie. They ate popcorn. Enjoyed the scares. And who could forget that creepy theme music? Epic. Suddenly, there was very real trouble in this living room. That cousin was on a breathing machine for his asthma when, without warning, the nebulizer stopped working.
He passed out. They called 9-1-1.
By the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late. Doctors couldn’t bring the boy back to life.
“I saw the air and the life leave his body,” Montgomery says.
Outside of the house, into the streets, he witnessed more ghastly images. More death that subconsciously made him. Never a target himself — thankfully — Montgomery saw several kids get shot in his neighborhood. Like boiling water as a kid, this was the norm right into high school as he took over as the starting quarterback on Mt. Healthy’s football team. On Nov. 16, 2013, in the Ohio Division II quarterfinals, he plunged over center for one touchdown and threw a game-winning bomb of a touchdown with 1 minute and 11 seconds left to eliminate David Long’s Winton Woods squad. The game launched a hearty rivalry between the two. One collision, Long grabbed him by the shoulders and rag-dolled him to the turf. (Montgomery never forgot.)
Euphoria was short-lived. The next morning, on Nov. 17, Montgomery received devastating news. Vince Turnage — whom he calls a “neighborhood hero” — was killed in a home invasion. On a full-ride track scholarship at the University of Akron, the 19-year-old was back home visiting for this playoff game.
Turnage wasn’t only his brother Jared’s best friend. He was a mentor and a role model for so many in the area. Especially David. The entire community was crushed. Early that Sunday morning, in Springfield Township, police say gunmen busted down the front and back doors of the house and yelled: “SWAT! Give us the dope, give us the money!” before then gathering family members together in one room and robbing the home.
Turnage and his girlfriend, police said, were in a downstairs bedroom. He tried leading her to safety through a basement door and was shot in the head.
Police first theorized that the intended victim might’ve been Vince Sr. — a longtime criminal — who no longer lived in the house. Turnage’s girlfriend identified Damon Kirkendall, 21, as the killer but Judge Melba Marsh (theatrically) declared him not guilty and bolted from the bench as Turnage’s family wept. There was no jury. Marsh cited a lack of sufficient DNA and forensic evidence. In one local news segment, even Kirkendall’s defense team appeared surprised by the verdict.
For so long, death didn’t affect Montgomery because “death,” he adds, coldly, “was so persistent around me.”
This one shook him up.
“Because I know that he was a good dude, good person, a good human,” Montgomery says. “He came back home for a weekend and he lost his life. I’ve got ultimate respect for who he is, but I also have gratitude in knowing that Vince was doing everything that he could to be the best version of himself, and somebody was selfish enough to take his life. It’s my job to honor his name every way that I can.”
First, Montgomery needed to find a college. He’s not exaggerating in claiming D-I schools wanted nothing to do with him.
He cites Army, Miami (Ohio) and the University at Buffalo as schools that pulled their offers. The University of Toledo held a satellite camp at Colerain High School, 14 miles from Cincy, and the Rockets’ recruiter in Southwest Ohio, Bryan Gasser, says Montgomery “killed it.” He remembers the senior putting on a show vs. linebackers in 1 on 1 drills and Gasser also had a strong relationship with Mt. Healthy coach Arvie Crouch. He knew Crouch wasn’t BS’ing him when he insisted this dual-threat quarterback was a special person. In fact, everybody at Mt. Healthy eagerly dropped whatever they were doing to sing the kid’s praises. Montgomery was the best talent at this camp — it wasn’t even close — but Toledo didn’t have a scholarship to spare. Afterward, head coach Matt Campbell pulled the kid aside to tell him he’s one hell of a player and that something would break. “Believe it,” he told him.
Montgomery was too pissed to believe. To him, this was a D-I coach letting him down nicely.
Then, that fall, he saw on ESPN that Campbell had been hired as Iowa State’s next head coach.
His numbers were bonkers as a senior: 2,707 yards (10.1 avg.) and 41 TDs on the ground alone.
