Lost & Found

Chapter 3

"The day I killed Al Connors was the worst day of my life," Eric says.

It's getting late. We've had a bathroom break and gotten more water, but it's almost the end of the work day, and I'm worried about how long this will take. I send Tris a quick PM.

TEaston: Any messages?

TPrior: Nita called. You're having dinner at the country club with her parents.

TPrior: Zeke changed the meeting with Chicagoland Waste to racquetball at 9:00am.

TEaston: Thank you, Tris.

I turn my attention back to Eric, who is telling Dr. Amar about the fateful night when Connors died.

"We didn't know," Eric says. "We knew he was unconscious and headed to the hospital. We knew they were concerned, but no one told us he was dead until we got into the locker room after the game.

"One of the trainers pulled me aside, and Coach told me what happened. I… I was in shock. It took a while for the numbness to wear off. Drew and Peter - two of my teammates - they played with Al in college. When Coach told the whole team, those two tried to attack me in the locker room. I would have let them. I would have welcomed the punishment; I thought I deserved it.

"One of our trainers was the one who stopped it. He reminded us that we play a violent game, and that many of us had been injured or caused injuries over the years and accepted it as part of the game. He told us to wait for the official investigation before getting angry. Some of the more compassionate players rallied around me.

"The flight home was silent. Thankfully Philly to New York isn't far, but it was just the beginning of my personal hell. The press was at the airport, reporters were at my building, and my phone was blowing up. I called my agent, Max; he drafted a statement. I wanted a drink so bad. I called my AA sponsor, my mom, and a couple friends."

Eric leaps up from his chair and starts pacing my office, clearly agitated.

"The next week is a blur. Max took care of things. I watched that play over and over. The hit was clean. Al should have been dazed at most. But he was knocked out cold. I had nightmares about his head bouncing off the turf.

"I… I killed someone!" he exclaims as if still surprised by it. "All the stupid shit I did when I was younger! I got away with all that, then killed a guy with a clean, legal hit. It's unbelievable!"

I can only nod. I remember the shock that comes back to you in waves. I remember the nightmares, the sorrow, and the overwhelming guilt. But I don't know what to say to him. What do I wish someone had said to me?

"I know." It's all I can come up with for a moment.

"I know how you feel," I elaborate. "It's awful, and heavy, and it doesn't go away quickly or easily. You know you didn't do anything wrong, but something horrible happened anyway. You have to… just… let yourself feel it - let yourself process. The media will move on quickly, and after that you'll have to make some decisions. What do you want for yourself? I mean, you can rationalize that Al caused his own death and eventually get back on the field. Or you can decide not to play football anymore and build a different life. Either option is legit. What you can't do is let the guilt swamp you, paralyze you, and hold you captive."