In honor of Veterans Day, we look back on this story of wounded warriors who found hope in the gym with former NFL player David Voroy as coach and inspiration. History was originally written on the 11th. November 2016 published.

They form a free circle, some are sitting in a wheelchair, others in a folding chair, with prostheses or arms stretched forwards. Some of them are lying on the stumps on the ground with their prostheses removed. Others are standing with crutches in their hands or leaning on sports equipment. A quadruple amputee sits next to the triple amputee. A legless survivor of a car accident sits with one hand and one foot next to a veteran. Two quadriplegics give advice on leg amputation.

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They are all here at the OakFit Gymnasium, in a picturesque street near the center of Dallas, working with a man in the middle of the circle. David Vobora stands on a wooden block, jumps up and down with his energy constantly in time and speaks to the group. This is the start of the third week for the Adaptive Training Foundation (ATF), a non-profit organization founded in September 2014 that works with adapted athletes – amputees, cripples, quadruples, people with physical disabilities. It is a nine-week training program aimed at strengthening each athlete, restoring confidence and redefining the body’s capabilities.

Tell me what you want to do, what you want to do at the end of these nine weeks, and we’ll hang it on the wall, Vobora says. We’ll find a way.

He speaks to the group with the confidence of a man who has survived the four grueling seasons of the NFL – and the opiate addiction that almost destroyed him. He saw the low point and crawled through it, an experience in which many in the ATF group are deeply personal.

Fault! The file name is not specified. – set


David Vobora, a 2008 NFL conscript, offers war veterans a sweat and psychological program that encourages them to overcome their physical limitations.

The former Mr. Irrelevant – written by Rams with the 252nd and last NFL draft of 2008 – was a rookie with a linebacker in St. Louis before finally landing in Seattle. To deal with a series of devastating shoulder and head injuries, he resorted to painkillers.

His story’s too ordinary: Thanks to the drugs, he went from a typical man with his head to a man who grumbles at the waitress because he forgot to deliver a drink he hadn’t ordered. They left him standing powerless on the balcony of a Hawaiian holiday hotel and threatened to jump when his girlfriend, Sarah’s current wife, looked at him. And finally they took him to the rehabilitation clinic, where Vobor vomited, broke his bed and had seizures. On the third night he prayed and asked God to send an angel. Later that night, a nurse named Tina came to pray with him to calm him down.

Three weeks later, Vobora left the branch. He thought about going back to the NFL, but knew he was ready to find a new passion. After the 2012 season he officially retired; in August 2013 he and Sarah moved to Dallas, where David finally opened a lucrative gym for top jumpers. He started coaching NFL players in the off-season, the NFL brings hopefuls and Olympians together.

In January 2014, Vobora met US Staff Sergeant Travis Mills, one of five survivors of four amputees during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. As soon as he saw Mills, Vobor approached him and asked when was your last exercise? He told Mills to take him to the gym. Vobora soon spent hours looking for ways to strengthen Mills’ body and give him confidence. The Voboras knew that the slack Mills had to focus on shifting weight, strength and core stability while overcoming the fear of falling, the characteristic fear of amputees.

Mills invited an injured veteran friend to the gym, and soon the group expanded to more than a dozen adaptable athletes, leaving Vobor little time to train its professional clients. David and Sarah, parents of two little girls, lived 45 minutes from the gym. Sometimes Vobora slept on a yoga mat in the gym, went to bed at one o’clock in the morning and woke up four hours later to start training.

Sarah asked Vobor to find a way to turn her passion into a profession. In September 2014, he founded the Adaptive Training Foundation, which now has a long waiting list and selects 10 athletes for each class as part of the bidding process. For nine weeks the group trains for free; each athlete is assigned a volunteer coach to help him or her develop a tailor-made training program.

I thought they’d literally pull me off the football field when my body stopped working, Vobora says, but it turned out I had found something that had such an impact on my life that I couldn’t resist giving it to them.

The energy of Vobor can be felt both inside and outside the gym: He rushes and his brain moves so fast that sometimes his words can’t follow. He is a trainer, preacher, advisor and motivator. When he says we’ll find a way, he means it.

You trust her immediately because you see how her mind works, says Vanessa Cantu, a 33-year-old girl who suffered a spinal injury as a teenager in a car accident. First it takes you to the most unpleasant place and from there it builds your trust. He’s so dedicated to learning. He calls me at 4 a.m. and tells me that I’ve just been thinking about this learning method that we can try.

