by Bee Walsh
Slow Dance
Whoever had the job to hang fancy lights and shiny ribbon from the ceiling knew what they were doing. I almost forgot we are in the same gym I have P.E. in. And when the DJ changes the music from some pop song to something slow, all I want to do is pull Ellie close. I don’t care who is watching. I don’t care about anything except for my arm around Ellie’s waist.
Saturday Morning
The morning after the Homecoming Dance, I have to take my truck down to the shop for a new belt. Jeff gives me a discount on parts because I do the work myself. When I am pulling into the parking lot, I notice an envelope tucked into the passenger side visor. As I take it down and hold it in my hand, I think about Ellie sipping on fruit punch and smiling as Coach, QB, and I listen to everyone tell us their own story about the last time Comfort went to playoffs. I think about how dry my mouth would get every time she asked me a question. And how it took me until the last slow song to get up the courage to ask her to dance. I open the note, chuckle, and stuff it in my back pocket.
Dear Jack
They say that a girl always remembers the first time she slow dances with a boy. You can add last night to a long list of reasons I’m going to remember you for the rest of my life. x, E
Always Earned
Ever since we made playoffs, Coach has been running us ragged. “ALWAYS EARNED, NEVER GIVEN,” we yell as we run suicides. I can feel my body burning as the air struggles to get to my blood. I am the best and worst I have ever been. But I can’t think about that now. I am running toward my future, whatever that may be.
Never Given
When I wake up the morning of the first playoff game, I feel like all of Earth’s gravity is pulling my limbs to the ground and I can’t get up. Beth knocks on my door, telling me we’re going to be late if I don’t get my butt in gear. I have a pain in my chest, like gravity is squeezing my lungs. In the truck with Beth, she asks me about Ellie. I tell her that Coach hasn’t given us any time off since Homecoming. She clicks her tongue at me. “Knock it off, Beth. I don’t have time to worry about anything but football right now.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I know I’ve hurt her feelings. She slinks down in the seat and stays quiet until we get to school. Slams the door when she gets out. Same pain in my chest.
Game Time
There’s a sort of calm that comes over me in the moments leading up to a game. I don’t have any rituals like some of the guys do. I don’t need to listen to a certain song. I don’t need to say a prayer a certain number of times. I just get quiet. Quieter than usual. Quiet enough to hear Coach enter the locker room and say, “Gentlemen, how do you want to be remembered?” And I think to myself, Not like this.
Going Down
A football game is like a dance. Planned. Coach can see where we are going before we get there. Usually, I just drown out the crowds and my thoughts. Focus on just being on the field. But all I can see is the letter on the wall. Beth in my truck. Mom at work. Ellie in the stands. Coach on the sidelines. Dad when I was a kid. And I feel the pain in my chest again. But this time it is more of a throbbing. I can hear QB calling the final play of the game: A Swinging Gate. If we can complete this surprise, we will win the game. The offensive line, but no center, lines up to one side of the field. QB and I on the other. All I have to do is make a short run and score the touchdown. That’s when it all goes black.
Slow Motion
In the seconds between when I catch the pass from the QB and take off running to the end zone, I feel every single muscle in my entire body stop. Like someone has turned off all the lights in the house at once. As every light goes dark...
I Think About
losing my scholarship, losing my family, losing myself. And I can’t do anything but lay down in the dark.
The Truth
I wake up in the hospital a day later. They tell me I had a cardiac episode. Which means that basically, my heart stopped. When I open my eyes, I see Mom sleeping in a chair next to my bed. And my sister curled up next to me. They had both been crying.
Hours Later
I tell them everything. I tell them about the steroids. I say “I’m sorry” more times than I can count. I say that it wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own over and over. I say that I was scared. Of letting down Mom. Of letting down Dad. Of failing. Of losing my scholarship. Of leaving. Of staying. Of being a man.
Dysmorphic Body
The doctors help me find the words for everything that I’ve been holding in, for the first time in my life. I learn to say “body dysmorphia” and “disordered eating.” Apparently, 1 in 50 people have body dysmorphia. That’s a lot of people. People who have it spend way more time than people who don’t thinking about what parts of their body make them unhappy. Hours a day. Maybe even all day. And no matter what anyone tells them about that part of their body, they only see what they don’t like.
Week Three
I’ve been in the hospital just under three weeks. They have a rehab here. Every day, I’ve met with doctors, counselors, therapists. All these people who want to help me get better and go home. At first, it was really hard to tell all these people I don’t know from nothing all the secrets I’ve been keeping for years. But once I got started, I couldn’t stop. It was like seeing the goalpost get closer yard by yard. They say that I’ll get out in a few days. I still have a lot of work to do.
