New Money:
Susan slumps in the passenger seat, her face glued to her phone. But she can’t focus on her Facebook feed. Instead, her mind drifts and shifts, like a remote control clicking through television channels. Then she fixates, ruminating on the couple’s recent life, their dire change in circumstances…
They’d been rich. They’d been “new money.”
They’d bought an ostentatious, 10,000 square-foot mansion. The sprawling property had previously belonged to a movie star and had vaulted ceilings, teak double doors, bulbous white fixtures, crystal chandeliers, bay windows, multiple fireplaces, and infinite rows of rooms, rooms fitted in oak paneling, oak bookshelves, and an arcade with pool tables and video games, and a luxurious fitness center with a jacuzzi, sauna, free weights, fitness machines, spin bikes, treadmills, plus an indoor pool and an outdoor pool- both of which Susan had decorated with exotic plants and Hawaiian, tropical décor...
Of course, they’d bought the place back when Jim was playing football, when those 6, 7, 8 figure NFL checks were rolling in and their bank balance was constantly elongating… Now, though, that the NFL cash had dried up, everything was different…
Susan’s mind is racing; she is outwardly detached and taciturn. But inside, she is burning. She’s spinning, psychically, riddled in time scabs. She’s writing lists of lamentations.
She’s considering the anomaly, the career of a pro athlete... The gift and the tragedy... How in most professions, one’s 40s, 50s are prime-earning years. But for pro athletes, very few continue to even play, let alone enjoy big paydays, far into their 30s... For most athletes, their late teens, 20s to early 30s are the windows of opportunity, their chance to amass a fortune, possibly accumulate generational wealth…
For professional athletes, there’s only now or never, a window in time that opens ever so briefly... And Jim had seized upon it. Everything had come together, for a time, everything was ideal.
Jim and Susan’s situation, initially, was perfect. He was an all-pro and collected hefty checks. But, because of the anonymity of his position, because he wore a helmet, because he wasn’t the one scoring touchdowns, hardly anyone in the general public knew him. and the couple could go wherever they pleased… Unlike the team’s star quarterback, or even their coach, who weren’t able to appear in public without causing a mob scene or being hounded by journalists.
Every so often Jim would be recognized due to the handful of print ads, endorsements he’d done for a local “Big and Tall” clothing chain. Sometimes a person in a car next to him in traffic might gape and point, perhaps yell, “Hey, you’re that guy!”
And there’d been a handful of times when he’d be stopped, asked for autographs or photo ops, often by young, aspiring offensive lineman from high school or college. But that wasn’t too often. Generally, there weren’t many folks among the public who could even pick his face out of a police lineup.
And that suited Jim and Susan just fine.
Jim had told her, that as an offensive lineman, people usually only talked about him if he’d let up a sack or blew a coverage. The best offensive linemen are anonymous, they’re those you don’t hear of, he’d said… And given his outstanding performances, his prowess on the field, how he’d batter away defensive lineman and linebackers, very few outside the game’s analysts, coaches and players, die-hard fans, knew his name.
Jim and Susan could go most anywhere, in anonymity, and only receive occasional stares that were more due to Susan’s fetching, cheerleader looks or the sheer immensity of Jim’s hulking, monstrous physique, the eyes of passersby shifting upwards as he’d tower imposingly over crowds, almost like Godzilla...
Jim really is an enormous creature, a giant of a man, standing at 6’7. And he was nearly 330 pounds of muscle and fat, back in his playing days. Post-retirement, though, he’s slimmed down to a leaner 270, comprised largely of muscle and thick heavy bones...
Following retirement, he stopped eating like a machine, cut back heavily from the 8,000 calories per day he’d consumed while playing.
Back when he was playing, Susan jokingly called him a “human garbage disposal,” due to his proclivity to consume, pretty much eviscerate food. The man was practically always eating. Though it wasn’t due to gluttony. To be an NFL offensive lineman means one has to maintain, and at times even increase his weight.