According to Vobora, if he wasn’t playing soccer, he’d be a Marine. His great-grandfather, grandfather and uncle were marines; his grandfather was in the marines for 31 years and fought in three wars. Vobor has always respected the ties with the army and now helps civilians and injured veterans to rebuild those ties in an environment where they feel at home.

What distinguishes this place is its tribal mentality, says Blake Watson, a former marine and leg amputee. It reminded me of the Marine Corps, which is part of camaraderie. They are all different people coming together for a similar mission.

When asked about the effects of ATP, Mr. Vobora paused. I think the best thing I’ve given these groups is hope. Hope is a priceless means of payment. It’s like water. You’re going to die without hope.

These are the stories of four veterans who say that the ATF not only gave them hope, but also life.

Fault! The file name is not specified. After losing his leg in Afghanistan in 2009, Blake Watson (left) says he is far from being in the best shape of his life and can’t move on the edge of the bed. Tamir California for ESPN

Blake Watson: Non-sub-officer, USMC, retired

Looking back, Blake Watson wondered what life would be like if he accepted the scholarship. In high school, Oklahoma’s Division II College offered a basketball scholarship to a resident of Dallas. He’s always been an athlete in a typical Texas lineup: Football, basketball, baseball. But a 10-year-old man with blond hair, a broad smile and a slim, muscular body rejected the scholarship and preferred to work in strange jobs. He also stopped training and went from 155 wet to over 200 pounds.

Watson left his position as Sprint store manager and considered his next career move. He always came back to the time when, as a little boy, he stood in front of his family’s television and watched commercials: A Marine stood above a fireplace and killed the beast with a sword.

I remember thinking it was the coolest thing and I wanted to be, Watson.

In 2009, 21-year-old Watson joined the company. He chose the infantry because he liked firing pistols and rockets, in accordance with his philosophy of life – to be healthy or to go home.

He took over the role of the spectacle wearer for the third year. Battalion, Fifth. Marine regiment, 1st. Marine Division. His Dark Horse Battalion recorded more than 100 shootings in Afghanistan in the first 21 days. In the first seven months it lost 25 soldiers; nine people died in four days. The 10th. In November, on the Marines’ birthday, a good friend of Watson’s, Corporal James Stack, died after a sniper shot him in the head. The initials of the pile are tattooed on the inside of Watson’s right arm, embedded in a large tattoo of a war cross.

In late November 2009, the Watson Battalion conducted a foot patrol in the city, where reports of Taliban activity had been received the previous day. When Watson got past C-4’s belt at the door, he knelt down. Almost immediately he heard a loud bang.

When he opened his eyes a few seconds later, he was on his left.

Watson’s left leg is missing and his right leg is torn to the bone. His left elbow was destroyed, with pieces of tissue, muscle fibers and skin floating in orbit. Eventually the doctors placed Watson’s stretcher on what was left of his hand to keep him in place.

Watson was transported to Walter Reed Military Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland. He kept a diary in which he recorded his thoughts, feelings and, hopefully, his progress. He wrote down some idealistic goals and decided to recover quickly. But three weeks later, against a backdrop of atrophy, weight loss and heavy drug use, reality emerged.

I’m so far away from the best shape of my life that I can’t even go to the edge of the bed, Watson says. I needed grown men to wipe my ass and women to help me sit. That’s when the nervous breakdown started. All medication for anxiety and depression play on your emotions. You can’t sleep at night, you sleep all day and you can’t stop thinking about the game.

After more than 30 operations, he was released for outpatient treatment. His left leg was amputated above the knee; his right leg remained intact despite significant scars. He has lost all his nerve endings and muscles in his left hand, which is constantly melting at an angle of 45 degrees.

He’s been in outpatient therapy for almost three years. Watson took pills to sleep, pills when he woke up, pills to numb his pain, pills to calm his mind and make him understand that he was a loser. He ate it, smelled it, drank the maximum prescription and begged the doctors to take more.

Dilaudid is a hydromorphone, an intense opioid painkiller that can be lethal in high doses. Watson often swallowed 25 Dilaudid a day. He tried to commit suicide two or three times with pills. While celebrating Christmas with his family, he fainted in the middle of dinner. When his wife tried to slow down the pills, he yelled at her.

