Broken Bird

Chapter 1

Bristol County Jail held me in limbo. Within the ether of that liminal place, I waited for the grinding gear of judgment to rake me through its sorting and sifting mechanism. It was dialed down to a glacial pace that built my unrest.

A life reared by the vice-grip of strife had pressed my unfaltering self-assurance into stone. I would walk away free. My trial would be made into a badge and worn on my skin. Inevitable success would bestow the next gold-plated medal upon the warehouse of my accomplishments.

I was eager to emerge from jail as a better version of myself. The challenge of isolation was accepted with enthusiastic anticipation. Time would be my tool for self-development. Throughout the stirring schedule of my life I rarely had the luxury of unappropriated hours. Now I used this overabundance to labor over literature.

In my tedious confinement books kept me sharp. Each novel was a paper wheel that polished the rough edge of my mental agility. Three books could be checked out at once. I read through twenty-five.

Every word laid a path to some other reality. I could lose myself in the text and enter another world. As my eyes carefully picked apart each sentence, my long-locked imagination was held captive for the first time in many years. I was returned to the innocence of youth. A place in time where pretend play was only meant for fun.

There were no other distractions from my return to the NFL. When I wasn’t reading, I made resourceful use of my surroundings to facilitate my training.

Adjacent to a metal bed tray, I perfected an advanced stage of bodyweight resistance strengthening. Within my cell, I strained through rapid bursts of plyometric leaps. The floor was doused with sweat as I lunged and squatted. The walls glistened from condensation.

Stinging fatigue tore through every muscle and throbbed like lightning in my veins. I pushed through the pain until it became a euphoric high. A hundred leap squats, followed by a hundred burpees, and a hundred box drills off the bed. I repeated three sets of each.

For an hour every day my feet pummeled cement slabs in the rec yard. I traced exhaustive loops around a tiny, chain-linked pen and focused solely on my conquest.

The nutritional deficit in my self-directed program was of great concern. It was the impetus for several written grievances to jailhouse staff. Regardless, I had all the tools I needed.

I controlled my destiny. I would train myself into a better version of the famous athlete the world had come to know. I would arise from this with an unbelievable story of endless determination. I would start again with an evolved form of mind, body, and reputation.

There was nothing but time to direct my focus. Each day brought me closer to the realization of a formidable potential. The only thing sweeter than the fresh air of freedom would be the blinding glow of triumph that obliterated my deserters. All those people who convinced themselves I couldn’t do it. The disloyal traitors who jumped ship and fled from my vessel like waterlogged rats. I would gladly crush them below the weight of a riotous victory parade.

While I awaited exoneration, I found solace in my time alone. Seclusion was a gift that removed the unflinching eye of paparazzi. With my newfound privacy I was inaccessible to the outside world.

It had been a hectic existence in the professional spotlight. Every minute on the outside was measured. The movement of life was fast and plans were highly coordinated. The sum of every social obligation was taxing.

My stint in Bristol County Jail was a short-term relief of autonomy. A respite from the spotlight. I was more relaxed in there than I ever was on the outside.

My room was small and manageable. A strict upbringing was mirrored in the upkeep of my clean and tidy cell. I kept my sheets perfectly folded and the pillow nicely fluffed.

It was comforting to adjust the tone of that abysmal space. The rough, foreboding nature could be softened with personal embellishments. I draped the harsh light above my bed with a shirt. It supplanted the leaden-blue fluorescence with a warmer, more consoling tone.

But the pleasantry of clever accouterments was only a transient relief. Eventually, the pacifying stillness built into a maddening rumble. As days and nights stretched on, the strain of lost time compounded.

A year and six months passed before my trial finally began. The rosy glow of fleeting sunsets lined my window in perpetuity. I observed the horizon of a remote world bustle beyond my grasp. It didn’t pause in my absence. Instead, I watched helplessly from barred windows as the reality of confinement threatened to undo me.

Time and seclusion were not the first thieves to betray my trust, yet they were the most dangerous. With meddling persistence, they pilfered the mental vaults that held my past. Guarded places, locked by key and long protected.

These two foes emancipated my truths from mental bondage. But many of my truths held me in chains. Each new sunset cut another bolt and one by one, toilsome thoughts began rising to the surface. They were freed to run through my mind in an endless loop of re-evaluation.

My initial recollections conjured the earliest images of my existence. All these many years later, I could finally appreciate their significance. The events had long since passed. Still, the true record of an untold story persisted within my head.

These were the building blocks of a life. The random, fleeting moments from childhood. I remembered the pajamas I wore as a toddler. My favorite toys. The inane fights I had with my brother, DJ. The times DJ made me laugh with the uncontrollable abandon of a rambunctious boy. The times I cried and those who brought upon this sadness.