Jim’s usual daily diet would include: a breakfast of six scrambled eggs, 6 strips of bacon, 8 ounces of red meat, a bowl of chopped apples, a bowl of oatmeal, and three waffles, pancakes or bagels slathered in butter; lunches were 8-10 ounces of meat, two or three servings of rice or slices of toasted bread, and some fruits and vegetables; dinners were 16-20 ounces of meat, two more servings of rice or maybe pasta and two servings of vegetables.
Then there’d be snacks throughout the day, like granola bars, and a protein shake that Jim would combine with another shake of chopped bananas and ice cream.
Once accustomed to such dietary regimens, it shouldn’t be a surprise that retired offensive linemen often experience weight issues. But Jim had gladly cut back on his caloric intake, saying he’d considered it a chore to eat so prolifically.
He’d also happily stopped lifting weights, saying he hated the smell of the gym and the sound of the clanking iron bars and dumbbells.
Just as well, perhaps. His light exercise, swimming in the pool, was probably better, since Jim had been plagued by injuries, physical ailments, three knee surgeries, chronic back problems, and perpetually sore joints that had only gotten worse following his retirement, at age 38.
Mornings were the worst, physically, for Jim. He’d limp and groan, struggle to unroot himself from bed. There’d been a time when he’d wake up and vivaciously swing his legs off the bed, but nowadays he slowly maneuvers his limbs like heavy objects elevated by a forklift.
Some days were worse than others. But, every day, getting out of bed was a definite challenge. Every morning. Every morning, he’d wake up with a look of exasperation, a pained gaze, his humungous full-moon face looking like sleep had been punching at his unconscious rather than rejuvenating him.
He’d let out low grunts, hot sighs, and fight his way to his feet, then walk, hunched over, like an old man, to the bathroom to gather himself.
Then, throughout the day, Jim would be afflicted by throbbing headaches, when even the slightest sound appeared to be blaring into his ear with the volume of an air horn. He’d clench his teeth, press his eyes shut and stroke his head in an attempt to soothe the tenderness in his scalp, the tightening sensation in his skull.
Sometimes he’d wear bulky, softball-sized noise-cancelling headphones, and listen to meditation music or white noise. He’d sit in his recliner, trembling, with his feet kicked up, those big earphones clamped on. He’d grimace as he’d hang his head low, close his eyes, purse his lips, and wait for the pain to pass, like he was on a turbulent plane, flying through a violent thunderstorm.
The headaches gave him photophobia, too, and Susan often saw him draw the curtains closed in daytime, dim lights at night.
He’d take various pills, pills he’d begun, been prescribed during his playing days. Pain pills, mostly Oxycodone. Susan never asked about it, like how many he was taking, partially because, at least to her, it seemed like he had it under control- but also because she didn’t know how to broach the subject.
However, neither the injuries, the headaches, nor the pills were his biggest issue following retirement. His biggest issue was the deep-rooted depression fogging in, gripping him, post-retirement… His overwhelming loss of identity. He missed his teammates, the camaraderie, the banter in the locker room. For the first time since he was 6 years old, he was without a football team. He was without his second family. He was without his regimen, routines, game tapes and game prep, and his calendar was blank, with no dates circled...
It was obvious to her that he felt listless and empty and was experiencing a profound lack of purpose.
Susan’s mind clicks, recalls years ago, as he lay in a hospital bed, stitched up, following a knee surgery. She’d gently floated the idea of retirement, and he’d responded to her by glaring, his eyes dripping with venom. Then he’d proclaimed emphatically that he never wanted to quit, that he’d play forever if he could.
She’d never forgotten that, seeing this colossus of a man in insufferable pain, a man who’d already earned millions, yet he wanted to keep bashing away, buffeting his body. And for what? The adrenaline? The adulation of the crowds? His teammates? She couldn’t understand it. She knew he’d only retire, quit playing when he was ready. She didn’t feel like there was anything she could say to convince him otherwise...
