Kona stared at me, stretching back against the sofa. “Richie Dole was a third round Draft pick. All conference all four years in high school and college. Fastest running back ever to come out of Ohio State. Good dude. Sloppy drunk that ate too much red meat, but he was a good dude.”
Knowing I’d not be free from his lecture anytime soon, I rested my head against the sofa cushion and looked at Dad, accepting that I was about to hear yet another warning. “What happened to him?”
He moved his head, popping his neck like he needed to be free from the stiffness there before he leaned back, copying my relaxed slouch. “Four concussions in three seasons. He had a wife and two little girls. But by the end of his career, by the time that fourth concussion had landed, Richie had already displayed some pretty erratic behavior: getting lost in a town he grew up in. Forgetting his name, forgetting to pick his eight-year-old daughter up from school.” Dad shook his head, glancing at me before he continued. “Asshole couldn’t handle his body failing him and he didn’t want to burden his wife with what he was feeling. Started drinking. Started drinking and driving.”
“He kill anyone?”
At my question Kona exhaled, head shaking. “Yeah. Himself. Swallowed a bullet two hours before his oldest daughter came home from a sleepover. Eleven years old and she found her dad in the garage with a 9 mm in his mouth.”
“Jesus.”
Kona nodded, eyes focused on me. “Yeah. It was a mess. Dole was a good dude, like I said. He practiced hard, he played harder. He had a good woman. He had a beautiful family. And when it was over with, when the autopsy came back, the coroner said it was a miracle he’d survived as long as he had. CTE. There was already so much damage.”
I’d heard it a thousand times. Aly had done her research before trying to get me to retire. After the first concussion, she wanted the facts. She’d spewed them at me like it was my inevitable future. Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy can only be discovered after death. It’s a buildup of protein that spills out of your cells thanks to blunt force trauma. It suffocates your neural pathways, affecting things like memory, judgment and fear. Paranoia can kick in, that’s the worst. Take a 240-pound linebacker who already has a temper and lifetime anger issues, and couple that with irrevocable brain damage, potentially paranoia and the inability to think straight, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. Or tragedy.
It was there, right in front of me. The warnings. Those facts and the idea that I’d let my own goals outweigh the things that really made me happy. The things that mattered. My father had done that. So many times over the years he’d shake his head, thinking about one thing or another and toss a look at my mother or me and my siblings, finally muttering something like “I wasted so much time” or “I don’t deserve you guys.” I was starting to realize why that guilt ate at him. Finally, I started to understand what sacrifices we make to play the game we love and how sometimes in the end those sacrifices mean nothing. Not when the loss outweighs the gain.
I didn’t want to spend sixteen years in misery like my father had and I damn sure didn’t want to end up like Richie Dole. “Dad…”
My father looked outside, to Koa and Mack chasing each other, being annoying as only they could and the smallest smile moved his mouth. “This,” he said, waving around the room, nodding toward the sound of Koa and Mack’s laughter, to the music trickling from the studio at the end of the hallway, “this is what I wanted for so long. That first night I met you, out on the patio and you and your Mom sang Dylan, in that exact moment, I knew I wanted you and your mother and conversations about nothing and giving you advice about your life, your woman, anything, all of it. I wanted Koa and Mack before they were even a thought in my head. I wanted all of it because I’d missed so much. I wanted…” he closed his eyes, rubbing them with the palms of his hands before continuing, “I wanted her so much that night. More than I ever had before.”
Dad looked at me, his smile easy, real. “And I wanted you, my beautiful strong boy who reminded me of my twin. Who was his own man, who was so happy, so full of all that boundless potential. And here you are...I look at you and see what Luka would have been like. I see my blood and it makes me so proud.” Kona reached over to me, grabbing my neck. “Don’t think for a second that you are alone. Don’t you ever think that you weren’t wanted. You were. You are. You always will be.”
I couldn't make my throat work, or keep the burn from my eyes when he stopped speaking. The only thing I managed to do was blink, nodding at him for fear that speaking would make my voice crack. Dad seemed to understand and he patted my face, resting back against the sofa.
“I’m not telling you to quit. I’m telling you to figure out what’s important. I’m telling you it’s time to man up and do what you need to do, to be happy and healthy.”