Refeleciton Is Not Always A Bad Thing

Being honest about who you are and what you care for is needed for us to succeed and move forward.  As time passes we all morph and adjust to what is around us; including our likes, dislikes and passions.  For some, changes can be very profound and upon reflection they can even be “out of body” compared to who you were previously.

Patrick Hruby, a wonderful writer for many outlets has had one of those moments when it comes to football, this is his words via Dave Pear’s Blog;

The hotel restaurant was closed. So we ate at the bar. It was early August, and I was in town visiting a former NFL lineman. Call him Max. It’s better not to use his real name.
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During his time in football, Max was hit in the head. A lot. He since has endured nine brain surgeries. He has trouble remembering things. Serious trouble, like the main character in the movie “Memento.” Max and I were both carrying notepads, but for different reasons.
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At the other end of the bar, two guys discussed mixed martial arts.
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“I’ll tell you what — ever since MMA came around, I can’t watch boxing,” said one. “It’s too boring.”
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There was a game on. Saints-Cardinals. The first contest of the NFL preseason. Max had his back to the television. Once upon a time, he was an avid hunter. He owned a successful business. Today, he’s unemployed. Pretty much broke. Lives in a trailer outside his brother’s house. He probably shouldn’t drive, probably shouldn’t own guns. He gets angry. Has a hard time sleeping. He misses his family. His estranged wife and children are afraid of him.
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On the television behind the bar, a Cardinals receiver caught a pass. A Saints defender dutifully drilled him, slamming the receiver’s helmet into the turf. I wanted to look away. The guys at the bar cheered. I was drawn to the replay, slow-motion and high-definition, the whiplash bounce of the receiver’s skull. I wondered how much of the play he would even remember.
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Max turned his head. He had an appointment scheduled for the next morning at a nearby brain clinic. The doctors know him by name.
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“Look at that hit,” he said. “In the old days, I would have gone, ‘Oh, man, great hit.’ Now, I see it differently. I can’t watch this s—.”
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Neither can I.

I, like Hruby have had those moments, sometimes at my job watching a high school aged kid get the snot-bubbles knocked out of him.  I cannot fault him on his inner struggle, nor can I even dream that he is wrong for thinking it.  Perhaps I have become too good at Continue reading