This was where I wanted the memories to end. But time would not allow it. My brain would not permit me to forever dismantle and package away the details as had always been done before.

No matter how much I pushed them down, they remained. There was pain. And the ever-spinning projector of a mental movie began to play.

This was the beginning of my awakening.

I remembered my first time fishing with Dad. I wasn’t much taller than his knees. My clumsy, little fingers clung to a small, white fishing pole with a giant reel and a yellow button for the spool release. I stood with him on a dusty outcrop along the edge of a secluded lake. It was lined with trees and willows on all sides.

A thin cloud cover hung overhead. Ensnared by stratus wisps, the sun illuminated the sky like a stone-grey blanket. Melancholy light caught in dark water that reflected every feature like a mirror.

It was a struggle to gain coordination of casting the lure while unlocking the spool at an appropriate time. My tiny hands fumbled over the effort of pressing the release while correctly gripping the foreign object.

How much force does it take to cast? And at what point do I hit the button?

Dad had shown me a couple times. His last cast was a demonstration. He sent the line smoothly out in front of the pole as if it required no effort whatsoever.

This was a chance to prove my worth. A display of skill and capability that would make him proud. But the motor movement of this action was still not clear.

My first attempt was a dud. Failure to correctly time the cast whipped the line into the water. My bait smacked into the placid surface. Ripples spread across the lake and shattered its mirrored calmness.

Dad turned to face me. When you splash the water, you scare the fish. Do NOT do that again. His tone was sharp and unsettling. A snarl revealed two tightly clenched rows of pearly teeth.

Some inborn response guided my static pose. I grappled the pole in both fists and quietly pressed it against my upper abdomen. The rod sat at ninety degrees from my sternum and extended across the water. My lure dangled without intent beneath the surface.

There was tension in the air. It stuck to my head and chest like the muggy heat of a summer day. Fear and confusion locked both feet in place. I stared at nothing and remained quiet until his gaze returned back to the lake. After some time, he appeared to no longer notice my presence.

A long stretch of silence gave me permission to gauge his mood. His diverted focus indicated that it was safe to try again.

Bumbling with the giant reel, I quietly cranked on the line for my next cast. Still not quite sure if the reel should be held upward, or down toward the water.

Maybe its upward when I cast and downward when I reel.

Holding it this way still felt awkward. I was reluctant to ask.

Two or three sloppy loops of the handle and it was time for my next attempt. I had watched dad do this. Switch the pole from back to front, put enough force to send the bait far out into the lake.

Dad would be proud of how well I could cast. He’d probably exclaim as much when he saw the bait land deep in the distance. I’d definitely catch a fish out there.

We would both be excited when it got reeled in. He’d help take it off the line. Maybe I’d get to keep it. Maybe mom would cook it, or I could raise it as a pet. Either way, I was so excited to see what it would look like. To touch the slimy scales. To watch it glisten in the sun as it flopped around in the wetness of grass. Dad would probably want to take a picture while I held it.

My body tensed in preparation to cast. I squinted and aimed for the farthest edge of water. With all my might, I slung the line. A bold self-confidence guided my flicking pole.

The line whistled overhead as it streaked through the air. My heart stopped when I pressed firmly on the spool release. Yet somehow, this effort too was fumbled. A bungled mass of bait slapped the water a bit harder than before. It was a big mistake.

The back of dad’s hand immediately collided with my face. The strike was so abrupt my body was projected backwards onto the dirt. He wore a solid, silver ring that ripped the skin below my left eye. The opening immediately began to bleed.

I remained sprawled out on the ground. Shock left me frozen from the impact. The little pole was strewn beside me, jolted from my hands. Its short, uncast line extended through muddy soil to the base of the bank.

Swift surprise triggered a sudden stream of tears before I even felt the scorching pain.

Dad watched me on the ground. He slowly brought his line in and set his pole down gently on a patch of grass. For a moment he stood over me, then knelt down and retrieved me from the grimy muck.

He was saying something, but initially, I couldn’t hear any words. There was only a constant, crackling hiss that filled my ears.

My body peeled away from the earth as he pulled me up. The imprint of an outstretched shadow remained in the dirt.

It was impossible to hold my own weight. My weak legs crumpled from underneath a flaccid body. He supported my limp posture with both hands while I rested on his thigh.

Stand up straight! he commanded.

I attempted to follow his order, but my shaky legs kept buckling.

As I sobbed, he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket. It had been dyed crimson red. Black, paisley teardrops were drawn along the edges. He tied it around my face with a calm hand and cinched it tight to stop the bleeding. It was also an easy disguise to hide the gash.

I told you not to do that. Look what you made me do. He pet my back with a soothing kindness.

This was what love felt like. It was comforting and calm.