As Iowa State’s new staff settled in, they started assembling a roster. Running backs coach Lou Ayeni, Gasser and Campbell knew they already had damn good backs in future NFL draft pick Kene Nwangwu and reigning Big 12 Freshman of the Year Michael Warren. With one scholarship still available, they popped Montgomery’s film on for all of two minutes and Ayeni assumed this was a prospect headed to Ohio State or Michigan. Gasser informed him it was the total opposite. Montgomery was only coveted by Division-II Notre Dame College in South Euclid, Ohio and an FCS school in South Carolina. If Iowa State wanted him, they’d get him.
Ayeni and Montgomery clicked. The running back was Iowa State-bound.
Thrilling as that H.S. tape was to watch, they valued this kid as someone who put an ordinary high school team on the map. Crucial considering they were trying to lift their own program out of the Big 12 wastelands. The Cyclones had one winning season the previous decade.
“They needed something to challenge what the old Iowa State used to be,” Montgomery says, “and they felt like I could fulfill that. I didn’t know that was my job when I got there. I just felt like I was being me.”
He pauses to determine exactly what that quality is inside of him. More memories replay.
“The shit,” he says, “that I’ve been through in my life. The hard shit. Being resilient through it all and not making an excuse.”
This includes losing an older half-brother to prison. Maceo Feltha was convicted of murder and sentenced to 15 years to life. Per court documents, this was the result of a drug dispute. Feltha later said his confession of guilt was coerced but his appeal was denied. When I first met Montgomery, in 2019, he spoke of Feltha in hopeful terms. He believed his brother was innocent and said his family was working hard to find a new lawyer that’d appeal the case again. David was confident they’d win. Bring up Feltha five years later, and his tone is much different. His brother’s still in prison, but they don’t talk much anymore. He says he prays for him, loves him and leaves it at that.
The “hard shit” makes him, but it’s also a burden.
Once he got to college, Montgomery wanted to quit.
The Brink
Campus life should’ve brought comfort. Instead, replacing Cincy’s streets with the tranquility of Ames, Iowa 600 miles away was hell. David Montgomery hated it. He was here to establish a new football culture, but day-to-day life itself became one jarring “culture shock.”
He was more paranoid at the safest campus inside one of the nation’s safest states than he ever was where gunfire rained back home.
He interpreted Midwest hospitality as sneaking hostility. Montgomery trusted no one.
“Because I was a black kid from the hood,” Montgomery says. “I’m around all these white people. I was so scared because I thought they were being nice for a reason. I was scared that they were trying to do something to me. Because they were being too nice. I wasn’t used to that. I came from the hood where everybody was just trying to survive and it was taken from everybody. However they had to get it. So when you go up to a place where there’s friendly people — good people, genuine people — that shit shocks you because you think it’s too good to be true.”
Montgomery needed to go home. ASAP. There was comfort in the chaos, in exchanging the same icy glare with strangers.
He missed his family. He was “getting smacked” by schoolwork. Worst of all, everything was too regimented, too damn scheduled: lifts, class, film, practice. Montgomery preferred an unpredictable life. Of course, it also didn’t help that the true freshman was splitting carries with Warren and quarterback Joel Lanning. All three had 100 attempts. Such a role may seem routine but this is also someone who literally touched the ball every single play at Mt. Healthy. Thing is, he wasn’t even thinking about playing football somewhere else. Montgomery, flat out, was prepared to quit — “I was done, I was done,” he repeats — and move back to Cincinnati. Through long conversations with Jared, “Coach Lou” and Campbell his entire freshman year and the beginning of his sophomore year, he decided to stay.
The most important conversation was the one Montgomery had with himself.
He recalls that chat going something like this: You complain about everybody not giving you a chance and now you got it and you want to piss it away because it’s hard. Fuck that shit.
Says Montgomery: “I’m happy that I was able to be honest with myself. I had to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.”
Gasser, the Cyclones’ receivers coach, remembers seeing this Fuck That Shit energy up close. At the tail end of that freshman year, when Iowa State pounded Patrick Mahomes and Texas Tech, 66-10, Lanning rushed for 171 yards on 11 carries whereas Montgomery managed only 31 yards on the same number of carries. A comment was made in the local newspaper about Lanning being the best runner in Ames. So, Montgomery cut out that article and taped it in his locker.
He wanted to look at it every day.
