A visit to David Humm’s Valley Hospital room on the day after the Super Bowl would find the former NFL quarterback sacked in a standard bed battling a growing list of medical maladies.

The room itself was like so many he’d inhabited during his long fight against multiple sclerosis and the debilitating effects of spending many years in a wheelchair. With one exception.

The big-screen television.

In that confined space, it looked like a mobile billboard.

The medical treatment couldn’t be avoided, but Humm and his home team weren’t going to be stuck watching the biggest game of the year on a puny hospital-issue set. With help from devoted daughter, Courtney, and his remarkable family, the hometown football hero and former Oakland Raiders quarterback pulled off a Super Bowl party under the forgiving eye of Valley staff. The family kept it down to a dull roar.

“Well, we are in a hospital, they do have rules,” Humm said, laughing through his pain.

That was David Humm: Laughing through his pain, with a curse for the universe one minute and a kind word the next.

After wondering aloud what medical challenge he’d receive next, as if 30 years with multiple sclerosis weren’t enough weight to carry, he added, “My life is so blessed with the daughter I have, the family I have, the friends I have, the teammates. I’m totally blessed. There’s nothing but blessings for me.”

And he meant it. Anyone straining to hear a snippet of self-pity from Humm would have to wait a very long time. It wasn’t in the man I knew.

Humm, who died March 27 a day short of his 66th birthday, was a kind-hearted warrior.

Although he was a star at Bishop Gorman High and at Nebraska, where he led the Cornhuskers to three bowl games, he was probably best known as Oakland’s backup quarterback and placekick-holder during the years the Raiders were led by Ken Stabler and Jim Plunkett and won two Super Bowls. He also backed up Bert Jones in Baltimore, and Joe Ferguson in Buffalo.

Second-string talent. All-Pro heart. That was David Humm.

He knew the value of being a good teammate, of making a contribution whether it was on the field or on the sideline.

And Humm knew he could take a hit. It’s one thing his profession and his personal life had in common.

The hits took their toll. One knocked out a few teeth. Another blew out his knees. And then there were the concussions.

In a 2013 interview with Humm for my book “Vegas Voices,” he talked briefly about the violence and the damage he’d experienced.

“You pay a price to play in the League,” Humm said. “You have to be able to take a hit. A lot of guys play football, but not as many as you’d think can take a hit. That’s the question: Can you take a shot?

“I was there when Darryl Stingley broke his neck. I saw a buddy’s hip come through his pants in Kansas City. ... It was a summer day in the preseason in August. It was humid out and that artificial turf just grabs so much. He went down, and they just went out there and saw what happened and shot him up and put him out.

“I’ve seen some shit. I was knocked out twice. Out. And then there are the little ones, the ones where you see the stars and floaters, and sirens in your ears. I might have had eight or 10 of those, but back then nobody counted them. You’d get hit, and they’d say, ‘What day is it? Who are we playing?’ You’d answer and they’d say, ‘That’s close enough. Go back in.’ It was just part of the game, but nobody thought it would lead to anything.”

Humm acknowledged the terrible damage he absorbed, but quickly added that he didn’t regret the tradeoff. To compete in the arena was worth the cost.

And he never stopped counting his life’s blessings.

“Some guys are bitter and some are sad, but look how lucky I’ve been,” he said. “Life is very good.”

David Humm, as kind-hearted as he was tenacious, exited this life surrounded by family and loved by a stadium full of friends.

If that’s not going out a winner, nothing is.

John L. Smith is a longtime Las Vegas journalist and author. Contact him at [email protected]. On Twitter: @jlnevadasmith.