Training camps start in late July and I’m not on a team. But I have no other plan. I will train and I will wait. Someone will call. Meanwhile, the therapy sessions with Derek are unearthing more misgivings that I have with the NFL. I rail against what I now see as years of mishandled injuries, against the emptiness of fornicating with the jersey chasers, against my own inability to turn from the game, against my monetary motivations for still wanting to play it, against the media’s petty ownership of the players, and against the entire bastardized commercialization of what to me is the most beautiful game on earth. And here is the crux of it: I still believe in the beauty of the game. This above all else is true. But to be a fly on the wall, or to be Derek, is to be struck in the face with how delusional a man scorned by his lover can be. Here I am telling him all the reasons why I hate her, in between sets of an exercise specifically designed to lead me back into her arms. I am sick.
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