He wanted everyone on the team to know this statement was not true.
Granted, he was cured overnight. He still had friends dead, a brother in prison, parents pinching pennies. Any leftover Pell Grant money was sent home to keep those lights on. Nor did he allow himself to party at all on campus. Montgomery worked out nonstop. Or at least as late as he was allowed. His code into the facility only worked until around 10 p.m. During one of his long talks with Campbell, he spotted a sticky note on the coach’s desk right next to a picture of the coach’s son. Right there was the 24/7 access code. Jackpot.
Montgomery swiped those digits without Campbell knowing and, that night, pounded away at the sled machine. Pop! Pop! Pop! He poured sweat. He lost himself in another workout until… something weird happened. He started sobbing. Out of nowhere, all trauma Montgomery experienced in his life resurfaced to clobber him all at once. He couldn’t contain his emotions any longer. Everything he had become “numb” to — everything he says he “extinguished” with football — was now screaming inside his head at a fever pitch.
“It was chewing me up,” Montgomery says, “and I didn’t realize how heavy it was until it came out.”
Montgomery didn’t think his best friend on the team saw him break down, but Marcel Spears saw everything.
Spears told him to let it all out. To this day, he’s thankful he wasn’t alone.
“He was being a brother at that point for me,” Montgomery says. “That gave me resiliency in my situation. But it also gave me confidence enough to know that I’m not in it by myself. It’s alright to have emotions.”
All Montgomery did next was become one of the most dominant bell-cow backs in the country.
In ’17, he rushed for 1,146 yards and 11 touchdowns. In ’18, he rushed for 1,216 yards with 13 scores and — that season? — Montgomery is very quick to note he got his sweet revenge on Long when Iowa State upset No. 6-ranked West Virginia. He recites his stat line (189 yards on 29 carries) and points to one juke that left Long lunging for air. After his touchdown this game, Montgomery flashed the same peace sign he did throughout his collegiate career.
Only it’s no peace sign.
This is always a “V up” to honor Vince Turnage. He forever wants Vince to live through him.
Both seasons, the Cyclones went 8-5. To this date, Campbell’s club holds its own vs. the best programs in the country and no way is this 180 turnaround possible without Montgomery. He never verbally instructed teammates to join him in that weight room. Rather, he started working out at all hours of the day and others followed. Others saw his sweat (and tears) transfer to real results.
“It went from him being the guy in there at 1 a.m.,” says Gasser, who’s now a director of player personnel at Toledo, “doing all these extra drills and catching off the JUGS, to two guys, to the next thing you know? There were more guys in the program doing it than not. And I think that’s what was so special about Dave. It was never about him. It was always about that transcendent leadership. He transcended that program. He’s got transformational work ethic and it became so contagious within the building.”
One more moment of truth awaited.
Off to the Chicago Bears as the fourth running back drafted in 2019, expectations were immediate. Daunting. This was a title-starved organization that went 12-4 the previous season. A team that came within a “Double Doink” of the NFC divisional playoff round where players are still certain they would’ve smashed the Rams. Montgomery was justifiably hyped as the weapon who’d get the Bears to a Super Bowl. Even Jarrett Payton saw signs of his Hall of Fame father. No running back’s personality was revealed on the field quite like Walter Payton. At only 5-10, 200 pounds, “Sweetness” earned every inch of his 16,726 career yards. Parallels, to his son, were striking. “His toughness on the football field just screams what my dad was all about,” Jarrett told me then. “He does not shy away from anything.”
Yet, there wasn’t much daylight available. At all. If a running style reflects a man’s true self, this Montgomery was a bore. He averaged 3.7 yards per carry. Facing intense criticism for the first time, Year 1 of the NFL was a cruel repeat of Year 1 in Ames. He was miserable. His confidence melted. The reason Montgomery fell in the draft was his 40-yard dash. Now that bleak 4.63 was paired with equally bleak film.
David Montgomery let others define David Montgomery, and even started to believe the doubts himself.
He told himself he wasn’t good enough.
“It was tough,” he says. “Terrible.”