He went to bed at 6:30 in the morning. Around 14.30 or 15.00 he woke up on the ground on an air mattress. He took four pills and swallowed more until he got so high he almost fainted. Next to him was a gun on the mattress. He lay there for hours, stared at the ceiling and wondered if he would commit suicide today.

When he was about to pull the trigger, he remembered a voice he heard, I swear, seconds after the IED went off: Someone told him to stay. He knew he had a purpose, but he didn’t know how to find it.

The 20th. December 2013 Watson retired from the Marine Corps. A month later, he divorces his wife. He and his friend Brian, also a former Marine, went to private gymnastics in Frisco, Texas.

Almost immediately, Watson felt uncomfortable. Often people came to him, questioned him about his injuries and thanked him for his services. He didn’t know how to work with his new body and didn’t know where to go for help.

I didn’t want to pressure myself in case I kicked my ass, Watson. And I couldn’t force myself because I was still an addict.

Fault! The file name is not specified. It’s not your wound, it’s the catalyst that brought you here. Says Watson. What you do then will determine your legacy. Tamir California for ESPN

Two former marines trained in the gym for several months in their spare time before Brian met Vobora. Brian trained with the defense several times and kept bringing Watson by his side. At first, Watson said no. He didn’t trust the coach, who focused his training on flexible athletes. But after a few weeks of Brian’s grunt, Watson agreed to try.

After three training sessions with the Warrior, Watson was brought into contact. At the end of the summer of 2014 he joined the second class of the ATF. On Thursday afternoon he went home and flushed everything down the toilet, except 15 or 20 of his Dilaudid. He spent the next three days in bed, rationed pills, shook violently, vomited the bed and tried to avoid an ambulance in the hospital. He fainted several times, thinking he might die, but on Monday morning he was still alive – and for the first time in years he was sober. He got up and went to the gym.

This complete stranger, who doesn’t even know me, wanted me to be at his gym, where he showed up early, came home late and didn’t even sleep to think about how we could train, – says Watson. That really motivated me. For the first time in a long time, someone really wanted me to be somewhere, someone was counting on me. It made a difference.

Today, during practice on Tuesday and Thursday, Watson raced around the gym in a wheelchair, with his hat folded, blond hair and video camera in hand. In 2015, Watson became the first official media director of ATF to record the progress of each lesson in digital form.

It’s not about your injury – it’s the catalyst that brought you here, Watson. What you do then will determine your legacy.

Fault! The file name is not specified. In the ATF everyone is motivated by the people around them, and the army is the same, says Trimble. Tamir California for ESPN

Kevin Trimble: Specialist, U.S. Army, retired.

In September 2011, the 19-year-old U.S. Army Spc. Kevin Trimble drove the gravel road through a small Afghan village. A few minutes after his troop started moving, the soldier announced on the radio that he had found an IED. Immediately after dismantling the bomb, the group withdrew and established a safety zone. Trimble was ten yards away from the Army Special Forces. Ryan Cook, wait. After a second he fell, stunned by the force that thought he had been hit by a moving train.

A remote-controlled homemade bomb exploded on the wall above Cook and killed him on the spot. Trimble was in the field with him. In a state of shock, he concentrated on the sequence of actions he had learned in training. Step one: Find your weapon. He looked around, but he didn’t see his gun. Step two: Immediate medication. He took a tourniquet from his right shoulder bag, opened it and pulled it out with what was left of his left hand. He pulled as hard as he could by cutting off traffic. The turnstile reached his shoulder, the only remaining part of his left hand. He tried to sit down, but he couldn’t balance himself. He looked down… …his legs were gone.

Don’t fall asleep, Trimble. You don’t want to die here.

Two days later Trimble woke up in a German military hospital where surgeons were working to save his life. This life changed in a few months of surgery, hospital rotations, visits from friends and relatives, and attempts to distract his mind.

The coming mentality is a kind of cross between boredom and grief. It was, uh… Time.

Trimble attempted suicide several times. He took as many painkillers as he could find, but didn’t have the privacy he needed to succeed. His body systems would collapse, then the nurses would rush to stabilize him.

