Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies: On Myths, Morons, Free Speech, Football, and Assorted Absurdities (3 page)

But we can’t show it. We can’t acknowledge it, can’t give voice to it, can’t let the bitter sting of defeat shout its pain to the world, because we have to get ready for next week.

Players have to take all those voices, all those nasty little thoughts, and wall them off behind mental barriers so high and thick they make the Great Wall of China look like a sand castle at high tide. You have to push it aside and do your best to forget the pain even exists, because if you let it affect the outcome of the next game, that deadly spiral will crush you until there’s nothing left but bitter regrets and shattered dreams. You have to believe that you can move on and forget the past, because there’s not one damn thing you can do to change it now; actions have been performed and judged and found wanting—your effort and intent was simply not good enough that day.

It fades after a while, the angry introspection of defeat, but it’s always there, always lurking in that mental prison, pacing restlessly behind its bars like a caged tiger, eyes agleam with savage hunger to rend and tear. You can never let that beast out, though, lest it wreak havoc on your life and on the lives of those around you. Some placate it with alcohol; some with religion; some with sex; some even tame it with the hard-earned serenity of acceptance, the realization that what’s done is done and no one can change the past no matter how much it hurts.

So while we may put on brave faces and tell you, “This game’s
behind us, we’re focusing on next week,” don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that we don’t care, that we don’t feel the loss a hundred times more keenly than you do. Don’t think that it doesn’t add up over the weeks and years until sometimes we want to rage at the world at the top of our lungs.

We’re just better at hiding it than you are.

I
’ve been very fortunate in my life to have experienced something very few people get to experience—the adrenaline thrill of performing my job in front of thousands of screaming people in a stadium and millions more watching on television, almost all of whom would die happy if they could live my life for one day. What does it feel like? Nervousness, confidence, elation, despair, humility, pride—a thousand conflicting feelings coursing torrentially through my body and mind.

What does it feel like? A small candlelit bubble of self drifting in a dark and terrible sea.

Standing on the sideline is where it starts. I can feel a tight knot begin to form in my stomach, the onset of nerves, but that’s normal, and I push it to the side. There’s no way not to get nervous, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you or to himself. The trick is to ignore it, because if you can’t, you’ll never
make it at this level. Sure, all eyes are on you, and everyone will know if you make a mistake, but that can’t be your focus. You have to be locked in on one thing, and one thing only—doing your job to the utmost of your ability. And if you don’t, you’re going to get fired. Try not to think about that either, if you can help it.

Breathe! That’s the rookie mistake most people make. When your body engages in the primal fight-or-flight response, you draw shorter, faster breaths, which is a problem, since you need all the oxygen you can get when it’s time to perform. I find that several deep inhalations calm the adrenaline tremors twitching my limbs and help me relax into the routine of playing. A day job that’s unlike any other day job in the world. Fourth down inevitably rolls around, and it’s time to get to work.

I jog out onto the field, and the shouts of the crowd surrounding me fade away into a dull roar, an ocean of sound I float atop. Some days the tide is angry, all-consuming—torrents of white noise crashing over and through me like foaming breakers in the midst of storm-racked skies. Other days are calm and still, the scattered cries of individual fans piercing the air like the shrill cries of birds squabbling over a fish. Through it all, I remain focused on one thing: catching the football and executing the best punt I can, expecting, hoping for, success.

Check the ball placement, toes lined up thirteen and a half yards away, left foot staggered slightly in front of right, weight balanced evenly near the balls of my feet in case I need to adjust to a snap. Wipe hands on pants to ensure best catching surface; raise and loosely extend them to give my long-snapper a target to aim at. Focus on the tip of the ball as the snapper adjusts it in his pre-snap routine, block out everything else as best as I’m able;
players blur into barely felt presences on the edges of my peripheral vision.

A sudden intake of breath, ball spinning back, violent explosions of motion off in the far distance as titans grapple and twist.

Time slows down to molasses, syrupy thick and clinging.

