Bernie
A layer of dust, thicker than
normal, coated the bases of his trophies. Bernie swirled the cubes inside his
tumbler of whiskey, his noticeably distorted face and eyes looking back at him
from his reflection in the glass. It’s
been awhile, he thought, longer than
normal…
The
voice trailed off.
But what’s the use? Another voice sprang up, more combative in
tone. They’ll just continue gathering
dust. We all gather dust, in a way.
Bernie sipped at his drink. The
liquid burned running down his throat, clearing out his nostrils. “Fucking
rubbing alcohol,” he muttered under his breath. But that’s all you can afford these days. And with that thought
still echoing in the chambers of his mind, Bernie took another drink.
They were all still there.
All-American in 1982 for Boardman High School. Share of the 1983 Orange Bowl
title, along with MVP honors, in his freshman year at the University of Miami.
He managed to crack a smile, thinking back fondly to the records he not only
shattered, but still held over 30 years later. Of course, there were those
first real tastes of disappointment the following year; the first real chinks
in the young Ohio native’s armor. When you’re flying that high, it’s only
natural that guys like Frank Reich and Doug Flutie would come gunning for you.
His time spent at the University
of Miami, the ‘U’ as he’d called it amongst his peers, was just a microcosm of
the life Bernie would find himself battling through. Missed opportunities, bad
breaks, and simply bad timing. And, of course, there were always the naysayers.
The haters. The ones that despised his success, and would do anything to tear
him down. Like Reich and Flutie had done during that rocky year of 1984, so had
the collectors and bankruptcy lawyers. If 1984 was a dark year for Bernie, then
2009 was black enough to suck in all existing matter around it.
But they didn’t take his
trophies. The ones that existed behind that old pane of glass, inside that
wooden cabinet collecting dust. And they couldn’t touch that part of him that
still burned, like the embers in a campfire still glowing after sunrise.
As Bernie drained his glass, he
thought of the empty spaces still inside the case. More specifically, he
thought of that one bare spot he left open between the accolades he earned
during Cleveland’s greatest seasons in the last many decades. That one glaring hole that he purposefully left open to
reflect the one that still weighed heavily in his heart. The 1987 AFC Championship
that he had promised his faithful fans, his team, and his family. It was still
the only trophy missing from his case.
Some nights, Bernie would wake
up with an anxious feeling and race downstairs. He would shout through the
floorboards at his former wife, Babette, telling her that something was wrong;
someone had broken in and taken his beloved 1987 AFC Championship. Those were
always the longest nights, where she’d hold him in her arms and vainly attempt
to comfort him, help him remember. The 1987 AFC Championship wasn’t stolen,
she’d tell him, because it wasn’t his to be stolen.
His house was empty now. There
weren’t any arms to comfort him on nights like those. Babette was gone. She’d
left him; filed for divorce right as his own bankruptcy battles loomed like
Lovecraftian mountains on the horizon. It was reported in the media that she’d
split because of his irrational spending, the fact that he was “giving his
money away”. Bernie knew better, however. Sure, he’d tried his best in his
post-NFL career to remain successful and wealthy, slinging his way into risky
financial ventures the same way he’d riskily sling balls down the field. But
the field was different; there, Bernie hardly missed his man. He’d set
records for accuracy, both during the season and in the playoffs. Unfortunately
for Bernie, the real world wasn’t full of the same tires to shoot balls
through. These tires had rotating saw blades between them, ready to carve up
any amateur investor that attempted to pass through unscathed.
The only thing he could
attribute it to were his concussions. When he was on the field, his eyes were
as sharp as a Great White’s. It didn’t matter if he was playing in the warm,
early autumn air or in the throes of a famous Cleveland winter storm. He could
always lock on his target, fire the ball at the necessary angle and velocity,
and be sure that his man would come up with the rock. Now, his good days were
when he wasn’t collapsing in agony or trying to fight out the increasing volume
of ringing in his ears. The concussions were why he made those bad investments.
The concussions were why he’d become so short with Babette in those final years
of their marriage. The concussions! The concussions! The concussions!
It was getting bad again. Bernie
backed into the nearest chair, his favorite: a dusty, brown recliner. Brown. He
smiled, rubbing at his temples. The ringing was beginning to fade. He’d learned
since how to cope with the headaches. With the dizziness. There were things he
kept active with. Yard work, keeping up with his fans on social media, his
children. Sara. Hopefully, one day,
perhaps she’ll forgive me and stop doing that…stuff she does.
That wasn’t something he wanted
to think about now. That was something he’d thought about enough already. He stood
slowly, fighting the urge to look into his trophy case as he passed by, and
brought his aching body back up the stairs to go to bed. It was 2:30 in the
morning, after all.