He joined the army after seeing Black Hawk Down at the age of 10 and decided the army looked cool. One of her older sisters, Deborah, joined the Air Force, and her older brother Ben joined the Air Force at the age of 18. Trimble signed his papers shortly after his 18th birthday.

Two years and 47 operations later, it’s over.

In October 2015 Trimble flew via Dallas/Fort Worth Airport to Las Vegas. He was on holiday for three days with a group of friends when a stranger ran to him. Trimble did it, he asked. When did he get hurt? How? Did he want to train with a group of flexible athletes?

Honestly, I thought he was just weird, Trimble said, smiling at the first meeting.

Fault! The file name is not specified. I don’t know where the ATF is taking me because I’m not ready yet, Trimble said. But it gave me a new perspective on life. Tamir California for ESPN

A month later, on a business trip to Dallas, Trimble visited a good friend who knew this stranger, David Vobora. Once again, Vobora Trimble has done his service: Come on, we’re going to study with us.

I didn’t think I was good at the gym, Trimble said. I thought I couldn’t do it.

But he thought it was worth a try. At the beginning of 2016 he did so and became an official member of the 6th. ATF class.

Participants are generally tested on the first day to determine their range of motion so that coaches can understand and analyze their body’s flexibility and strength. But Trimble, who took a heavy dose of supplements before training, wanted to move. The Vobor recognized Trimble’s adrenaline cocktails and started an impromptu two-hour workout for both. Trimble tried to turn the tire around; the tire fell on him a couple of times. He exchanged base drills with the enemy, the two men lay on the ground side by side and turned from one side to the other.

The next day, Trimble was very, very sick. And he couldn’t wait to get home.

Everyone in the ATF is motivated by the people around them, and the army is the same, Trimble said.

Trimble, 24, a student at SMU, dealing with nanotechnology outside academia. He is under contract with Rackspace, a cloud storage provider he found during an internship on the Wounded Warrior project. He hopes to participate in several track and field races at the Paralympic Games and often climbs with a group of friends from the ATF. He drives his Land Rover on the track when he can and even takes part in local races.

I don’t know where the ATF is taking me, because I’m not done with this yet, Trimble says. But it gave me a new perspective on life.

Fault! The file name is not specified. I went to the gym and got up, maybe for a few seconds, Wolf said. So, the idea of skiing? I wouldn’t tell you for sure. Tamir California for ESPN

Chris Woolf: Technical Corporal of the retired Air Force

Chris Wolf came into service at the age of 18 and kept the promise he made to his grandfather in the Navy and Marine Corps. Wolf has served in the Air Force for 11 years and has traveled three times to Iraq and three times to Afghanistan. He has worked as an aircraft mechanic, and although he repairs aircraft, he also transports coffins. During a 100-day tour in Afghanistan, Wolf helped bring home 172 bodies.

On a trip to the Middle East, he met a soldier who wanted to bring home his brother’s body. According to official protocol, the soldier was not allowed to board the transport aircraft. So Wolf changed his uniform and ID card and waited on the base until the soldier made his last flight with his brother.

I wanted his mother to see her two sons together again, Wolf says.

Sometimes Wolf – then a three-legged runner with black hair – wore coffins. Another time he was part of a brigade watching over the ceremony. One day he flew home and found the body of a classmate. During the flights he sometimes wondered how he could be one of the corpses. During one of his missions in Afghanistan, a rocket grenade hit the engine of his plane. Normally the plane explodes at the impact of a grenade. That grenade didn’t go off.

Wolf returns to Tacoma, Washington, for a break after his sixth tour, and on the 30th. In October 2008 he was sent to a local military hospital for a flu vaccination. He felt fine until he woke up 19 days later with nausea and fever. He was taken to the military hospital where the doctors made him nauseous and sent him home. The next morning, when Wolf tried to get out of bed, his legs broke. The army snuck into the living room where his then wife found him on the floor. She called 911 and an ambulance picked her up and took her to Tacoma General Hospital.

The doctors put Wolf in a medically induced coma when they wanted to know what had happened. They tested it for bubonic plague and Guillain-Barr syndrome when the virus reached the spinal cord, nervous system and brain. Eventually they diagnosed acute disseminated encephalomyelitis.

The doctors told his family that Wolf was paralyzed by a lowered neck, Quadrigic C4. He will need care for the rest of his life for 24 hours and will not be able to eat, breathe or move on his own. He was 25 years old.

