Chapter Six: Relationship Waters

****Trev****

"Come on guys! We're only behind by fourteen!" I clapped my hands and tried to encourage the offense as they ran off the field, but my efforts didn’t do much good. Every single guy that walked past me looked like a beaten down dog; none more so than Ryan.

"Shit!" No matter what I do, what we try, we can't get a guy open in the end zone; not that it matters since I can't seem to keep from throwing interceptions!" I knew exactly how he felt and would’ve reacted the same way if I’d thrown even one interception, but I also knew that if he focused on his mistakes, his confidence in himself would falter even more and lead to other missteps.

"Don't beat yourself up." I gave his back a couple of hard pats. "It's pre-season, they've got one of the quickest defenses, and we're only down by two touchdowns. We'll get another chance when we get the ball back."  Most would consider it a miracle that we weren’t trailing by more. Our opponent was the Pleasantville Panthers who were considered the team to beat that season and early predictions had them as a shoo-in for the Super Bowl. Any team would have a hard time beating them, even one that had a solid starting quarterback.

Not that Ryan wasn’t good. He’d started all three of our preseason games and played great during the first two, but the Panthers were on a whole other level and would’ve rattled most veteran quarterbacks. His inexperience and lack of confidence in himself didn’t help him and even though I wanted a chance to play, I found myself trying to help him. It was an unusual situation that gave me conflicting feelings; one moment rooting for him as a mentor and coach, and then the next wishing that I was the one on the field. But until Coach White made that decision, I set my mind to helping Ryan and the team.

I walked over to the bench with him to talk about some adjustments that he could make, but stopped at the sound of Coach’s voice. "Trev!" My gut sank knowing that more than likely Coach was coming over to tell him that he wasn’t going back in. "You still feel warmed up?" I nodded.

He thought for a moment and even though the sound of the crowd, pads hitting on the field, and guys on the sidelines talking should have been deafening, they all seemed to fade away as I anxiously waited for Coach to make a decision. The slow nod of his head signaled that he had. "Get your helmet; you're going in.” He finally spoke the words that I longed to hear and my sigh of relief was met with a disappointed one from Ryan. The reversal of roles brought a new set of conflicting feelings; excitement over being the chosen quarterback but also sympathy for Ryan for becoming the one that stood on the sideline.

He gave me a faint smile when I patted his back one last time and I darted over to the bench where my helmet sat. As my hands grasped the facemask, the crowd let out a big roar and the defense celebrated the fact that they kept the Panthers’ offense from scoring any points. Right before I turned to go on the field, Ryan gave me two big pats on the back and we exchanged a smile. It partially surprised me that as I ran up to the guys on the field, the crowd began to cheer and I let myself feel the excitement of it for a moment; the hard, fast beating of my heart, the surge of adrenaline that pumped through my body and gave my muscles a burst of energy. . .I had missed it more than I had let anyone know.

As I approached the guys, I took several deep breaths and tried to center the surge of energy the crowd gave me. After two plays, we had only gained two yards and as I looked up at the clock and saw the last four minutes start to tick down, I knew we needed to do something unexpected and called a timeout.

"This is fucking insane!" Tiny complained as we stood on the sidelines with Coach White and Ned. "We can't do shit against them."

I looked around at the frustrated and disappointed faces and got pissed. "You're right, not with that kind of attitude!"

"Spare us the sunshine speech, Davila." Brewster rolled his eyes.

Chapter Two: Reaching Out

Even before going to rehab I’d sometimes sweat at night, but not enough to make the sheets stick to me like a second skin. That didn’t start until the night I decided to get help, along with waking up to my heart beating so fast that I worried that it might actually explode. Having a heart attack will do that to you, make you second guess your heart’s ability to function or fear that the racing heartbeats are a sign that you’re having another one.

Those were moments when I would’ve given and done almost anything to make it stop and was when the “Drinking Devil” would whisper in my ear. He was a sneaky, conniving little shit, who waited for the right moment to remind me that a drink would make me forget it all. But there was a half-truth to what he tried to sell me. For a moment I would forget, but just as quickly the memories and dreams I tried to escape from would return.  

So I tried to take Stan’s advice instead; to find something to keep me distracted from the sweaty sheets, a racing heart and thoughts of drinking. Before that, I would’ve thought my days of playing piano were behind me. A given up childhood hobby that very few ever knew I did. But in my desperation to find something to drown out my fears and pleas to drink, I’d given in one night and started to play again.

The first night it felt forced. My hands didn’t flow across the keys and I could barely remember any of the songs I used to play.  I worried that maybe playing the piano wasn’t like riding a bike, something you could give up for years and then pick back up again with a brief refresher course. But it got better, and each time I sat down to play my fingers felt looser and my confidence in my ability slowly returned. It was something else to add to the list of things I never thought I’d do again. A list that grew longer every day in my quest to remain sober.

