One More Friday Night

He could hear the pounding of feet from behind. The muffled sounds of screaming and yelling. His heart pounded through his chest, and blood pumped strong through his veins. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a black-and-white figure trying to keep pace. This only accelerated his own stride, causing him to run upright at an alarming speed. He loved this feeling. It was part exhilaration, part fear, and part violence. The rush of brisk air hitting his face through the metal cage he wore. This was how he found acceptance, how he made friends, and one of the only places he ever found peace. As he continued to pull away, he could see his goal. The crowd grew louder. The orange pylon was just feet away...

Billy woke up on the bathroom floor again. Over the years of drinking and partying so hard, he had learned to sleep just about anywhere. As usual, he was hungover and late for work again. But did he really care? Of course he didn’t. His job entailed wiping people’s asses at the nursing home. He hadn’t made rent on his own for years now, and his sister was his supervisor. Any extra money he got, he spent on alcohol, weed, and the occasional "date." His wife and kids had left him in the gutter years ago. Who could blame them, after years of infidelity and the occasional domestic violence.

Despite his hard living, he was still considered a handsome man by most standards. But behind that charming smile and muscular physique, there was a man plagued by personal demons. Life had not gone the way it was supposed to for “Wild Bill Weaver,” standout athlete and student body president.

Billy slowly propped himself up against the bathtub, staying close to the toilet in case he had to pray to the porcelain god. He had been out all night drinking with some acquaintances from work. All of his childhood friends had either moved away or wanted nothing to do with him. Years of taking from those friendships had left Bill with nothing but memories, resentment, and anger. The last wedding he attended, he made a fool of himself and told stories of the groom's past sexual conquests. Bill wouldn’t be invited to any more social gatherings. He thought of his friends often—with remorse and sadness. Just like his recurring dreams of football greatness, lost to time. His friends had become distant memories—strangers, even adversaries. Billy hurt so bad this particular morning, he just wanted to curl up and die.

After twenty minutes of contemplating suicide or work, Bill decided it was best to call in with the “flu” again. He wasn’t fooling anyone. His manager, who was half his age and twice as responsible, had given up on Bill. He would’ve fired him if not for Billy’s sister being the owner and always making excuses for her baby brother. After making the call, he dragged his ass into bed and tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. His stomach turned, his head pounded, his knees throbbed. This is what his existence had turned into. He finally found peace—at least for a few more hours.

Bill’s drinking increased as the fall season approached. This was his typical pattern that usually culminated in a stint in the drunk tank. Football season reminded Bill of all his failures and inadequacies—a mix of emotions that swung from extreme highs to devastating lows. There was even a time in his early thirties when he thought he could mount a comeback with any remaining eligibility he had. These delusions only worsened as he drank, and those in earshot would just shake their heads. He had become a cautionary tale to local athletes and the scorn of many ex-lovers.

Wild Bill had always been a decent guy. Everyone loved being in his presence when he was on top. They’d buy him drinks and slap him on the back and tell him how great he was. But as time went on, people grew up and moved on. He never really did. He became trapped in his past and began a slow, downward spiral. He found himself in constant conflicts with friends and girlfriends. As kind as Bill could be, once that alcohol hit his lips—instant asshole. He said and did things that made people not want to be around him. At first, he didn’t care. “Who needs them,” he thought. “They’re not real friends anyway.” The longer this went on, the more resentment and self-hatred he built up. He had become one miserable son of a bitch.

Once his local alma mater took the field on Friday nights, Bill could be seen on the hill just outside the stadium. He would watch the game he had loved so much from a distance, pacing back and forth and reacting with head shakes and fist pumps. He still loved this game with all his heart, despite the game not loving him back. Bill was not invited to football events and was permanently banned from his school's hall of fame. This was just another instance of Billy being right and everyone else was wrong, or at least in his warped mind.

A lot of things didn’t make sense to Bill, but football brought a sense of purpose to his life. Once that purpose was gone, he didn’t know who he was—or what he was capable of. He was lost, angry, and full of resentment.

The headaches began shortly after his sensational sophomore season at the local university and intensified as he aged. Bill would get so angry and violent after days of drinking that no one could talk him down. This anger and worthlessness came out in fits of rage, followed by more drinking. He hated himself. He hated everyone who had abandoned him. He could feel the warmth rise from his gut, like a volcano building toward eruption. His chest would tighten until he thought he was having a heart attack. He would scream, punch things, but nothing dulled the pain of his losses. The pain of who he was—and who he used to be—was just too much for Bill to endure.

Weeks after the season had ended, Bill’s body was found slouched over on the home team’s bench. He had taken his father’s pistol and shot himself in the temple after a night of drinking. No suicide note. No preparations. Just a rash decision to end his life in one quick second. He had chosen to die at the one place he could always find peace.