The afternoon before I was paralyzed, I walked 2.5 miles, Wolf said. Every day I ran away. I woke up [the next morning] without being able to move any part of my body. I didn’t know what to do, who I would be or what the future would look like.

As soon as he awoke from his coma on Christmas Eve 2008, the days faded. Every two hours psychotherapists came to his sick room to put him down. They took him to his bed, tied him to a stand and chased him away with different movements. The nurses fed him. After a stay of three weeks in the hospital, he is able to speak again. His spine was still intact, so unlike the other C4 quadruplets, there was a small chance that Wolf could move again. However, he went to bed every day to try and find a way to rip the PIC line off his neck and commit suicide. If only I could reach him, he thought.

After seven months in hospital, Wolf was lying on a table for electrolysis therapy. When the current pulled on the muscles in his hand, he felt a flash of pain like a knife that hit the flesh as hard as it could, Wolf said. He almost lost consciousness; as the electrolysis continued, the pain got worse. The doctors prescribed methadone to help him.

It took hours, going through my hands, my chest, the other hands, along my body, Wolf said. The doctor tells me it’s okay the way I feel. And that’s me: No, that’s not good. That’s not the bright side of life.

He stayed in bed all day watching Netflix drink. His father visited him every day, and the commander came to visit him at least once a week. He had therapy, a group meeting with a patient suffering from quadrigidism. His weight has dropped to 120 pounds. His expression was like that of a ventriloquist: no emotions, no smile, lips kept straight.

I’ve always been very social, someone who made people laugh when the day was bad, says Wolf. Even if we hadn’t had a good day because we were bringing dead bodies home, I would have found a way to find a positive day. But at the hospital, frankly, I didn’t know where he was.

During physiotherapy, Wolf’s hands were often attached to a flycatcher. Two years after his return from therapy, Wolf raised his hand a quarter inch from the bed. He looked at his hand in disbelief. The next morning he pushed the machine on a flying machine an inch, then two inches. Soon he squeezed a few inches a day, which made him mobile again in his hands.

Wolf was discharged from hospital in 2011, but he still couldn’t move his legs or feed himself. Over time he became addicted to opiates, methadone and depressants. He took at least a dozen pills a day.

Fault! The file name is not specified. My goal is to get there – and we’re a little closer, Wolf says. Tamir California for ESPN

In 2012 Wolff divorces his wife and is dependent on the support of his family, especially his father. The following year he started training for the National Wheelchair Veteran Games. During the game in Dallas in June 2015, a friend of the Wounded Warrior Project told Wolff that he wanted to meet a former NFL player who was following a modified training program.

They’re watching [David] and talking: Okay, I’ll never be where you are because I have a job to do, Wolf said. But he doesn’t look at you like that. When I walked into that gym, I felt different. There’s no one else here.

Wolf started on 18 January 2016 as part of the 5. at the ATF. Two months later, he became independent.

The rhythm in this room makes you go to extremes, Wolf says. To bring back into our lives what we lack – the ability to walk, to put our hand on our head, to put on a shirt – we all try to achieve a goal.

Every ATF class receives a graduation gift. Vobora said the 5th. Great, his goal is to ski Lake Tahoe. He took care of all training according to this concept and made skiing possible for every adaptable athlete.

I went to the gym and got up, maybe for a few seconds, Wolf said. So, the idea of skiing? I wouldn’t tell you for sure.

The team met on the 27th. March 2016 in Tahoe for a trip partly sponsored by High Five. For four days, Wolf has been descending the slopes for hours.

Today, Wolf lives with his wife and two daughters in an adjustment home that another non-profit organization built for him. He’s reduced his medication from 12 to two. Three months ago – almost eight years after his paralysis – Wolf took 15 independent steps. No crutches, no wheelchair. His father had come to see him a week earlier. When he stood there and saw his son running, tears ran down his face.

What I saw on my father’s face, he knew that one day he’d hear that I’d never live, and that I’d see it… I see that face every day, Wolf said. My goal is to leave… …and we’re a little closer.

