I'd never welcomed pain like I had that night. I refused pain meds. I wanted to feel every twinge and every burning, stabbing pain-it was better than never feeling anything again.
Two days after the paralysis scare, my family loaded me into the Lund Industries private Learjet. The medical professionals associated with the Minnesota Vikings organization recommended a surgeon in Florida, so I was off to Pensacola for diagnosis and surgery.
My shoulder injury required surgery, and the recovery time was four months. It was one of the most trying times in my life, despite the fact that the surgery had gone well and the prognosis for recovery was excellent. While I appreciated the unconditional support my family provided, they'd been extremely smothering.
During the second week of physical therapy, when I became frustrated with my lack of progress increasing my walking speed, I asked for another set of tests because I knew something else was wrong. The tests revealed I'd ruptured my Achilles tendon. The knee injury had masked that issue, and my knee turned out to be the least of my worries.
An Achilles rupture can be a kiss of death to a football player. I could name a dozen careers abruptly ended by that particular injury. After the surgery to repair the rupture-which I couldn't schedule until my knee was one hundred percent-the recovery time was a year. So sitting in the doctor's office in Florida, I knew I'd miss the entire next season.
Although I'd signed a three-year contract, this type of injury was a game changer. The team could pay me the remainder of my guaranteed salary and cut me from the team, turning me into a free agent. But if the Vikings released me due to their medical concerns, what other NFL team would want to take a chance on me?
None.
Thankfully I'd had the best year of my career prior to the injury, so I'd been placed on the injured reserve list. The big bosses assigned me a sports medicine therapist/trainer. Dante was a cool guy. He knew when to push me and when to back off. He and I spent a lot of hours together, yet I never forgot where his loyalties were. He'd accompanied me to Florida for my one-year postsurgical checkup-so he could accurately report the doctor's diagnosis back to the coaching staff. I guess they didn't trust that I'd be totally honest.
After the week in Florida, Dante tagged along with me to Mexico. While he sampled tequila and women at the exclusive resort, I spent hours walking on the beach and staring at the ocean, trying to figure out what to do with my life when playing football professionally was no longer an option. Because I could be facing that decision in as little as three months.
Right now I was exactly where I claimed I'd wanted to be the past two weeks: sitting on my comfy couch in my apartment. So why was I so restless? Why was I lonely?
I tipped my head back on the cushion and stared at the ceiling.
You're lonely? Call your brothers. Or your sister. Or your parents. Or your cousins. They'd be here, or ask you to meet them someplace in a heartbeat.
But my feet didn't move. My will was as lazy as my body today. When I held out my hand toward my suitcase, my phone didn't magically fly into it like Harry Potter's broom did when he called out, "Accio!" That'd be a cool power. It'd be even cooler to have a magic wand that fixed everything.
I shifted the ice pack on my groin. I must've been sitting there longer than I'd been aware of because the gel had become gooey and warm.
Don't be a brooding asshole. Do something productive.
Maybe my neighbor Martin would be up for a video game marathon. If nothing else, the dude made me laugh, especially when he talked about the things he'd seen and heard around the apartment complex. I'd bet he knew who the nut-smashing kid belonged to.
Since Martin lived across from me, I didn't bother to put on a shirt before I stepped in the hallway. If he bitched about me being shirtless, I'd point out that my brother-in-law Axl-former tenant of my apartment-had strolled around buck-ass naked most of the time. At least I had my bottom half covered.
One other thing about my buddy Martin? He took mellow to a whole new level on account of he liked his weed. He never pressured me to smoke with him, not only because I had random drug testing through the team, but I suspected he preferred a higher-end product and wasn't inclined to share. But Martin was a great guy and a nonjudgmental friend. He wouldn't demand the details about my medical visit in Florida; he'd just be happy I was back.
I knocked. And waited.
And waited.
Sometimes forcefully pounding on the door was the only way to catch Martin's attention when he had his earbuds in. But if he didn't answer within a reasonable time frame, I figured he and his lady, Verily, were banging the headboard.