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Alive. Not paralyzed.
When did anyone come to think of those two base-level things as a win?
When will I? Never. That’s when.
“What’s next?” I try to keep the disgust out of my voice.
He drones on and on.
Pop nods at the right times and talks with the man. I’m not listening worth a fuck, even if my life depends on it.
And fuck if it doesn’t, I can’t make myself reengage with the conversation in the room. This is a one-sided conversation between my surgeon and the shell of my former self.
Washed up.
A fucking has-been.
First round draft pick.
Medically retired at twenty-nine with a career-ending injury.
Career-ending,
Pee wee football.
Prep league.
JV.
Varsity.
College.
NFL.
I’ve played football—or been training for it—for as long as I can remember. My brothers did 4-H and FFA. I ran drills and lifted. They roped and rodeoed. I hired a sprinting coach and a nutritionist. They cowboyed up. I did two-a-days and football camps.
I played during the season and trained in the off-season.
We all have our things, but mine has always been football.
Always.
What the fuck do I do now? Because I can’t become the high school star who bitches at his TV as if he could do it better. Armchair quarterbacks are good at running their mouths. Not at running plays.
I run plays.
Or rather…
…I ran them. Past tense.
I come back into the room just as the doctor extends a hand. I don’t know what he’s said, but the look of pity and the resigned expression on his face piss me the fuck off.
I take his hand and squeeze before letting him exit. I saylet, but that’s woefully inaccurate. I have zero power in this situation. I’m helpless.
Absolutely.
Fucking.
