One Step Beyond Failure

The confetti rained down around me, blue, red, and white strips of defeat – of failure. For them, it was a victory rain. Blissful. But what comfort was that to me?

“Hey, that was an amazing effort, Tom! Kept us playing until the end. You’ve accomplished so much this year.”

“Yeah, it was fun out there! Congratulations to you. That was a solid job. You played great, you deserve it.”

It was agonizing. God, I hated to lose; the poison of defeat in my blood, my sweat turning cold. I pulled my helmet off, and the weight of it just hung off my fingertips. No one followed. They were all too smart for that. The only thing was the cameras. The press. All too eager to document every single line of pain etched on my face.

I was a rookie, what did I know about winning Superbowls. That’s what they’d say. They didn’t ever believe in you, always too busy criticizing. I was the replacement, the underdog all season, and I got here with my team. But, you lost Tom. You lost. And that’s all that matters in their eyes. You weren’t good enough. I tried to push the frustrated thoughts aside, trying to clear my head and compose myself at least a little bit before I had my teammates all around me.

Eventually we all filed in, our owner and the staff being so supportive. There was no pomp and circumstance among us, no victory fire, but we all made our rounds, encouraging each other as best we could. We were a team, and at the end of the day we knew that. We won together, but we lost together too. Every guy was going to struggle, wondering what he could have done better.

“Alright, alright.” Our coach, Bill, broke through our somber conversations. “We played hard, we gave it a good effort, but we made some mistakes and it was tough to overcome them. But let’s give it up for a great season, guys! It was a good run. Probably the best we’ve had in a long while. Nothing to be ashamed of. We have talent here, and we’ll pick it back up next year…”

The thoughts were coming back, pulling me away from the rest of his speech. Next year. When people said "there’s next year", it meant they weren’t satisfied with the way things went this year. I wasn’t satisfied. But this was your second year, Tom. You have so much ahead of you. But I should have been good enough. I should’ve been able to do it. You can’t always win. You don’t always win. That chip on my shoulder was deepening, coming back.

“Brady.”

“Yeah?” I gazed into Bill’s face, snapping back to reality, away from the hell of my mind.

“You ready for the press?”

“I’ll get out there in a minute.” I gave him a smile, patting him on the back, heading off to change before I went to answer their questions.

The unwelcoming glare of the lights shone all around me, no place to hide. I felt so vulnerable, so alone, standing behind the microphone, feeling everyone judge. God, couldn’t they just let me grieve?

“Tom, how did you feel out there today? Do you feel like you were mentally well-prepared for this game?”

They didn’t beat around the bush, did they?

“Yes, it was a tough game, no doubt, but I think we prepared well as a team, and we just didn’t execute like we had hoped.”

“How did you feel about taking over for Bledsoe in the post season? Did you agree with the change?”

And just like that, the bitter thoughts left me; at least for a few moments. Drew was such a self-less guy, such a team player. I knew I had years and years of learning before I was even half as good as him.

“Uh, honestly I feel lucky that I was able to go out there and do something for the team. I mean, he was able to help out when I went down a couple weeks ago, and ultimately the decision is made by the coaching staff of who goes out. We know that our jobs aren’t guaranteed from week to week, and he’s been handling the whole situation incredibly well.”

It’s always hard seeing a player go down like he did, especially so early in the season. I’ll admit that a small part of me didn’t want to be the guy that had to replace him, but I knew he understood.

“Alright, one more question, guys…”



The moonless sky followed me home, swallowing my Cadillac in its darkness. The headlights glared into the night, and the dizzying yellow dashes on the road slid away behind me, seeming to have no end. At least the surroundings matched the way I was feeling.

Crawling into the garage of my Boston home, I cut off the ignition, and pulled my things out of the back seat, trudging inside. I turned on my phone, not wanting to hear from anyone, but thinking it was important to listen to the numerous voicemails left by my family. There came a point when I could shut out my coaches, and my teammates, and my fans, but there wasn’t anything that could drag me down away from my family.

Their messages of pure love helped put a sweet taste back in my mouth after a night of swallowing bitterness and frustration. It took me back to a morning, an afternoon, that seemed more like a night in my memory. A day that appeared to be so long ago, yet a day that left scars which still looked hours old, red and menacing. Refusing to heal. The day of the draft.

My eyes started to glaze over, and I blinked quickly, the kitchen coming back into focus. I despised how every time bad days came around, you couldn’t help but reminisce about all the other times life had taken a cheap shot at you. Square in the face. I pulled a bottle out of the cabinet, not feeling classy enough to take a glass as well. It was one of those straight-from-the-bottle kinds of nights. Was it too much to ask to just slip away from all this agony for a few precious hours?

Determined not to let my thoughts attack the one thing I had going for me tonight, I retreated up the stairs to my room, saying half a prayer of thanks that I was the only one in the house. The nanny had taken John for the weekend, for obvious reasons. Most of the guys had their families come out to the game so they could see them after, and my parents had been there, but seeing John after the game would have only done one thing – reminded me of another mistake.

Bridget and I had been together for over a year. Everything seemed to be going so well, and then it was just over. I had real, true feelings for her, and it was over because of a decision both of us had made. Why is it that the girl got to blame the guy for getting her pregnant? Still, I had done the only thing I knew how to do – I took the baby from her, not being able to bear the thought of putting him up for adoption. I couldn’t have him finding out one day that the reason his parents gave him up, wasn’t because they were financially incompetent of taking care of him, but because they simply didn’t want him.

But, even though I had taken him, it didn’t mean I knew anything about taking care of him. Maybe I was twenty-three years old, but the closest I had ever gotten to taking care of a baby, was when my cousin let me hold her newborn girl. I wasn’t a father. I made sure to find the best nanny in the world for him, and to be honest he spent most of the time with her. Like this weekend, for example. Maybe it wasn’t even the fact that I was completely unprepared. Maybe it was because every time I was with him, I could just see Bridget in everything he did, and it was so painful.

By the time I finally changed and took a real shower, not the quick ones in the locker room, it was already 12:05 in the morning. And so I crawled into my cold sheets, entirely alone, taking a sip every time I thought about losing. But they still came. The dreams still came.

I was throwing the last pass, the last play that could have won the game. Over and over again I was throwing it, but I could never hit my receiver. Burying my face in frustration, shouting each time, I didn’t understand it. Over and over again. Miss, after miss, after miss. Until finally, I noticed there was something distracting me. Right before I let go of the ball, I would glance over at the sideline. Right over where the cheerleaders were. Because there was someone there that my subconscious couldn’t let go of. Bridget.