Page 176 of Tell Me I'm Enough

The quarterback drops back, then launches the ball into the air. The ball hits my hands while I am mid-stride. It’s a clean catch, and the sound of the ball hitting the palm of my hand is as close thing to me feeling any sense of peace in weeks.

Once we finish working on drills, we switch to 7-on-7, and I am running with the first stringers. I catch Coach watching me from the sideline as I jog back to the huddle.

“Sinclair,” he calls out. “You keep playing like that, and I’m considering starting you this year.”

I nod, appreciative.

Makes me feel good. Makes me want to push even harder. Makes me want to forget the way my body is begging for a break—begging for a drink.

Sadly, that restraint only lasted until the following morning, though.

Every day has only gotten harder and harder to push through. The nausea, the way my muscles feel tight, the headaches, the relentless dry mouth, the way my hands are starting to actually shake so much to the point where I can barely hold my phone still—all things that go away easily with the liquid in that bottle. The thing is, those problems are only traded for new ones once the alcohol is in my system.

The bourbon goes down easily in my car before the sun is even up.

I shouldn’t have drank before practice. I know that. I knew it while I was doing it. But my head wouldn’t shut the fuck up, and it felt easier to fog up the thoughts so I couldn’t feel them than sit with everything I don’t want to feel—mentally and physically.

By the time I step onto the field, my body feels off. I’m a beat behind everyone, and that beat matters out here on the field.

We start with press coverage drills, and I’m not ready when the whistle blows. I hesitate for just a fraction of a second. My break is sloppy, and the timing is off. The quarterback throws anyway, and the ball sails just past my fingertips.

“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath.

The same things happen again on the next rep. My feet feel heavy, my head feels full, and I can’t seem to lock in.

We move into team reps, and it gets worse. I drop a pass I’ve caught a thousand times. A linebacker lights me up crossing the middle because I ran my route wrong. I hit the turf hard, and the impact from my helmet hitting my head makes my vision blur for a second.

Coach whistles loudly, and I know it’s for me.

“Sinclair. Sideline. Now.”

I jog over, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with pushing my body to its limits on the field.

“You fucking around with me?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Then why are your routes lazy?”

I swallow, feeling the shame, and feeling like I wish I could take back drinking that half-pint of Jim Beam this morning.

“I don’t invest in players who don’t invest in themselves,” he continues quietly. “If this is you messing around, fix it. If it’s something else…talk to someone and fix it. Either way, I won’t carry dead weight on this team, and I don’t want to regret telling you I might start you.”

“I won’t let it happen again,” I say fast.

He studies my face, like he knows there’s more I’m not saying. “Make sure.”

Coach has seen more of me than most people over the last two, going on three years. I’m not the same guy I was my freshman year out here. I’m better in the game since I started—but I’m also more fucked up everywhere else. I’ve let a lot of things catch up to me, and I’m starting to pay the price.

It’s a debt I don’t know if I can outrun.

After that day, I learned how to balance the buzz I needed to get by and the level of performance I needed to show up with.

I can quiet the noise to a level that’s not noticeable, then indulge as my reward at the end of the day.