Sports Talk Radio 3: Black Mass
Jim’s eyes fix on flickering images of himself as a kid. He gazes at himself, watching TV, idolizing Brett Favre, John Elway, Anthony Munoz, guys from that era.
He watches himself watch highlight footage of Elway’s helicopter dive in the Super Bowl and then sees himself, as a kid, jumping to his feet, in his bright orange Broncos pajamas, in his bedroom, screaming and punching at the air.
Jim then watches footage, grainy tape of his high school football days.
Like most kids, he originally wanted to be a quarterback, a gunslinger like Favre, but he had grown so big, so quickly, that by middle school, when he was already 6’0 and pushing 200 pounds, he’d been placed on the o-line, sent to the trenches.
And he loved it. He’d taken to the position, played guard, tackle, and relished the animalistic nature of it, the constant violence, and was exalted at being able to legally pummel, beat the shit out of other human beings.
With his size, tenacity, and smarts, he’d dominate, light-up linebackers, lay d-lineman on their backs. Bashing, beating back the opposition, he’d feel like a lion dominating the Sahara, like a big rig in a demolition derby.
Sure, it was dirty, thankless work, but knowing he was part of the gears that made the offense run, seeing his quarterback’s jersey sparkling clean or getting a fist-bump from a running back after a big gain, and most importantly, winning games, cashing big checks, that was all the affirmation, adulation he’d ever needed.
Jim views highlight reels of his college and pro years, his best blocks, his teams’ most notable victories, then sees himself slapping five with his teammates. He’s entranced with his image, himself in the prime of his life. Himself, a specimen of peak human ability. Himself, alive and strong, in his uniform, pads and cleats.
Then he watches himself morph back into an 11-year-old child.
He’s in his backyard, running suicide sprints, and then he sees himself back in his bedroom, with his football posters, football pictures cut from newspapers and magazines covering every inch of the walls. His eyes are glued to a tiny TV on his writing desk. He’s in a Favre jersey and black sweatpants and is screaming at a Packers’ game, cheering on Favre. He’s smiling, ear to ear, and the tiny screen on his desk zooms forth, enlarges to cover the wall.
The picture shows Lambeau Field, the frozen tundra. Favre, under center, has a taut neck, mischievous smirk, and a canny, calculating shrewdness flickering in his eyes. Flurries, strands of snow frame him like a snow globe. Swinging his head, from side to side, he barks the pre-snap call, then summons the ball.
Dropping back, Favre cocks his throwing arm, as if angling a missile launcher, and unlooses a buckshot of leather, the ball exploding from his hand, ascending in a perfect spiral, the ball gliding beautifully through the snow, rising and falling like a parabola.
The precision-guided pigskin then lands, strikes a wide-open Andre Rison, right on his front numbers. Rison, legs pumping, moving like twin pistons, gallops valiantly across the goal line, then tosses the TD ball to a bright-eyed, ruddy-faced kid in the crowd…
Yeah, the kids are alright…
But not the “fans.” The fans’ images return. The buffoons. The middle-aged suburban, fat baldies. Those guys are scum, Jim thinks. And they’ll turn on you in an instant. They don’t care if you’re in the hospital, pissing blood. They just want to be entertained.
Raw video footage runs of a time when a young wide receiver on his team took a scary spill, diving for a ball and landing, vertically, piledriving into the turf, injuring his neck.
The dude lies crumpled, motionless on the field, and Jim is jogging over to lend him a hand, but is stopped by the coaching staff, who are panicked, faces masked in terror.
Jim wasn’t close to the receiver, but liked him, respected him, and had seen the dude’s young wife and cute 2-year-old kid once at practice.
And here the dude is, on the field, motionless. The medical team rushes out there, fits the dude into a protective plastic casting, and wheels him off the field in a cart, then carries him on a stretcher into a waiting ambulance.
Jim studies that footage, that game. He remembers. He remembers being back there. With his teammates, kneeling on the cold wet grass, his helmet lying on the ground next to him. Everyone on Jim’s team is dead silent. The opposing team, too, those guys, some of whom Jim knew, are silent, shaking their heads. Guys from both teams make prayer circles, hold hands, kneel on one knee, and pray.
And what about the “fans?”
Jim watches those assholes cheering when the dude dives, takes the awkward spill. As the dude is sprawled out, immobile, looking like he might die, the “fans” at the game, from the stands, are yelling curse words at the fallen player, hollering the worst things you could ever say, one shouting something about, “I hope you get a comfy wheelchair!”
Jim is disgusted. At the time, he was only in his second year and didn’t have much of an opinion about the crowds. In college, many were his classmates, and hot babes. Fans at opposing colleges were usually just churlish, at worst, and often comical in their abuse, and Jim had enjoyed their boos, knowing it meant his side was succeeding.
But this, however, is different. But this, this is reprehensible. That soggy afternoon, that game changes him, makes Jim truly despise the fans, in a visceral way, and it’s a feeling that lingers and only intensifies…
If that wide receiver hadn’t recovered, fortunately, and played again, Jim might have murdered someone, he thinks. For real. He is once more… full… churning… riven with revulsion… Burning with hate…
Hate, a black mass of hate. A black screen washes over the wall. Then the wall forms into a mirror and Jim sees himself sitting in the kitchen, a gloomy old man, in front of a steaming cup of coffee. Jim rests his eyes, listlessly, at his own reflection.
Then he feels only hate. And he hates himself, the old man in the mirror, more than anything…
But then he exhales, loosens up. He smiles at himself, a goofy, toothy grin.
He is secretly happy none of his kids were athletes. He probably wouldn’t have stopped any of his kids from playing football. But he wouldn’t wish the way he wakes up feeling, every day, on anyone. He wouldn’t wish the animosity he feels… At least his kids didn’t have to be him…
The walls shift back to white and Jim notices there’s the burning garbage smell again, which squelches Jim’s appetite. He rises from the stool, flings the remainder of his food in the garbage.
Then he closes his phone, dumps the rest of his coffee in the sink. After dumping the coffee, he sees the dishes are gone. Perhaps he’d already placed them in the dishwasher. He can’t remember.
But he feels better.
His body is looser, less painful. The oxycontin is in full swing, coursing through his bloodstream, easing his worn joints.
Then he’s in his long black leather jacket, the Terminator-style trench coat, and is out the door, intrepidly, and is moving quicker and easier. Then he’s in the driveway, peering up at the sky. It’s cleared up and is blue, bluer than a swimming pool, Jim ponders.
Perhaps the day will be different. It’ll be a success. His heartbeat slows. Tranquility and warmth overtake him. But when he opens the car door, though, he’s in for a surprise.
