The Day, The Days After, and The Days After That

It all started with a bang. Then came the crying and the yelling. The scene was ugly. It was the most wicked thing I’ve ever seen. The skies were a shade too gray. The dark clouds formed overhead as the wind and rain picked up. Little boys were sprinting home trying to avoid dust and wrappers blowing in the gusts. Grown men were whimpering, while fumbling for their cell phones. Off in the distance, the neighborhood dogs were barking too loudly. Women shrieked as they hurriedly gathered up their babies to safety. Sirens blared, horns honked. Cops tried to gain control, but it was complete chaos.

Me? I was in complete shock. More surreal than fear. It was like someone taxidermied me. My eyes were locked in a lost stare and my jaw dropped to my belt buckle. It was like a car bomb had just detonated right in front of me, only it wasn’t. I was like Hillary when she was told she lost.

The hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention. I thought it was the apocalypse. It was by far the worst day in the history of the world. The date was 10/20/2004. The day the Yankees lost game seven of the ‘04 ALCS.

Now, I don’t know if all of that actually happened but that’s how I remember it. That’s how it goes down in my nightmares. I have never spoken of this day until now. My therapists want to know why I drink and why I don’t get along with anybody, well, this is why. People just don’t recover from this type of trauma. The agony is unbearable.

I sometimes think of the days when I used to wear button-down shirts and shave everyday. The days when I had a job, when I had friends, and a sense of humor. Sadly, those days are long over. Now I spent most days on the couch watching Yankee highlights of the ‘98 season over and over. I’m in a deep depression that I can’t get out of. It’s worse than quicksand. At least quicksand doesn’t smell like cheetos. I drink day and night and have alienated my entire family. My mom won’t even let me come up from the basement. Now I can’t laugh at anything, not even fat kids. My eyes are permanently red and puffy from all the sobbing. I must have used more tissues in the last four years than Jenna Jamison’s biggest fan.

I’m helpless. I’m stale. I’m done. I even tried to commit suicide by wearing a t-shirt that says “Fuck the Sox” to Fenway. No death, only a face full of middle fingers and one jab to the crotch by a nine-year old (quite unexpected).

To my credit, I have tried to get my head above water. I’ve been to psychologists, consulted with life coaches, all to no avail. I went to rehab in California, but had to leave when I punched a guy who looked like Matt Damon. I had cut down my painkiller intake to only a few days a week. My rule was only when the sox won a game. With time, I was gradually healing my unfathomable pain. My pizza delivery guy said he noticed a difference. Things were actually starting to look up. Then, “they” won again in ‘08.

Honestly, I didn’t think I would make it. I totally relapsed. I spiraled back into Bolivia. I boozed harder than ever. I fought more. I had no one to talk to. I had become an animal. It wasn’t until I hit my deepest emotional point in my life when I finally had reached a breakthrough.

I met Joba.

All of a sudden with one glance, my eyes cleared up and a hint of a smile appeared on my chapped lips. I felt the black cloud around me slowly floating away. Just like that, the sun was a bit brighter, the birds chirped merrier. For a quick second there, I even thought my toilet paper was softer. After years, I was, for a moment, happy. It was indeed a breakthrough.

The fist pump, the flat bill of the cap, the tree trunk legs, the 100 mph fastball, was all I needed to start living again. The infectious personality, the youthful energy, the passionate intensity, was all I needed to start believing again.

As i stood off the couch realizing i had turned a corner in my life, i wanted to celebrate. the only thing that felt natural was a fist pump.

jimmy sports