THE PATHETIC EXISTENCE OF A CLUTTERED MIND

You will probably think this is odd, but more than two years later I can see you standing on the St. Joe sidelines with crutches hobbled by a bad knee. The St. Joe coach didn't know about your injury and he was scared shitless; he knew he didn't have anyone who could stop you with your speed. You would have scored four touchdowns and gained more than 200 yards. I told that stupid coach of yours not to use you on defense because you weren't a two-way player, but that asshole thought he knew everything and he defied me. You paid the price for his ignorance. You were always a special player and nobody appreciated your talents more than me. Here I am in Mexico City with the rain falling in sheets, but no amount of water can wash away the many memories I have of you performing on the gridiron from the time you were a kid. Against St. Joe I can imagine you taking a pitch, cutting against the grain and racing 60 yards for a touchdown without a Bloodhound laying a hand on you. You were so special that I can envision you at this very second sprinting around the corner, tucking your shoulder for extra yards before a foe knocking you out of bounds with a crushing tackle. But you jump right up. You returned to action resolute and had an excellent year, earning all-district, first-team honors as a running back. But I am your dad and I had never seen you so helpless and hopeless as you thought you wouldn't realize your dreams your senior year that night under the unforgiving Friday lights. I do nothing but worry and torture myself about a thousand different incidents that have taken place in my life. It never ends, but this was a game made for you before a packed house. I am a lonely old man with an empty mind filled with these instances that I relive again and again from a thousand different perspectives. With each passing year I get sicker and sicker both mentally and physically. Things never turn out as we wish they might have. Life is always about what could have been. 

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