by Alex Kavutskiy
I remember Autumn in the suburbs. The leaves changing colors, the back-to-school sales, the
football. My brother and I used to run plays in the backyard against the old man. He seemed to be ten times our size. When it was his turn, he would just run it in for a touchdown with the two of us clinging to his arms. He'd do a celebration dance and we'd scream and scream, "No fair! No fair!"
Now it's Autumn in the city. Not a lot of trees in the business district where I live. Nothing exciting about going back for another year of law school. But I still have
football. When the season starts, even on the worst of days, I can always kick back with a beer and watch the game.
I don't play football with my family anymore. In fact, I hardly even talk to them anymore. My brother is a stranger to me, and my father, well, we don't have much to say to each other. "How's school? How's the job?". That's the extent of our phone conversations. But during the season, we can talk for hours about our team, the Titans. If Thanksgiving and Christmas weren't during football season, I don't know if I'd ever see him.
The doctors found the tumor last week. Funny enough, it's shaped like a football. And not very funny, it's in my lung and it's inoperable.
Do you remember when Kevin Dyson was tackled at the one-yard-line in 2000? I remember. That was the most painful moment of my life. The one chance the Titans had to win the Super Bowl. That's what it felt like when I found out. Somehow, I felt like I was sneaking around it but it's finally caught up to me, stopping me one yard short. I don't know why I feel that way. Maybe Kevin Dyson does. I'd write him a letter asking, but I'm sure he doesn't need any reminders of what happened.
Football takes courage. Football takes strength. Football takes no prisoners. Now I'm not so sure if I've admired football my whole life or if I've just been terrified of what it represents, of what I don't have.
I found out two weeks ago. I went in for tests because it was getting harder to breath. I kinda feel like I'm running a passing play with no one to pass to.
Some players pass. Some players run. All players eventually die. Pass. Run. Die.
Last week, I coughed up blood. I was making pasta and spewed into the saucepan. I couldn't tell the blood from the tomato sauce. It was part of it. It was part of me. I took the pot and threw it out the window. I fell to the kitchen tile and screamed more blood from my lungs. I passed out.
Sobbing has become a part of my daily routine. I sob on the way to work. I sob in the bathroom at work. I sobbed in traffic on the way home. When I get home, I have no tears left in me.
I removed the mirrors from my apartment. I can't look at myself anymore. I also threw the TV out. The garbage chute is cluttered with the artifacts of my pain.
I couldn't sign in at the doctor the other day because I started chewing my fingernails. I'd never done it before but now I can't seem to stop. I chew until my fingers are all bloody and I've lost all dexterity.
Shaving? Ha. That's something I did before I had cancer.
My fucking asshole neighbor just interrupted me writing this to ask me about the mirrors clogging up the garbage chute. I told him rightly that it was none of his fucking business and he doesn't know me and has no right to accuse me. He said there was a trail of bloody footsteps going straight from the garbage chute to my apartment door. Duh, you immigrant piece of shit, my feet have been bleeding a lot more since I quit wearing shoes and the broken glass in the hallway didn't help any.
Someone on Facebook just said that she's hungry. Who gives a shit? I'm starving. I haven't eaten since the dry noodles from last week's pasta disaster. I've abandoned my family.
I saw an old man, who looked a lot like my grandpa, smoking a cigarette at the bus stop today on the way to my therapist. I've never smoked a cigarette in my life. I've never even taken the bus. I wonder what the bus is like. I wonder what a lot of things are like. I wonder what a lot of things aren't like.
Mike, my therapist, asked me if I was depressed. I didn't answer. I haven't spoken a word to him for our last five sessions. I see him three times a week. He said maybe I'd have an easier time explaining myself if I used sports metaphors since I was a "sports fan". I simply told him that to forgive myself would be like forgiving Kevin Dyson for not legging out another yard. Then I walked out of our session prematurely.
I want to get a touchdown but I'm fumbling. I want to kick a field goal but I'm on my own 40. I wanna watch "Heaven Can Wait" but I only have "Leatherheads". The last one isn't a metaphor. It's a fact. Funny how we see certain things as "facts". As "permanence".
Pass. Run. Die.
Some say Steve McNair was the last, true American hero. I say it's my dad. Too bad I'll never be able to tell him that. We talked on the phone today... about Mike Munchak. The worst part is that I brought it up.
No fair. No fair.