Fault! The file name is not specified. words can’t really describe how [ATF] helped me, Zimmer says. We all have a handicap, and mine may be different from the next one, but we all know how to adapt and how to overcome it in order to keep up the pressure. Tamir California for ESPN

Ryan room: Corporal, USMC, Retired

In February 2009, Ryan Zimmer, a lance corporal with the Marine Corps, was standing in the middle of the Pacific Ocean when he fell 15 meters from a helicopter. When Zimmer left the open door of the helicopter during an enemy rapid ship hijacking, he was forced to turn right due to lack of space on the left side. When he turned around, his left foot got stuck in the helicopter frame and lost the grip of the rope with his feet.

When he realized what was happening, his hands flew away to grab the rope above his head. But his hands could not hold him, and without legs around the rope, he hurried and slowed down only slightly with his hands, his flesh torn by the grip of the rope. Zimmer said a short prayer, asked God to protect him, and then prepared his body for a blow. He crashed on the carrier deck downstairs, legs forward, half a block. He broke both his ankles, broke his coccyx and compressed his lower back. His body collapsed and his head hit the deck. He got up as a reflex, tried to walk away, but the pain in his right leg was so bad that he lost consciousness. He fell again, hit his head on the deck and slipped into an unconscious state.

It took four days for Zimmer to arrive at the hospital, where the doctors told him that he would probably never walk alone again, that he would at least need a cane. On his first day with the wounded warriors, he was greeted by a Marine.

Are you in pain? Ask the Navy.

Yes, he did, Zimmer said.

Follow me, the Marine says. They entered his room where a Marine crushed 500 milligrams of Vicodin and 10 milligrams of OxyContin. Zimmer inhaled everything and immediately felt relief.

After the accident he snored daily for six months, sometimes drinking the painkillers in liquid form. He woke up, felt the medicine, went to physiotherapy, practiced for a few hours and slept in the afternoon. He woke up and started drinking: Bud Lite and whiskey.

The 28th. February 2010, 12 months after the accident, Simmer retired for medical reasons. He bought a house in Valley View, Texas, three miles from his parents’ house. For four years he found a balance between work in agriculture and education in the local adult education centre. Every six weeks he went to the Veterans’ Hospital and begged for relief from his pain and loss of function. The doctors advised her to either replace her braces or increase her pain medication. He repeatedly asked them to amputate his left leg below the knee. You always said no.

In March 2014, Zimmer met the warrior through a mutual friend. At the time he had stopped abusing painkillers, but the former Navy man had stopped training, and his pack of about 24 drinks a night had brought him up to 315 pounds. Zimmer wanted to start training again to try to relieve pressure on his ankle and lose weight, and his friend suggested that he talk to the warrior.

I called David and I thought it was a joke, Zimmer said. That’s what I am: There’s no way this guy without medical training can help me. But then I wondered if it hurt to try.

For six months, Zimmerer trained once a week in combat, losing weight and gaining self-confidence. But the October 2014 operation, which melted his angry knuckles, put him aside for months. He was never fully healed and the pain increased. He couldn’t bear the weight of his leg at all, so he sat at home all day, every day, on his condom. In January 2015 he had started thinking about suicide. He was 27 years old.

I was out of the depression, Zimmer said. I was lost and I got hurt all the time. I couldn’t be a normal man in my 20s. I really didn’t know what to do with my life.

For five months he woke up every day with the idea of killing himself. But then he remembered his six nephews and two nieces, most of whom lived within five miles. He loved being with them, and he didn’t want them to grow up knowing their uncle had committed suicide.

The turning point came in May 2015 when, for the first time since his accident, Zimmer was given an EDI device that allowed him to walk with minimal pain. Soon he was jogging.

In October 2015, Zimmer enrolled in the fifth year of the Adaptive Learning Foundation (he also participated in the fourth year).

Words can’t describe how the [ATF] helped me, Zimmer said. We all have a handicap, and mine may be different from the next one, but we all know how to adapt and overcome in order to keep up the pressure. Mentally, it was huge. It helped me climb the mountain. Today, almost a year later, I can look at you and tell you that I’m really happy in my life.

Zimmer lost more than 60 pounds when he joined the ATF and decided to become a personal trainer specializing in training adaptive athletes. Next fall, he plans to earn a bachelor’s degree in Adaptive Kinesiology from the University of Texas.

When the pain persisted, Zimmer finally had his left leg amputated. The 28th. In October, shortly before the end of the successful operation, Zimmer signed a message with a black pen on his left hand: You can take my leg, but you’ll never take my freedom.

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