08: When the Foundation Cracked

After I lost my scholarship at ASU, I transferred to Texas State.

I still had a shot.

Still had a leg.

Still had hope.

But I also had pain.

Real, physical, unrelenting pain that wouldn’t go away.

I started seeing doctors—but no one took X-rays.

No one looked deeper.

They just prescribed.

This was the height of the OxyContin epidemic.

Pain management clinics were more like vending machines with lab coats.

So I did what I thought I had to do:

I went to the clinics.

I got the prescriptions.

I took the pills.

Because if I didn’t? I couldn’t punt.

That’s how I made it through my junior year.

I played hurt.

Every week.

And still managed to get honorable mention or third team All-American—I honestly can’t remember which.

Because I was in survival mode.

I was managing pain.

Fighting through doubt.

Trying to hold on.

And then, right before my senior season—

Everything imploded.

My phone rang. It was my dad.

“Your mom left.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t understand. She left. She wants a divorce.”

I was crushed.

This wasn’t just a breakup.

This was the end of the only thing that ever gave me structure.

My family was everything to me.

And now it was gone.

My dad was a wreck.

My mom wanted a new life. A freer life. The life she deserved.

I didn’t know how to process it.

I just knew that something in my soul broke that day—and never fully came back.

The divorce changed everything.

Family dynamics. Trust. Holidays.

Even the sidelines of my football games.

Who do I talk to after the game?

Who do I walk over to first?

Do they even show up?

The sport that had once made me feel whole started to feel like a sideshow.

I was getting looks from NFL scouts.

I had hype.

I had potential.

But all I could think about was the hollow space in the stands.

Football didn’t feel important anymore.

Not when the one thing I thought would never break had already fallen apart.

Still, I finished strong.

My senior year was my best.

I led the nation in punting average.

I was a unanimous First Team All-American.

And I had a real shot at the pros.

Right before the season, I stopped going to pain management clinics.

I experienced some withdrawal—but it wasn’t too bad.

At that time, I’d been taking pills mostly as prescribed, with breaks to keep addiction from taking hold.

I felt like I had control.

I was invited to rookie camp with the Detroit Lions.

I did okay. Nothing crazy.

They told me I was first on their list.

Said they’d call.

They didn’t.

So I started bartending.

I needed to make money, train during the day, work at night.

The next year, I got a tryout with the Seattle Seahawks.

During the physical, the doctor paused.

Checked something in my hip.

Asked more questions.

Then he took X-rays.

That’s when I finally got the truth.

Impingement. Bone spurs. A piece of floating bone jamming into my hip socket. Torn labrum.

“You need surgery,” he said.

Twenty-four hours later, I was on a flight back to Austin.

Sleeping on my mom’s couch.

I was crushed.

But also—relieved.

I wasn’t crazy. Something had been wrong.

Still, I was angry. Why hadn’t the team doctors believed me? Why didn’t I get a second opinion?

Football had been the only thing keeping me together.

Now, I had one goal:

Make money. Save up. Get the surgery.

I went back to bartending. But my hip kept getting worse.

Carrying kegs and liquor up and down stairs all night? It destroyed me.

I went back to pain management clinics.

Then I started taking more than I should.

Then I started getting pills illegally.

Oxy. Vicodin. Whatever I could get.

I spiraled.

I became unreliable.

Burned bridges.

Ran myself out of the bar scene.

I was broke.

Alone.

Out of options.

I moved back to New Mexico.

Within six months, my dad cornered me.

He wouldn’t let me go until I told him the truth.

And I did.

He saved my life that day.

He helped me detox.

Got me into recovery.

And a few months later, he helped me get the surgery I needed.

A five-hour hip surgery.

The surgeon said there was almost no cartilage left.

But I could walk again.

Sit without wincing.

Get up without locking up.

I never touched another painkiller again.

But that’s when the real pain started.

Because now I was clean.

And everything I’d been running from for years?

It was still there.

And now, I had no way to escape it.