Watch the ball in for the catch, every tactile surface immediately feeling for laces as a reference point, hands twisting and turning to adjust it into the proper drop plane, middle finger supporting the bottom seam while palm and thumb complete the pyramid base, left hand guiding and stabilizing oh so briefly before rising up to balance the whiplash strike of kicking that seems so far away;
now
ball lightly weighing down my right hand as I bring it to waist level;
now
right foot lands and left foot begins its balanced stride forward, not too short, not too long;
now
right arm gradually extends (keeping a slight bend in the elbow, to prevent the drop from crossing inside) and then falls away, letting the ball float freely for the barest instant as my left foot locks into the ground and all the muscles on my right lower side contract and then explode up through an expelled grunt of air, left arm fully outstretched to the sky, eyes never leaving the gold
Wilson
engraved on the side, though they’re not quick enough to actually see the moment of impact,
and now
I’m following through and time returns to normal again, an eternity of 1.2 seconds later.

Bodies rush and whir past like frenzied tops, and it’s time to start running downfield, legs churning and arms pumping, scanning for the returner, for possible seams to fill, for potential blockers to avoid (I’ve been blindsided a couple times, and it never feels good). Time starts moving faster at this point, too much chaotic motion for me to focus on any one thing; frozen instants are all that register.

There—a gunner makes a diving grab as the returner twists and eels free.

There—a wing gets pushed to the side by an opponent, daylight momentarily flashing as the returner sprints for a rapidly closing gap.

There—I step around a blocker and find myself within arm’s reach of the returner, both of us moving in the same plane of vectors for the briefest of moments.

There—I stick an arm out and latch on, spinning-tumbling-bouncing through the air and off the ground, a whirlwind kaleidoscope blurring around me until we slide to a halt and the whistles blow.

I pick myself up off the ground and jog back over to the sideline. Barely twenty seconds have elapsed since I walked onto the field, but it feels like twenty minutes. If it was a bad kick, I mentally beat myself up in a fit of pure rage and then make it melt away like summer snow—time to focus on the next kick. If it was a good kick, I allow myself a fiery moment of exultation and triumph before I tamp it down to gently glowing coals—time to focus on the next kick.

The rush of crowd noise, drifting and dying away.

The rush of adrenaline, sacrificial fuel offered and consumed.

The rush of bodies, avoided and ignored.

The rush of time, accepted and embraced.

The rush of the waves, in, out, in—bubbles drifting serenely off into the distance.

A thin reed, a rush, but one that weathers all storms.

I
have no tolerance for bigots. I have no tolerance for sexists. I have no tolerance for racists, would-be slave owners, or those who would oppress another group simply because they can. I have absolutely NO tolerance for those who don’t treat other people the way they would want to be treated. I have nothing but contempt for those who would pass a constitutional amendment
denying
equality under the law to a segment of American citizens. We’ve fought countless battles over the years trying to bring greater equality to both this country and the world, and they would shove it aside like so much trash.

And guess what: My intolerance doesn’t kick in until YOU do something. Treat everyone equally and with respect, and we’ll never have a problem. Unfortunately, some people just don’t get it.

I won’t sugarcoat it, won’t hide it in fancy words, won’t wrap it in a swaddling of morality and fear: If you vote to restrict the rights
of other people, you are trying to make them your slaves. You are telling them that the very birthright that makes us human, the right to free will and choice, the right to happiness and freedom, does not apply to them. You are flat-out stating that these people are no longer human beings, that YOU should decide what’s best, with no care for independent thought, that YOU alone know the only way to do things.

I call this oppression. I call it tyranny. I call it cruel and unjust and undeserving of consideration by anyone who would live free of shackles. America, the America I was brought up in, the America I want my children to live in, is a land of
inclusion
, not
exclusion
. “ ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’ ” There’s no addendum to the Statue of Liberty plaque that says “But hey, fags, get the JACKBOOT TO BACKSIDE out. Blacks, we don’t want you either. Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, don’t even think about it.” This country was built on the idea that everyone is equal under the law, everyone deserves the same rights and respect of free will, everyone can pursue happiness. I will happily lay down my life to protect your right to
believe
whatever you want, but when your
actions
are oppressive, we’re gonna have some problems, because now you’ve crossed the line dividing your free will from someone else’s. There is only one thing I will not allow in my life, and that is an action that tolerates discrimination.