States
Well, they made it. We made it? We won the playoff game that almost killed me. And they won the next three games after that. And we made it to the State Championship. And I won’t be playing in it.
Visitors
When I got out of the cardiac ICU and entered rehab, they let me have visitors other than Mom and Beth. Terry was the first to come by. Then QB and the rest of the team. Everyone says the same things: “You gave us a good scare out there!” or “Just glad to see you’re alright.” I can tell that everyone is a little uncomfortable standing at my bedside, like they don’t know what else to say. I’m just glad they came at all. That I didn’t let them down.
Tickets
Coach comes by with an envelope to give to me. It has three tickets to the big State game, and a pass for me to ride with the team. Coach is a man of few words, pursed lips, and a firm handshake. He wants me to know that even with everything that happened, everything that I did, he is still proud of me. He says he hopes I don’t make another mistake like this again, and that I will be on the sideline with my team as we win States.
On the Field
It’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Comfort to Arlington, just outside of Plano, Texas. I’d only ever been all the way up here once, before they tore the old stadium down. We are all pretty rowdy on the bus for most of the drive, but things quiet down as we get close. We have to check in first. But I didn’t expect to have to go through the locker rooms and across the field to get there.
I Don’t Know
if I’ve ever felt as big and as small at the same time as I do right now, standing on this field.
The Big Game
I thought that I knew how loud a stadium full of people could be. But I had no idea. From the moment the game starts, it’s like there is some sort of electricity or something just everywhere. Everyone is moving just a little bit faster and hitting just a little bit harder, even our rivals. We are neck and neck every minute of the game. Every time they score, we do, too. They pass block deep, and we push back strong. I honestly don’t think any of us know who is going to win. And it isn’t until the final seconds on the clock, as our guys race to intercept a pass going to the end zone, that we know. Because we catch it and win.
Freeze
We have won games before, obviously. But as the final second ticks away and the scoreboard reads 53-49, it’s like all the sound in the world drops out. There is a moment, before we all run to the field and the crowd goes wild, where time freezes. Like we all get an extra second to experience the greatest moment of our lives. And th
en all the sound comes rushing back.
Almost
I want nothing more than to be happy for my team with my whole body. But there is a big part of me that thinks that if I hadn’t been so weak, so stupid, then I would have been playing in the big game, too. I try as hard as I possibly can to get these thoughts out of my head. It’s hard to combat a lifetime of hating yourself with a few weeks of therapy.
A Letter
The therapist from the rehab says that I should try writing a letter to my dad to tell him how I feel. Which doesn’t make a lick of sense to me because he can’t read it. She says that it doesn’t need to make sense in order for it to help.
Dear Dad
It’s been almost 10 years since you died. I was just a kid back then, and I guess that I’m a man now. For a long time, I was pretty mad that you left. But the more I got to know you through Mom, and stories, and pictures, the more I realized that you would never have left us if you had the choice. Everything that I’ve done and everything that I am is because of you. I wanted to grow up to be the kind of man you would be proud of. Smart. Strong. Good. And somewhere along the way, I think I lost myself. Mom says that she gets to join you way before I do. So from here on out, I’m going to try to do right by me to do right by you. I miss you, Dad. I hope that you’re happy wherever you are. Love, Jack
Coach’s Office
School’s out for the holidays, but Coach calls and asks me to come see him. I’ve never before been nervous to go into Coach’s office. He tells me to have a seat, that we need to talk. I’m thinking that he is going to tell me that they pulled my scholarship. Which would be terrible, and awful, but not the end of the world. Instead, he tells me I will still be going to college in the fall, fully funded. It’s like I can’t understand the words as they are coming out of his mouth. Coach tells me that I shouldn’t be punished for making a mistake when all I wanted to do was the right thing. Coach says that everything that happened will stay between us, and no one else needs to be involved. All the university required was for the doctor to tell them I was healthy enough to play. And that will be that.
Last Night
Last night, Beth came into my room and sat on the end of my bed like she’s done a million times before. But this time, she didn’t seem to know what to say to me. I could tell she was trying to make up her mind between yelling and crying. Instead, I pulled her in close and hugged her hard for a while. All she said was, “Don’t scare me like that again.” “I won’t.” “Promise?” “Promise.”
What I Learned
In therapy, I learn that what I have is technically called “muscle dysmorphia.” This includes: obsessing about being muscular, spending many hours at the gym, abnormal eating patterns, and use of steroids. I learn that the more research is done on guys, the more they realize that almost as many males have body dysmorphia as females. I learn that I may never be “cured,” but I certainly will be better. But that it’s going to take work. “I’m not afraid of hard work,” I tell my therapist. “You should see me and QB rush a 40-yard pass. Now, that’s work.” I go to a support group of guys with eating disorders every week in San Antonio. Beth drives with me every Saturday, 45 minutes each way, and sits in the waiting room. She says there’s nothing else she’d rather be doing. Through all of this, the thing that I learn the most about is how much the people who love you want to help you get better.
