More Than a Memory

8 | if nothing else

Colt

"Hurry up," Dad whisper shouts, shoving his wallet back into his pocket and waving the stamped parking ticket in the air. "Hang a left and head down those steps. It'll spit us out right in our parking block."

I do as he says without question, weaving through the massive crowd of dismal Buffalo Bills fans. It's a vibrant sea of red, white, and blue, abounding in grumpy faces and foul language.

Pulling a sharp left ahead, I skip down the long concrete steps with Dad in tow. Sure enough, we wind up walking through a short passage and pushing through a heavy steel door that leads us right into the parking garage. I can see his car from here.

"Chumps," he grunts with a chuckle, tipping his chin toward the little shack where another crowd is gathered, waiting in line to use the parking kiosk.

That's a line we don't have to wait in, thanks to Dad knowing his way around Bills Stadium like he's a tour guide or something. Honestly, how the hell did he know about that hidden kiosk around the corner from the vending machines? Pure genius.

Man, what a game. We lost, continuing this season's epic losing streak, but it was still exciting. A three point loss in overtime should feel like a major letdown and, if you asked my dad right now, he'd likely give you a very thorough but calm mouthful about all the ways his team just dropped the ball, literally and figuratively. But me?

I live for the nail-biters, the games that keep you on the edge of your seat. It's never been about the score for me, whether I'm playing or watching football. It's always about the game, each individual play that unfolds and moves you closer to the goal, the twists and turns that take you away from it.

Each and every interaction on the field, whether it leads to a glorious victory or a painful defeat, is exhilarating to me. Even a loss feels like a win when you see how hard the players are trying, how hungry they become under pressure.

I know the feeling. Well, I used to anyway. I'll never experience it again, not for real.

My head's too delicate, so says neuro. And the ortho doctor agreed, calling my arm a lost cause. The joint just won't reconnect and the surgery is too risky, damn near impossible. Both teams of doctors are strongly advising against all further contact sports.

Physically, the arm feels alright but it still hurts from time to time, especially when it rains. Makes me feel like an old geezer, predicting the weather according to my pain level the way my Grandma can with her bad knees. But this is my life now and all of my doctors say I'm lucky to be alive.

If nothing else, I'm still alive.

And I'm okay with it, honestly. It's not like I can't play football ever again. I'll just never play on an interscholastic or collegiate level and I can kiss any dream of professional sports goodbye.

Not the end of the world, by any means, but it is a hard pill to swallow, the reality of which almost kept Dad from buying these tickets for us. No matter how badly he's always wanted to bring me to a game, even back when our relationship was garbage, he almost didn't go through with his plan for an early birthday gift and bring me to see the Bills face off against the Ravens today. He didn't want to rub salt in a wound but, thankfully, Mom convinced him to go for it.

I'm glad he did.

Today was the best kind of day. I've never seen my dad enjoy himself through a loss before. He's usually shouting obscenities or throwing shit at the TV. And yet, here we are. Heading out of the stadium with a long line of gloomy, bummed out fans packed into the cars behind us, and Dad's sporting a hundred yard long smile on his face like we didn't just hand over a game to the Baltimore Ratbirds.