Finally, of course, Jim succumbed to time’s teeth and his accumulated injuries. He was aware that Father Time is undefeated and after deciding to hang up his cleats, he was initially content. But when he really did walk away from the game, it hit him hard as a ton of bricks. Susan had never seen him so blue. She did her best to be the good wife, the soothing sounding board. She encouraged him to do like others in his situation, guys who’d wanted to stay around the game, and go into coaching, or do broadcasting.
But neither was for him. And he knew it. He didn’t have the patience to coach. He didn’t have the eloquence to be a broadcaster.
So, for a few dark months, he wasn’t sure what to do. He was catatonic much of the time, perched in his recliner, watching ESPN, guzzling beers.
That’s part of why he ultimately decided to go into business, she figured. To be part of something. To feel the rush. The adrenaline. To join the chase, the hunt. To get the juices flowing.
Sadly, though, his entrepreneurial ambitions didn’t pan out. His company, which was started to consult, guide aspiring athletes, failed, and a few real estate, land development deals tanked. His investments in high-growth stocks and corporate bonds flopped too...
There was still a barely seven figure bank account and a couple six figure checks owed to him by his last team. There was the NFL pension, too. But none of this would be enough to finance the lavish lifestyle they’d grown accustomed to. So he went all in on an incipient project, though he wouldn’t elaborate on its details…
Susan watches herself, at the kitchen table, the trophy wife, in the trophy house. But her shine, her sparkle is darkening. Her head hung low, her gaze is glued to the purplish-red cabernet in her wine glass and she’s nervously rocking the glass back and forth in choked mini-movements.
“It’ll be a big thing,” he assures her, as he confesses to selling the house, in part to raise capital for the venture. Seeing her face crinkled in sadness and angst, the giant rises to his battle-worn legs, lumbers over to her and kisses her forehead, attempting to assuage her worries, before he limps off to bed…
Susan knows the score. She knows he is pushing all his chips to the table. All THEIR chips to the table. He is investing the last of his football earnings as well as their equity in the house.
She hates it. In her opinion, it is a reckless move. He is basically ripping out the kitchen sink and throwing it wildly. But as she gulps down a sharp swig of red wine, she quiets those horrible voices, those demons of doubt. She hopes her hunch is wrong. She can only have faith. Hope. At this point, all she can do is hope and wish for the best.
Susan feels like a voyeur. She can only watch her ghost of recency, watch the hot tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, as she is sitting alone, at the kitchen table. Staring at herself staring at the white marble floor, the gravity of her situation once again sinks in, the weight of it like an anchor dropping in the sea...
Then she is back in her body. She is fused. She is one. She is blinking away the tears, wiping her face with her forearm. She is distraught. But she again realizes there is nothing she can do, aside from just hope for the best. For him, her, but most of all, for their kids. She worries, for the first time, ever, about the kids’ futures. For years, she had been able to give her kids anything they wanted. Her credit cards were her favorite parenting tool. Money, she felt, could solve any problem. Satisfy any need.
She’d always felt like a genie in a bottle, able to grant any wish, able to provide whatever the kids needed or wanted. The money made her feel like she was a superhero...
But now, for the first time in years, she feels… human. Pathetically so. For the first time in years, she is actually concerned about money. And it is such a horrible feeling. Such a punch in the gut…
Snapping back to the present, Susan pans her gaze toward Jim, who is shaking his head, leaning to the left side of the driver’s seat, mumbling curse words at traffic. Susan then thinks of other athletes, famous people who’d blown multi-million-dollar fortunes: MC Hammer, Vin Baker, Antoine Walker, Vince Young.
Jim clicks the stereo to near full blast, pumping up the DMX jam, “Ruff Ryders’ Anthem,” bopping his head to the beat, copying DMX’s dog growls…
Susan tilts her head, scoffs, purses her lips. Then she swings her gaze, watches herself in the rearview mirror. Morose, her spirits sink, and she wonders… How could anyone ever respect a person who lost THAT much money? Why should their kids ever listen to them again? Why wouldn’t their children hate them? God knows how much she was starting to hate herself…
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