In truth, the entire Bears team was nosediving back into a lake of fire. At the behest of Brad Childress, head coach Matt Nagy turned on his quarterback in training camp. Mitchell Trubisky regressed. The shrapnel caught everyone.
Blunt conversations with his parents and brother helped. Their message was consistent: “You’ve been through all this hard stuff in your life, you overcame all of it. The average human couldn’t step or walk two steps in your shoes. And you’re listening to what somebody else has to say?”
They were correct.
He stopped listening to fans. He ignored the fact that the Bears drafted two more running backs. He didn’t concern himself with the clown show breaking out at Halas Hall. The Bears couldn’t locate their ass from a hole in the ground, yet Montgomery still managed to string together three solid seasons in ’20, ’21 and ‘22. A division rival noticed. Simultaneously, the Detroit Lions emerged from their own purgatory. Sure, this Lions club rushed for 2,179 yards in 2022 with Jamaal Williams fresh off the best individual rushing season the team’s seen since Barry Sanders three decades prior. Not only did Williams lead the NFL with 17 touchdowns and eclipse 1,000 yards — he was beloved, he was the soul of this turnaround.
Yet, the 9-8 Lions dared to be something greater.
Out was Williams. In was Montgomery.
The pairing was destiny.
Tested
Within these walls, the Lions wisely fight against groupthink with all their might. Before all power brokers assemble in the boardroom to discuss a free agent or a college prospect, they study film independently. Each coach, each scout must develop their own opinion. Ideally, it’s a strong opinion devoid of hedges and word salads. Robust debate is the goal.
Ahead of free agency, everybody studied David Montgomery.
They took careful notes. They met to discuss. The opinions were not so independent.
“We all felt the same way about him,” says Scottie Montgomery.
The sport’s gravitational forces were bound to pull the two parties together.
They saw creativity. This was a back who turned TFL’s into four-yard gains. They liked his pad level. They loved how hard he ran the ball. And each time the Bears added competition, it didn’t seem to faze Montgomery. He evolved. Scottie Montgomery also had a source on the inside. He went to Duke University with the man who coached Montgomery 2019 and 2020. Charles London had left Chicago by ’23 and could speak freely. (“I got a little bit lucky with that one,” Scottie says.) London helped him understand the person.
These Lions know exactly what they’re looking for in a player’s mental makeup — as examined in the roster’s DNA, “grit” and ass-kicking origins. That’s toughness. As society changes, so does the league’s pool of players. Right tackle Penei Sewell may be willing to “die on the field” for his teammates, but he’s an endangered species. There’s far more young players who’d rather nurse an ankle injury and collect a paycheck because this is a job. Not a passion. The front offices proficient in sifting through this new NIL World for players who genuinely love football will have a distinct advantage. Because as much as the sport has changed since the Lions’ last championship in 1957, football is forever rooted in personal sacrifice, in accepting all excruciating pain on Monday AM.
“We’re getting guys that would play no matter what,” Scottie Montgomery says. “That is rare today. It reminds you more of what it used to be like in this building.”
Several coaches on staff played in the NFL. They can relate. Coaches don’t want to let the players down, Scottie adds, and players don’t want to let them down.
Too often, teams are overwhelmed by talent, by skillset. Understandably so. Athletes today hire specialized trainers as young as 13, 14, 15.
“But at the end of the day,” Scottie continues, “you’ve still got to put the shoulder pads on and that’s where the unknown comes. When you put the shoulder pads on, you’ve got to go tackle David Montgomery and you’re going to make a decision whether you love football or you just like football. If you want to know if you love playing football or not, think about tackling him. It’ll clear it up in your mind really quickly.”
No RB1 in the sport is creating more business decisions than Montgomery. He was everything the Lions dreamt of — and then some — in rushing for 1,015 yards on 219 carries (4.6 avg.) with 13 touchdowns last season. His violence complements the breakaway speed of 2023 first-rounder Jahmyr Gibbs beautifully. Year 1 of this new experiment at running back nearly ended in confetti. A championship is very real in 2024.
Gasser cannot think of a better match in the football world than David Montgomery and Dan Campbell.
To him, nobody’s more equipped to change everything the world’s ever known about the woebegone Lions.
