Jason Gallic – Opinions in Paradise The drugs have finally started to take their hands off his body. In the past 18 months, he’s even been able to work out at full speed. And he says the fear that another
Jason Gallic – Opinions in Paradise
The drugs have finally started to take their hands off his body. In the past 18 months, he’s even been able to work out at full speed. And he says the fear that another seizure will leave him face flat in freshly-mowed grass has begun to subside.
Four years ago, though, I’d hold my breath when Brian Cooper told me he was headed to his intramural soccer game. I was never certain that he wouldn’t leave the field on a gurney.
Brian and I have known each other for five years; we met at the end of my first semester at Flagler College in St. Augustine, Fla.
He was the best man at my wedding. He was also one of the better soccer players I’ve ever seen in person. Fleet of foot, outstanding ball control and an aggressive nature matched by nobody.
But he was also lost in his own mind, the victim of an unpleasant home life, self-supportive from the age of 15. His parents let him live at home – that’s about it.
His family became drugs and alcohol, and those drawn to the vices. But Brian wasn’t able to control his substance-abuse issues the way he controlled a soccer ball. His aggressive personality proved addictive as well.
He wanted to do two things when he got to Flagler: play soccer and be the life of the party. He accomplished the latter instantly, famed for his ability to consume monstrous portions of alcohol. Despite that, he also managed to make headway on his other goal as well. After proving himself in pick-up ball for a year, the head soccer coach asked him to participate in Flagler’s pre-season the following year.
But the vices were strong.
During the final week of his freshman year, the prospect of final exams looming large, Brian let the vices take over.
Tests were scheduled for the following Monday. The Friday before was the final day of regular classes. Brian started drinking in the afternoon, and didn’t stop until death nearly came calling.
He drank beer like water, a whole bottle of vodka in 30 minutes and mixed in a hit or two of cocaine for good measure. His world went black. He woke on Saturday in a hospital bed, expelled from school and staring at rehab.
He said the doctor wondered in awe at how Brian had managed to live. His blood-alcohol level was nearly .5.
Brian finished his rehab, and Flagler readmitted him. I met him that semester. The consumption of his past lay behind. Unbeknownst to him, the dark days of recovery lay ahead.
Soccer mattered as much as anything to my best man. He’d been playing it since he was very young, and thought fondly of the day when he’d suit up at the college level. He knew he owned the skill, still did when he returned to Flagler. But the opportunity to play had vanished. That dream had been deferred by the vices.
So, he waited on the intramural season.
Turned out the general student population offered Brian little challenge. He tore through defenders like they were statues, scoring five or six goals a game. He felt like he was getting back in shape, had even talked to the head varsity coach about trying out again.
Midway through the intramural season, Brian folded to the grass like a broken lawn chair. He laid out flat on the ground, a momentary lapse in his heart holding him captive. His stubborn nature wouldn’t permit him a doctor’s visit. He refused, said it was nothing and that he didn’t want to pay for it. Then it happened again, and again.
Three games of high exertion, three times he passed out. He stayed away from the doctor, not wanting to hear that the chemicals he’d poured into his body had reduced him to such frailty.
Truth was, he didn’t need the doctor – he already knew. He’d taken his heart to the edge of tolerance and lived to tell about it. But he also had to face the fact that he wouldn’t be the poster boy for recovery: his high-level athletic endeavors had died, even if he hadn’t.
Unlike many, Brian has persevered. He’s been clean for three years, and even found it possible to return to rigorous exercise: he hadn’t completely destroyed his heart.
But for eternity Brian must be lumped with the might-have-beens of the athletic world – victims of substances’ higher power. There’s no telling how good he could have been on the soccer field, how many corner kicks he could have floated in front of the goal or defenders he might have left flat-footed.
Sometimes I catch him silent, staring out the window, and wonder if he’s not contemplating the possibilities of his playing past.
On the other hand, he might be thanking his maker he was given a second chance.
