On my mother’s birthday, one of my favorite players decided to die.
She, who hated football because of how it transformed the men in her life come Sundays, didn’t seem terribly interested as I relayed the news, for lack of much else to talk about, after wishing her a happy birthday. More than thirty years his senior at his time of death, she will never know what Junior Seau meant to me. She will never comprehend the screaming that emanated from in front of the TV after another of his monster hits against opponents who until then had fed on my team the way the bullies do in grade school.
I never knew him.
In some ways I will never know her.
Nor will we really know why he chose his end unless we attend his afterlife presser.
What truly means something are the memories, and that she’s still alive.
If we finally win I wonder if she’ll be watching as I shed tears of joy.
When it happens, wherever she is, I hold out hope.