I am completely intolerant of intolerance. Any time someone uses his opinion to enforce actions that oppress a segment of the population, I’ll be right there giving the biggest middle finger I can find. Any time someone thinks she has the right to pass laws that take away another person’s free will, I’ll be shouting profanity at the top of my lungs. Any time someone believes that life
should be corralled and constrained, that actions between consenting adults that cause no harm to others should be legislated away, that the enslavement of humanity is somehow a good thing, then, by any god you care to name, I will raise my voice and call out your arrogant FLIES CIRCLING COWPAT from every single rooftop I can find.

Here’s the thing: I really don’t care what your personal opinion is on anything. If you want to believe that the Flying Spaghetti Monster will condemn us all to the Molten Mozzarella Pits for not sacrificing daily at its altar, more power to you! If you want to believe gay people getting married will usher in an eternal age of terror, that’s your choice to make (I may not agree with the choice, but it’s yours). But the instant, the very instant you change that opinion into an action—the moment you make laws forcing someone to worship at your altar, or restricting people’s right to marry whom they want, or taking away freedoms and protections due to skin color or sexuality; that coldly self-involved second when you treat me (or anyone else) as a thing, as an object, as a slave with no right to self-determination or free will—well, my friend, that’s when my intolerance kicks into high gear.

Let me tell you a little story about mirrors. When you look into a mirror, every reflected action comes from one source—you. That person you see looking back at you will treat you exactly how you treat him. If you smile, or wave, or laugh, the reflection reacts with appropriate good cheer. Make angry faces or scream, and you quickly find yourself the subject of every barb and indignity you’re trying to heap upon the shoulders of another. If you find yourself bristling under the scorn, the contempt, the lack of respect, don’t blame the mirror. All it’s reflecting is you.

T
onight I was lying in bed trying to think up a solid way to launch into an exploration of the traveling life of a football player as my wife watched her shows on the DVR (
Big Bang Theory,
the
Daily Show, Modern Family,
and the
Colbert Report,
for those interested). Basically, I wanted to write something about how I fly all over the country but I pretty much see only the interiors of hotel rooms and locker rooms; name a tourist trap I’d enjoy checking out, and I probably have no idea what you’re talking about.

Then, as I got into the piece, I realized I needed to do some traveling of a different sort—I had to move from the bed because I was getting distracted by the TV (I enjoy listening as my wife watches, but it tends to focus my concentration toward the TV and away from the writing).

Luckily, since I write on a laptop, moving to the family room was accomplished with relative ease and minimal spousal strife,
affording me ample solitude to work on the traveling piece. Sitting on the couch with the lights off, the monitor glow my lone island of illumination, focused fully on the task at hand, I was ready to start deriving meaning from formlessness.

Only now I wanted to write about something else.

I was suddenly reminded of a picture I had seen on Twitter several days before. It was of author Neil Gaiman curled up on his couch writing a new Sandman book (if you haven’t read the Sandman series, you should; they’re awesome graphic novels) in the dark—and it amazed me how similarly the creative process was playing out for me.

I knew I wasn’t going to write about flying; I wanted to write about writing (how meta!).

Alone in the dark with only my thoughts, no outside distractions creeping in, my own private interpretation of the universe ready to spring forth from my mind, awaiting only the proper electrical impulses to transfer thought into action—is this what all writers, all spinners of fables and yarns, crave? That tiny darkness inside our heads that envelops the spark of imagination, itself surrounded by the sensory deprivation we need while we go about the act of creation? Do we subconsciously harken back to the primal days of our ancestors as they gathered around the campfire while unseen creatures’ noises echoed through an undefined night?