Ellie
After the holidays, I get in the car on a Sunday morning, and drive over to Ellie’s house. I haven’t talked to her since the day I collapsed. I don’t know if she’ll be mad or what. But I know I owe her an apology, too. Her mom answers the door and smiles at me. I ask if I could speak to Ellie for a few minutes. “We prayed for you every week at church,” her mom says. Ellie comes to the door, asks her Mom for some privacy, and shuts the door behind her. We sit on the front porch swing in silence for a few minutes. When I’m done telling Ellie about the steroids, the anger, passing out, the hospital, and therapy, she looks at me good and hard and rests her head on my shoulder. I don’t know if it is the smell of her hair or the warmth of her hand in mine, but I pull her chin toward me and kiss her.
First Kiss
Most guys wouldn’t want to admit that they had their first kiss at 17. I think the guy that I was a year ago didn’t think about it at all. But now, well, now I can’t stop thinking about it. And when I can kiss her again.
Say It
My therapist makes me repeat after her for five minutes every session. It’s like a game only I can win. “I am good enough.” “I am good.” “I am enough.” “Say it,” she says. And I do. I am good. And I am enough. And I can finally say it.
80 Days
Today, Terry tells me that there are just 80 school days left of senior year. I don’t know how that could possibly be. There are still classes, finals, prom, nights out. I think that before, I didn’t want to think about it all ending. But now I can’t stop myself from thinking about it all beginning.
Used to Be
I used to be so afraid of leaving home, of leaving mom and Beth. I used to be afraid of weakness, of letting everyone down. But now I have plans. Plans for the future. Plans to attend college, maybe major in social studies. Plans to visit Ellie on the weekends at Baylor. Plans to call Mom at least once a week. I no longer feel like I’m going to fail at everything I touch. It’s like I can see a future now when before all I saw was fear.
Practice
I have to practice looking into the mirror at myself. I’m supposed to say, or at least think, things that I like about myself. My therapist explained it as conditioning, which made sense to me. You have to do something over and over again until you’re really good at it. Like going to the weight room or running the field. I stand in front of the mirror every morning and smile.
Since States
Ever since States, there’s been a kind of life in Comfort that I’ve never seen before. Every shop has a big ole sign hanging in its window. People stop us on the street to shake our hands. I hear the principal telling Coach that there might be some money to fix up the field for next year. I think that winning States was the best thing we could have done for our hometown. I still can’t figure out what the opposite of “letting someone down” is, but whatever it is, that’s what we did. We’ll always have that.
Dinner Table
Tonight, Mom, Beth and I are eating dinner, a rare night without Terry. And Mom gets up from the table and goes to the hall closet. She brings back a small package that I didn’t see come in the mail. I can tell that her and Beth are real excited by the way they look at me. Mom puts it down next to my plate for me to open. Mom and Beth bought me a T-shirt from the school I’m going to. The school that is only two hours away, but where everything will be different.
Prom
If you had asked me two years ago, or even a year ago, if I thought that I would ever be going to prom, let alone with a date, I would have pretended I didn’t hear you. But here I am, wearing a suit and a flower, standing in Ellie’s living room, waiting for her to come down. And when Ellie, in her purple dress like the color of the sky right before the sun sets, comes down the stairs before we go out to my truck, she stops to look at me. Says, “This is going to be a good night, I can tell.” I don’t know how she knows that or why she is so sure, but I do know I want to find out.
Summer
Summertime in Texas just sort of arrives one morning. All of a sudden, we all go out to our cars and trucks and the steering wheels are too hot to touch. My whole life, the start of summer has meant the start of hot months running the field, conditioning in the stuffy weight room, and driving Beth to whatever new volunteer or church thing she signed up for. This time, my hot truck seats mean something new is about to begin.
Breakfast
Ever since I got out of the hospital, Mom has been making breakfast every morning for all three of us. She does it half because the doctors told her that food ne
eded to be something celebrated and shared. Half because I think she’s also starting to realize that I’ll be leaving soon. Most mornings, it’s oatmeal or eggs, sometimes pancakes. Every morning, she asks Beth and me what our plans for the day are and what we want for dinner. Every time, there’s a moment right before we clear our plates that Mom pauses, looks at us both, and smiles. I’m gonna miss these mornings, but I’m gonna take them with me. And I know that Mom and Beth will be okay when I leave.
