Page 128 of Loving the Legend
“I will. Just give me a chance. You’re gone for a week, then I’m on the road. I don’t want us to leave it like this,” I plead.
He crosses his arms across his chest. “I know you’ve been keeping your panic attacks from me.”
“H-how?” I ask, stepping back.
The lows of the last few weeks race through my mind. I thought once training camp started, things would naturally fall into place. Then camp began, and it was brutal. As expected, I was out of shape from not practicing during the off season. Nomatter how much I pushed myself, my brain wouldn't jumpstart. A permanent fog settled in. Then, there was the first game of the season. I attempted over two dozen shots and only a handful landed during warm up. I never felt more resentful of my depression. Knowing I was a few minutes away from 17,000 people watching me play the worst ball of my career twisted me up. The familiar taste of bile sent me racing to the toilet, where I vomited until I wheezed. I never mentioned panicking or being sick to anyone, not even Sid.
“I know about your three a.m. practice sessions before you sneak back into bed. And don’t think I bought your lie about having a stomach bug when you skipped those two games last month when I was on the road. Tell me the truth—you hit rock bottom and couldn’t get out of bed.” He glares at me, daring me to deny it. “The staff said you laid in the same spot in bed for four days straight and barely ate.”
“Incredible.” I throw up my hands. “I don’t even have privacy in my own house!” Despite my indignation, the thought he’s known the truth for days, if not weeks, makes my neck burn.
Stone-faced, he raises his chin. “Don’t deflect. Answer me.”
“Fine…yes. I crashed or was depressed or whatever. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“So you’re lying to me now. I thought we didn’t hide, no matter how ugly it gets. That’s real for me. Is it not for you?”
“Yes,” I mumble.
“Yes, what?” he asks, angling his head to meet my down-turned gaze.
“It’s real for me. I wouldn’t break that.”
“Except you have.”
I know. It’s in my bones—guilt. It’s a steel weight chained to my waist.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to distract you. You’ve needed to focus on getting acclimated to the Royals. I didn’t want to bog you down with my shit and—”
“I knew you would say that. That’s not how we work. When you hurt, we hurt, I hurt!”
I wince. It’s too much pressure. I’m constantly failing everyone. For Christ’s sake, I’m just one man. Sometimes I just want to disappear. That way, I can’t hurt anyone. I can just fall apart.
He scrubs his hands over his eyes. “Fuck! I feel like I’m losing you. There's this hollow look in your eyes, and I’m gutted because I’ve seen it before.”
“This isn’t that. I’m not Paul!”
“I know you’re not Paul. Don’t make this about him. This is aboutyou. I seeyou. Your symptoms have worsened. Your nightmares have gotten worse. You’re still depressed. You’re checked out half the damn time unless it’s about ballin’— the only thing you give a shit about. You’ve been keeping your panic attacks from me. You have some fucked up idea that winning a ring will bring your—”
“Stop,” I hiss. “Leave them out of it.”
“You need to hear—”
“Don’t, Sid.” I glare at him.
“They’re gone, and they’re not coming back. And—”
“You think I don’t know they’re fucking dead!” I yell, pounding my fist against my chest. “There’s a chunk of me that’s rotting in the ground right along with them.”
“See! That!” He points at me. “That right there. It’s grief, Tyler. We can get you help.”
I shake my head. “I tried it your way. It wasn’t for me.”
He pulls on his collar. “You went to a few sessions. What the hell were you supposed to gain? Therapy can take years.”
I shrug. “It fucked up my head. I’ve been on a losing streak ever since.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that you’re worth way more than ball?” His voice drops impossibly lower to a baritone rasp. Sometimes I wish he’d raise his voice instead of going low and deep. It’d be less unnerving. “You’re willing to kill yourself because you believe that winning championships will bring meaning to their deaths or provide some kind of closure. It won’t. Sex, money, rings—can’t you see that none of it will heal the pain? You have to face your grief.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “I could fuck you into the mattress until we pass out. You’d still wake up gasping for air, retching up your insides, and covered in sweat.”