A few minutes passed while he peered over my shoulder into the distance. His attention dampened my coursing tears from a howling sob into a bridled murmur. His great strength held me without effort and wrapped me in a protective embrace.

Lookin’ fresh with that handkerchief son. Maybe you should start wearing ’em more often. The compliment lifted my spirits.

Somebody walked by a clearing near the edge of the water and noticed my whimpering.

Dad brought his lips to my ear and whispered, We don’t need to cry. You ain’t no little girl. You’re a man. My tears were drawing unwanted attention.

It was a most honest wish to make him proud. A determined mantra began to run like a carousel through my mind: Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I executed the focused mental exercise until every drop had evaporated from my flushed cheeks.

There was hardly any pain in my face now. It was only a radiating heat that pulsed with an occasional twinge of discomfort. Wearing Dad’s bandana built a gratifying confidence. It was one of his favorites. He wouldn’t have shared this prize if he didn’t care. This offering of approval sat like a crown across a face of admiration.

I did it! I’m a big boy. He’ll probably recognize how grown up I am now. I barely even cried. He was surely taking note of how strong I was.

This was how to earn his approval. It was the necessary rigor of validation. The prerequisite to receive a perfect father’s perfect love. If there was any flaw or inadequacy here, it surely resided in me.

This man, whose knee I now rested on, was everything. It was his robust hand that calmed and protected me. His image that brought me pride in who I was and where I came from. He was my idol and my guardian. These two facets made him invincible.

It was only his approval that could save me from his anger. I must have it. Like any other vital requirement to maintain life, it must be secured to ensure survival. An existence based on the reception of his love.

With the power of this resolve, I rose from the bench of his kneeling thigh. My wobbly legs proved their strength and finally stiffened for long enough to stand. They were still trembling when he released his grasp.

I wavered back and forth with intense focus. No sign of discomfort could betray my effort. Shifting vision slowly aligned me with a steady sight.

When I finally regained confidence in my upright posture, he was proud and so was I. It was his conviction that endowed my worth. This was the warmth of a father’s love.

Chapter 2

It’s April 2017. I live in the Souza-Baranowksi Correctional Center.

I am inmate Number: W106228. I’m unit: G2, Cell: 57, Bed: A. I’m Double A, Chico, A-Money.

My world is a 10-foot-by-7-foot cell. It holds a bunk bed, a stainless-steel sink-toilet combination, and a metal desk with a seat attached to the wall.

Following the guilty verdict, I was transferred from Bristol County Jail to this maximum-security prison in Lancaster, Massachusetts. Regardless of the name, my world has been concrete and cinderblocks for the past four years.

From the top floor of a recreation deck I bask in the heat of a spring day. Alone within my small enclosure, I sit down in a corner and take in the view. It faces outward, overlooking fences. Beyond the gates I see leafing trees and a jade-green lawn. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

My brain connects the scent of warm air and freshly cut grass. I’m immediately returned to Casey Field. Dad had brought me there as a kid.

It was only a ten-minute drive from our house. On the wide-open lawn of this nine-acre park we practiced throwing and catching our football.

Grip the ball with your hand. Hold it against your forearm like this. Dad tucked the ball in against his body.

Don’t hold it out here, like a loaf of bread. He extended his arm and waved it through the air. If you bring it out, someone’s gonna come along and snatch it from you. Cradle it close. You can’t EVER let it get away from you. He tossed the ball to me, watching closely as I mirrored his actions.

Perfect. Now lemme see how you hold the ball like you’re comin’ through the hole.

I clasped the football at my chest, arm over arm. Dad jabbed at my grip to test my guard, but the brown-and-white cowhide remained firmly planted in place.

Good job. He stepped back and relaxed his shoulders. You’re quick to remember huh? Let’s see you catch. I’m gonna throw the ball. Receive it while you’re running. Show me that you remember what we went over last time. You ready?

Yes, sir.

Good, go!

I tore off in the direction of his pointed finger. My legs kept moving, one in front of the other, while my torso twisted. I found him in the distance behind me. He launched a brown torpedo into the sky. It cut through the air in a flawless arc then hurtled back to earth.

Keep your eye on the ball. Make a diamond with your hands when it’s coming in high. Trust your hands. Trust your hands!

The ball slid into my grip with such force that it knocked my arms into my chest. I stopped running and trotted back to him with a proud smirk. But when I saw his face, my expression quickly tightened.

Why’d you stop?

What do you mean?

You only did half the job just now. You gonna do that on the field, during the game? You just gonna stop and walk it back with that same, shit-eating grin?

No, sir.

That’s right. You take it all the way to the end. You wanna be the best?

Yes, sir.

You do what it takes to get there.

Yes, sir.

He paused for a moment and looked me up and down. His strict face softened briefly. You’re gonna be better than me one day, just wait. Now run it again.