“David was put on this earth to impact those around him,” says Gasser. “For as good of a football player as he is, he’s a first-round human being. He’s selfless. He’s a guy that is going to give more than he takes, and a guy that is always going to get extraordinary results because he has uncommon work ethic. He just is that way. He puts everybody else ahead of himself.”
Year 1 in Ames, Montgomery felt like a feral creature caged up. Not here. Three times in a row, he says Detroit “feels like home.” Montgomery believes he exemplifies Detroit on the field because it’s so similar to Cincinnati. The grit, the grime. This snarling throwback with the hard outer shell fits right in.
And yet? Fatherhood changes you. Becoming a Dad has inevitably revealed his softer side.
At one point in life, Montgomery searched… and searched… for his biological father but ran into nothing but dead-ends. This left a permanent scar he’d never pass down.
David Jr. — “JuJu” — is 19 months old, and his entire world.
“That’s everything, man,” Montgomery says. “I don’t know who my real pops is. So I made a vow and a promise to myself that when I got to a point where I could be a Dad that my son would know, or my daughter would know, what it’s like to always have somebody that’s available.”
JuJu is already showing a ton of personality and Dad loves how he doesn’t give a damn if he has a good game or a bad game. JuJu loves him “unconditionally” — that alone completely reshaped his perspective on life. The “Twitter Fingers” that used to piss him off in Chicago never get to him anymore. And this brahma bull colliding with linebackers at his day job deals with the same day-to-day trials and tribulations as all new fathers.
Take this week. His girlfriend Tatum Causey is in Germany, which means bad habits are a guarantee. Like bringing his son into bed with him to sleep at night. He knows Causey is going to be pissed when she gets back and they need to somehow get their son sleeping in his room again.
This morning, he woke up with JuJu’s diaper in his face.
“I’m like, ‘Bro, you got all this room in here and you want to take up this space in my face with your diaper?!’”
Life as a Dad unequivocally rocks.
Each hardship in life prepared him for the next. And the next. And the next. To the point where he’ll be able to pass wisdom to David Jr. that he never received himself.
“Everything that I went through — hard, good, bad, indifferent — no matter what it looked like or however it felt like in that moment when it was the hardest thing in the world, once I got past it? And I looked back at it? I’m like, ‘Bro, it wasn’t that bad. I needed it,” Montgomery says. “And I know now with me having my son, if I didn’t have those moments, I wouldn’t be able to teach him or be able to be honest and authentic with him in certain situations without going through what I went through.”
Still, nothing could’ve prepared Montgomery for last February.
This is a sore subject. He cannot completely spill his guts, not yet, because it’s clearly difficult to discuss. But, yes, his 34-year-old sister got into an awful car accident on Feb. 13 that rendered her paralyzed from the neck down. Every day is an unfathomable struggle for Kiki. Here, Montgomery visibly chokes back emotions. All he can muster is that the whole situation is “trash,” and that it has sharpened that perspective more than ever.
“Makes me complain less,” he says. “Have more gratitude for where I’m at and understanding that my life can be completely different in the blink of an eye.
“Just like that.”
“She’s a champ.”
He talks to Kiki all of the time. They’re exceptionally close — “that’s my dog,” he says. He’s thankful she survived the car crash but living with the car crash has been harder than anybody outside the family could possibly understand. In a split-second, her life changed. Forever.
“She was up moving around all the time,” Montgomery says. “Now, she can’t move or do none of that stuff. It’s sad. It sucks. She’s fighting.”
He tries to bring her joy as much as he can. JuJu sure does. She loves talking to his son.
Then, there’s Kiki’s son.
Eight-year-old Yhzrah is still alive, still fighting leukemia.
“He just wants to play sports and he doesn’t complain or nothing,” Montgomery says. “He’s just a kid having leukemia, having this infection eating him up from inside-out and he…”
He pauses.
“…is just being a kid.”
On Monday Night Football against the Seattle Seahawks, you’ll see Montgomery carry more grown men on his back. The No. 1 reason? He knows it’s absolutely nothing compared to what Kiki and Yhzrah endure back in Cincinnati. When he says he’s running for his city, he’s talking about them.
“I haven’t done anything in comparison,” he says.
