As a member of the commission evaluating retired players' claims for long-term mental health benefits, Dave knew about the problems associated with the brain damage football players can suffer over the course of a career. So his two final actions on the 17th were to text his family telling them to donate his brain to the NFL, and to shoot himself in the heart to make sure the researchers had a clean sample to work with.

Justin Nusz was my neighbor. He lived across the street from me on my court in Reisterstown, a cozy little street with only seven houses in which my family was only the second to buy from an original owner, some 25 years after the first houses went in. Justin took his own life in the woods around Liberty Reservoir a day before Dave Duerson took his.

Justin and I often saw each other as one of us was coming or going, waving and exchanging a friendly greeting but not much more than that. He came over when some friends and I were playing cards one night, and he helped make a path on the hill behind his house for my kids when last winter's snows were too deep for little ones to manage. One of the few photographs of him that we have features the snowball fight on our lawn that he instigated after he came home from work one evening. Justin used to give my younger daughter a quarter when she rode by on her scooter, which explains why every time she saw him come home she made a beeline for the garage. He was a helpful neighbor and great with the kids; everybody loved him, and I heard at the service celebrating his life about how he'd had the same impact in other circles of influence.

I couldn't help noticing that Justin's car was amassing an impressive collection of dents, but I didn't know he had been struggling with addiction again. Truth be told, I didn't know he ever was; a gifted athlete, Justin always looked healthy to me, and I never saw any signs of impairment. Then again, you don't need to be sober to wave.

I was struck this week by the fact that even though I lived across the street from Justin for over seven years, I didn't know him as well as I knew some guy I'd met at a bar in another state. Of course, a cigar and a brandy are usually more conducive to intimate conversation than a handful of mail and an empty garbage can. But I still wonder what kind of neighbor I am, if this kind of suffering is going on right across the street and I'm completely oblivious to it.

I had the privilege of leading Justin's memorial service on Saturday, and I was glad to see that it brought some closure to his friends and family as they work through their grief. It helped me, too, to know that whatever my shortcomings as a neighbor, however much my busted knee won't let me shovel my own driveway let alone anybody else's, I was able to do what I could to honor Justin's life.

I only wish I could have honored it better while he was still living it.