I sprinted across the field as a fast as I could. Faster than I ever had before. I made it look easy. Like I could do it a thousand times and never get tired.

I trusted fully in his assessment of my potential. Afterall, he was a minor celebrity in Bristol. People called him The King. Before he was coaching me, he was an impressive athlete in baseball, basketball, and football.

Over time, my proficiency quietly surpassed the highest level of all his achievements. There was pride in his eyes when he cried at my high school football games. But more than anything, I could feel his beaming happiness. This was the single charge that sparked my explosive engine as I picked through driving lines of opponents.

Many people stood on the sidelines with awe in display of my physical prowess. I juggernauted through the world with absolute certainty. From high school and into college, I would be the best.

Every moment of every day was used to manicure perfection. I shaped the constructs of my plastic, young mind to hold the focus of a champion. To embody the tenets of a winner. I would accept no defeat. There would only be me to stand atop the highest platform of victory. This passion ultimately led to a career that promised me everything.

I wore the conviction of my NFL colleagues across my face before every game.

Their trotting footsteps marched in step around me. The din of our scraping cleats against cement filled the stadium tunnel. Heavy breaths and clacking gear echoed down the long, cement walls as we advanced toward the entrance of the field. Daylight spilled in through its squared opening with a blinding, white glow.

Running with shared intensity, we emerged into the stadium. We gathered in its center, encircled by the towering edges of a sweeping bowl; dwarfed by its gargantuan structure. The spectators saw only strength in our united front. They rose to their feet with excitement. The sound of sixty thousand people vibrated through my chest.

My team swarmed into a mass of bodies on the field. The green, synthetic turf cushioned our force as we jumped up and down in unison. We were a fully assimilated hive with one shared mind. One goal that fused us together in front of millions.

We were an unbreakable unit lined up for the kickoff. The SkyCam dove down from overhead zipping along the length of its suspension. I freely coalesced in front of its black lens in a completely convincing manner, melting into the mix of red, blue, and grey.

Realtime video of our legion was shown on a high-definition, LED display along the rear perimeter of the coliseum. It was the height of a four-story building and the length of four city busses. From its screen, close-up footage of every play filled the sky. Our image was projected into the universe, large enough for the eyes of God to see from heaven.

We shared the same outfits. We marched under the same flag, defending the name of our dynasty. No observer could dispute my role on the field and with this confederacy of men.

Yet, not one person in this arena really knew me. Because off the field, and aside from the view of fanatic admirers, I put up walls. To disconnect completely, circumvented any possible formation of a mutiny. To remain unknown provided protection. And within my career I built this sturdy rampart.

Brick by brick it went up around me. Only a select few could be allowed to pass beyond it. Even from their privileged vantage point, the man I made visible was a construct of designed intention. They saw only the person I wanted them to know. This was an endeavor to save my job, my family, and my reputation. A necessary function to protect my life.

But my life had been a masquerade and this most elegant dance, my greatest performance. Every effort to save my career consumed me. I sold the image of who I had to be until there was nothing left to auction off.

What are they laughing about? I sat beside the hardwood cubby of my locker.

Players filed in and out of the room as we cleaned up after the game. Some of them laughed and talked across the long, rectangular distance.

I didn’t hear. A teammate beside me rifled through an oversized duffle bag, uninterested in peripheral conversations.

He was a gruff guy, as terse as he was large. It was the proximity of our assigned space that encouraged our occasional conversations.

I pretended to look through my cubby, but my ears were fully occupied. On more than one occasion I felt the ghost of a conversation that held my identity in this room. I observed the knowing eyes of teammates that shared a secret amusement.

As I rifled through my locker, I dissected the details of their distant conversation and scanned it for context. In what way could that unbridled snicker contain a hint of my sullied name?

That game was rough, the husky voice beside me interrupted my private analysis. When I looked over he was watching for my response.

I know. I messed up on that last play. Monday film review’s gonna be a shit show for sure. I dunno what happened.

You gotta chill out a little man. Sometimes it’s like, you’re kinda unpredictable. Makes people nervous.

Nervous about what?

I’m not gettin’ involved. Just sayin’ what I’ve seen.

Well you’re the first to say it.

Am I though? Anyway, don’t get offended, just tryin’ to help you out.

I’m not offended. If people don’t like how I am, then that’s just how it goes, I guess. But when it comes to ballin’, this shit gets to me. Sometimes it makes me wonder if I’m even good enough to play, ya know?

I guess you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t… He threw his bag over a shoulder and straightened his jersey on the top shelf.

More teammates filtered into the room. They were closer than before. I quickly changed the subject to keep them from my confession.

What you got goin’ on tonight?

Just stayin’ in. Both hands straightened his collar while he stared into the distance. See you Monday. He raised his eyebrows and walked off.

My head tipped back to