Tick. . .tick. .
.tick. . .tick. . .
The sound of the constant ticking of the small clock
thundered in my ears as it counted down the seconds, almost like a play clock. But
I would pick standing on a field and rushing to get a play off in the last
seconds of a game over having to stare at the closed red doors. Waiting for
what felt like forever for them to open and to face what was behind them.
It was the dues I had to pay though to keep playing ball and
to make things right. I didn’t know if I
could ever repay the fans who still supported and rooted for me, or the team
that agreed to give me another chance, even though I’d fucked things up more
times that I wanted to count. Or the organization who probably thought that the
time and resources they invested in me was a wash. But I was determined to try
to pay them back and to do whatever it took to get back on the field.
That stubborn determination was what kept my feet anchored
to the shiny white and blue vinyl floor and from escaping the nerve racking sound
of the effing clock. I wanted nothing more than to march across the room and
rip the damn thing off the wall, smash it with my foot and fling it down the
hallway. The relief would’ve been only for my benefit though. The organization
would just go buy a new clock, or make me pay for a new one and it would
eventually return, driving anyone who entered the waiting room insane. Plus, I
didn’t think anyone standing there would approve of my tirade, or me destroying
stadium property.
A new sound made my ears perk up and give up my visions of
throttling the clock. My eyes shot up to the doors, hoping that the noise was
someone opening them, but there was no such luck. They were still as closed as
they had been for the past five minutes. Five minutes of having nothing to do
but listen to the clock, random noises from those standing next me, and looking
around a room that left no doubt that this was Bucks’ territory.
There wasn’t a square inch of the stadium that wasn’t
covered in white, blue, or red, including the waiting room we were in, and I
couldn’t help but wonder if whoever decorated the place was paid more money for
how many times they used the team colors. Blue walls, red, white and blue
chairs, splashes of all three colors in the pictures on the walls. Hell, even
the people in the room color coordinated with the team colors, each of us
picking a tie that went along with it. Something the higher ups had suggested
as a “sign of unity and support.” Maybe it had been a suggestion from the
decorator too. . .
I usually didn’t put too much thought into what I wore for
press conferences. Most were held after games or practices and I’d wear
whatever I wore to the stadium. But that evening I’d spent the better part of a
half hour trying to decide what to wear, knowing that if I didn’t look my best,
someone would report it. Even Coach seemed worried about how he looked,
brushing his hand over a spot on his pants that didn’t have anything on it.
Better safe than sorry I guessed, and returned to staring at the doors.
The ‘snake pit’ was the team’s not so affectionate name for
the press room that lay on the other side and it was filled with reporters who
were waiting to sink their teeth into a good story. In this case though, I saw them more like
vultures, circling what they figured was the destined for dead football star,
wanting for their chance to peck their beak into the guy that they were certain
was down for the count.
And as much as I wanted to blame them for doing what was
their job, I couldn’t. If I had been in their shoes, I would’ve thought that my
days of playing football were over. I was damaged goods. Was no longer the guy
that anyone could rely on. To them, I was the cliché player that started off
with great promise and high expectations but had ruined it with my off the court
antics, specifically, my drinking.
That was who they would see when I walked through the doors
and sat at the long table with my coaches and the general manager, the washed
up player. But by some miracle, I still had one more shot. One more chance to
get it right, to stay sober, to prove that I cared about the team and my
career, to show them that the gamble the team was about to make was worth it,
and most importantly, to prove to myself that I could be the type of man that
my father would’ve been proud of.
That’s what I tried to repeat to myself each day for the last three months. During those moments when I first went into rehab and thought I might die from detox, or when the counselors asked the questions that made me want to hurl a chair across the room instead of answering. When I had to face my family for the first time after being discharged, or as I waited to sit in on a press conference that I’d rather run away from, fighting the urge to make a beeline to a store and finding something to take the edge off.
I wasn’t sure if it was something I did as I thought about the past months or if he just sensed that I needed it, but something made Coach pat my back just then. Like most great Coaches, he knew his players well and could read them like a book. Even me, though I hated to admit it. His reassuring pat calmed me down and it reminded me of something Dad used to do when he knew I was nervous. It was tempting in that moment to imagine that the strong, supportive hand I felt on my back was his and not Coach’s, but it was an illusion that could last only until I turned around and saw Coach’s six foot three frame and salt and pepper hair that I wished was blonde and stood just two inches higher.
It was moments like that that I once tried to downplay or not acknowledge at all. Nine years of trying to dull the pain of losing Dad and him not being around. But I had learned that all that did was make things worse and make me want to do things that not only hurt those I cared about but also me. And as the disappointment of that moment set in, I fought against my instincts to push it down and ignore the hurt. Trying instead to acknowledge it and still give Coach an appreciative, small smile for the support he was showing me.
The whoosh of the door flying open made everyone’s heads snap forward and our eyes all rested on the PR person who was in charge of setting everything up. He gave us a thumbs up, signaling that they were ready to begin and all eyes focused on me with the silent question of was I ready to go in. I thought about the team, fans, organization, and my family who believed in me and Dad who I hoped was there in spirit. Finally, after taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I gave them a slight nod and we entered the room that no one wanted to.