Childhood trauma could’ve destroyed him. It did not. Will this? The emotional toll is hard for Montgomery to even put into words. It’s impossible to compartmentalize what his sister’s going through as a quadriplegic. Her pain is inexorably part of him. Each hardship might’ve prepared Montgomery for the next… but this is different. Only time will tell how he copes. Emotions are bound to pour out of him — at some point — exactly as they did that tearful night working out at Iowa State.
If only that breathing machine didn’t malfunction. If only Vince stayed at Akron the weekend of that playoff game vs. Winton Woods. If only his sister wasn’t traveling down that road at that exact moment. It’s all enough to push anyone over the brink. He should be screaming “Why!?” because all of this was totally out of his control. All Montgomery can do is take back some semblance of control when quarterback Jared Goff places the football in his hands and 11 other men are trying to drill him.
He’ll gladly absorb and inflict all pain. Everything Montgomery has been through is fully reflected in the way he runs the football.
“I don’t ever want to squander or waste an opportunity putting effort into something,” Montgomery says. “If something doesn’t work in this NFL, I don’t want it to be because I didn’t try hard enough.
“I just focus on being the best version of myself every day so that my teammates can rely and depend on me.”
All hard shit only made him a better running back in the past. Nobody should be surprised if 2024 is the best year of his football life. The night before games, Scottie Montgomery is giving David as much intel as he possibly can on that week’s opponent. David craves more. And more. And more. Because this is a running back who’ll study a gameplan for hours. The morning of, the two discuss everything. “He’s brilliant,” Scottie Montgomery says.
That’s not the only hidden aspect of his game. Where we all see power — a ridiculously muscular specimen — Scottie Montgomery notes that David’s “quickness” and “speed” is what creates that power. He’ll jump cut once, twice, then run you over.
Nor does David Montgomery ever need to feel alone here in Detroit. He has sat down with Scottie (again, no relation) several times to discuss this family tragedy. Countless players throughout the NFL have raved about Scottie Montgomery, the human. He’s a coach who strives to connect with players on a personal level.
One day, Scottie hopes JuJu’s son is sitting on his lap and he can share endless tales about his grandfather.
“The things that he’s been through has only made him stronger,” Scottie says. “A lot of times, it can break you. They break a lot of people down and you know what? Some of it is really, really powerful. And it hurts. But what David’s been able to do is focus on what he loves: His family and football and his faith. Man, he is an unbelievable human.
“But he’s been through the fire, man.”
He isn’t constrained by “limitations.” Not anymore.
David Montgomery declares himself unlike any running back in the NFL.
“I’ve always been counted out,” he says. “I’ve always been in the ‘bottom-tier’ running backs in the league. And I’ve always proved to myself that I’m not. I’ll never allow anybody to create a limitation on me. I was fooled as a rookie. When I overcame it, I realized that it’s not real.”
That’s how he manages to take over a game in overtime vs. Rams. He visually prepared for that moment. Many more are to come.
Several times, the man in the Joker tattoos says he’s misunderstood. Even his Instagram handle, @reallyunderstandme, suggests he’s begging for the world to see the Real David Montgomery. Yet when given the opportunity to do exactly that, to tell everyone who that is, he bristles.
“I don’t want anybody to know anything,” Montgomery says. “At the end of the day, you’re going to have your perception of me regardless. I don’t care what you think of me.”
Life’s simple. He doesn’t give a shit what anybody thinks of him. All Montgomery cares about is being a “good pops and a good human.” Given an opportunity to elaborate on his sister and nephew after our conversations in Allen Park, Montgomery plans on calling my cell, but never does. Obviously understandable. It’s all still so raw. This isn’t the sort of trauma anyone’s in a hurry to discuss with strangers.
But, in reality, there’s never been a need for David Montgomery to narrate his life.
Everything that’s happened to him tells half the story.
Everything that happens next tells the rest.
Thank you for reading.
We’re committed to covering the NFL through a humanizing lens here at Go Long.
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A fantastic read but it pains me as a Bears fan to see him run for the Lions. Much like Matt Forte he was an excellent back that we never utilized correctly. Thanks for the insight and the perspective.
Such a great read!