It is a feeling no drug can match, an addiction no rehab can cure, a rush no other sport can give. The addiction is to the game. The game is football.
It never mattered that the game was 6 hours away. As soon as I woke up, I always knew. The feeling was there and never left. All through my classes, my head was on the game. In the cafeteria eating lunch, my head was on the game. When the last bell rang, the feeling grew stronger. My body could tell what was coming. In the locker room, I was surrounded by familiar faces shadowed with eye black and glittering with 'the feeling'.
My body would shake as I pulled on my uniform piece by piece. Hip pads and under gear on - the feeling would increase. Tying up my pants, thigh pads and knee pads already in place - the feeling would increase. I would stand in front of my shoulder pads breathing in the imagined smell of grass, mud, sweat and blood; and tremble - the feeling slowly taking over. My heart would start beating faster and stronger. I could feel my muscles coil and twitch. Anxious to start, they were ready, always waiting. I loved this feeling; I lived for this feeling. Right before a game would start, or even before practise, it would be there, driving me on. Out on the field as the game commenced, my true life would begin. Opening ceremonies was the lighter to my spoon. The feeling was almost in full swing and I could barely contain the energy inside myself. The feeling called and pulled at every fibre of my being. There was no resisting it now. I wanted it; I needed it. The ball would come out; my pupils would dilate and fixate on the it. That was the source. That was my baby. Only I didn’t have the ball, they did, them: the other team. My body would tremble as the ball was placed and we took our positions on the field. My mind would become overwhelmed and start flashing from one thought to the next. Pain, inflict pain, get that ball. And then, the smell: grass, mud, sweat, but no blood yet. The whistle would blow and I’d line up. My hand would go down, sinking slightly into the grass, and mud. Mind flashing with thoughts of what I was about to do, my target was right in front of me and my goal not two feet away. My breathing would get deeper. It was all I’d hear as every other sound dulled and faded away. All I would hear was my breathing. All I would see was the picture in my mind. Being a lineman, my eyes became clearly attuned to the slightest movement on the field. The reason for this was simple: once everyone was lined up, if someone on the line moved, it was game on and the play would start. Movement is what my eyes were looking for. Movement is what my eyes saw. Faster then ever before I’d fire off toward my target slamming into whichever unfortunate soul had the misfortune of being lined up against me, of trying to stop me. Pain and pleasure would shoot threw my body and soul as I’d pound the ground, surging forward. My mind would search. It would focus on the quarter back - I’d zero in on him, and do my best to end his life - or the running back rushing to get the hand off. It didn’t matter who it was, as long as he had the ball, he had my baby and I was out to get her back. Time would snap back into place and I’d stampede toward the ball carrier. Low and wide, legs driving hard, I was a tank and there was no stopping me. I’d see the ball and crash into the legs of who ever had it sending them careening off the ground, flying up and back. I’d wrap my arms around them and slam them back down into the ground. There, sitting right in front of me looking deep into my eyes, was my baby. That would only be my first fix, though, I would need another. Lining back up, the feeling would rise again. Time would slow to a crawl once again. My mind would focus on my next move: what I was about to do and who I would do it to. Then there was the smell: grass, mud, sweat and blood. The feeling would explode. I was ready. Movement! Flashing into action, my mind would disappear again only to awake with my baby staring deep into my eyes again.
The game was more like a drug then anyone who had never had it could ever imagine. After the best game of my life, I’d wake up and not remember what I had done the night before. My memories would slowly come back to me over the course of the day. That’s when the addiction would come in: I knew it would be a while before I would have that feeling again. It made me hate ever having had it in the first place. Now it was excruciating, almost physically painful, as my mind and body howled for its embrace again. I couldn’t concentrate in class. My mind focused on the game. My body craved the rush. I don’t remember of lot of the plays. I don’t remember a lot of the games, but I remember every single time I lined up. Every single time I got ready for a game or a practise. That was the feeling I lived for.
That is a feeling no drug can match, an addiction no rehab can cure, a rush no other sport can give. The addiction isn’t to playing the game. Once the plays started there was no time to think or enjoy, it was all instinct, training. It was to those few moments before the game, the precious seconds between plays. The addiction isn’t to playing the game. It’s to the waiting.