Truthfully, I enjoyed it and looked for any excuse to play. And as I laid in bed with the sheets clinging to me I figured that I might as well do something entertaining since I was up. But the thought of my sweat drenched ass sliding across the bench made me second guess the idea and I looked at the clock, wondering what time it was and if I had time to shower and play.

No matter how long my blurry eyes stared at the green numbers, they refused to change. Five, zero, seven. “Shit!” I cursed the clock and the time. It would’ve been better if I’d woken up in the middle of the night. I could’ve showered and had plenty of time to head downstairs to play. But with it being less than an hour before the alarm was set to go off, there wouldn’t be time for both.  

I flung the sweaty sheets off of my legs, swung them over the side of the bed and planted my feet on the soft, furry rug. I might’ve actually enjoyed the softness of it poking in between my toes, or how the light bouncing off the nearby buildings cast a dim, soft glow in the bedroom; one of my favorite things about living in the city. But they couldn’t distract me from the disappointment of not being able to play the piano or what woke me up.

It was the same dream every time. I stood alone in a large, bright, white room, calling out for anyone to show themselves. Just when I’d give up hope, Dad would appear from some part of the blinding light that surrounded me, dressed in white and every inch of him glowing. He gave me the same disappointed look he always did right before my voice echoed from every direction, bombarding me with the promise I’d made at his funeral close to ten years before. “We’ll be true to ourselves.”

My words that day haunted me, just as much as Dad did and both had been constant since the night I went into rehab. It’s actually what made me go there in the first place. I drank so much in the days leading up to that night, making my dreams and reality blur together enough that I swore I physically heard my voice, even after waking up. Over and over the words repeated and all I could do was sit on the cold bathroom floor, covering my ears and pleading first with God and then my brother George for it to stop.

In my debilitated state, I had the crazy idea that maybe if I got sober, not half-assed sober but “honest to God” sober, the voices and Dad hauntings would stop. But they hadn’t, and the fact that they still felt as real as they did the first night was one reason I was convinced that what happened wasn’t some hallucination.

And as the weeks trudged on and I heard myself say the same words, their message started to sink in. Maybe what Dad was trying to help me understand was that to be happy, stay sober, be the person I wanted to be and someone Dad would be proud of, I needed to be true to who I really was. The person I tried to hide from everyone.

It would be one of the hardest things I ever tried to do. I’d spent years trying to hide the hurting, unsure, lonely guy from the world by being the loud, funny, smartass guy that lived larger than life. It was what everyone expected from me and I worried that if I showed them the real me, they might not believe it.

Even scarier was the realization that I wasn’t sure if I knew how to be myself. But faced with a future of faking it and continuing on in my sad, lonely existence or being real and actually connecting with people, I’d chosen the later. Hoping that at some point it would lead to something better.

The past press conference and that morning were my first chances to show the team, organization and the media the real me. That I wasn’t just blowing smoke up their asses about working hard and earning my place. It was why that morning’s practice was crucial and almost as important as my first practice with the team, six years before.

I needed to be focused and lose, not stressed, with my mind preoccupied on reoccurring dreams, and as I stepped into the shower I hoped that the hot water would help my muscles relax and wash away the memories of my dream. It mostly worked. By the time I sat down to eat something I felt more focused and confident about facing the day ahead.

First up was a meeting with Coach and I made a beeline to his office when I got to the Buck’s facility. I hadn’t been told much about it, but assumed that it was just a formality. A “welcome back to the team” and “glad to have you back” meeting and I wasn’t too worried about it as I caught sight of Coach’s door.

“Trev?” I didn’t even need to turn around to know that the voice belonged to Ryan, but what I didn’t know was why he was there.

“Drews! How’ve you been?” I asked him as I turned around and gave him a rib crushing hug.

“Dude! I need air!” He sputtered and chuckled as I let him go. “I’ve been good but it’s been way too quiet around here without you.” He smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

Under different circumstances, we probably wouldn’t have liked each other. I’d been the starting quarterback and he’d been the backup, something that could cause friction on any team. But Ryan had been drafted a year before from my alma matter, ASU, and he’d quickly become one of my closest friends and been one of my biggest supporters during my recovery.

What are you doing here so early?” I asked him.

“Oh, Coach asked me to meet him in his office around seven. How about you?”

I looked at him and then the door, trying to figure out what was going on.  “The same thing…” I told him right as the sound of rushed, heavy footsteps came bounding down the hallway.

Chapter One: Go the Distance

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.