of '86 so that he could avoid a lengthy recovery from surgery in the offseason. He didn't have it done so that he wouldn't have to miss any games. He also regretted doing it.

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In April, doctors looked at the badly damaged finger on Ronnie Lott's left hand and gave him two choices. They could operate, graft a bone from the wrist, insert a pin and have him wear a cast for the next eight weeks. Or they could amputate just above the first joint. Lott made what coaches like to call "the football decision." He told them to cut off the end of his finger. It was a simple procedure. He held out his hand, they numbed it and snipped off the finger tip and put his hand in a cast. After three weeks he went back to have the cast removed. The doctor took off the last dressing. "What do you think?" he asked. Lott couldn't answer. He was staring at a stub. Instead of a fingernail there was only a whitish, rounded stump. "The ugliest thing I've ever seen," Lott says. "I was trying to laugh it off, but I felt sick. I tried to stand up, but I broke into a cold sweat. It was just a total shock. I thought, 'Oh, man, I should have had the pin put in.' " Lott has had worse injuries, but emotionally this one was different. It made him feel that football was biting off bits and pieces of him, of everyone who plays. And no one seems to care. "We are losing the compassionate side of sports," he says. "We're becoming gladiators. If I ever become a coach, I hope I never lose sight of the fact that players are people. They feel, they have emotions. I could have all of Eddie DeBartolo's corporations and it isn't going to buy me a new finger. It has given me a new perspective on life."