Endorsement Deal

He’s one hit away from dying, one concussion away from irreversible brain damage. The doctor says this about his crack addiction; the head coach says this about his ability to stay in the pocket with that rock a second too late. He isn’t sure if one is related to the other–all he knows is that he needs to continue playing for a few more seasons.
+++++He only cooks it a few weeks every summer, ounces upon ounces. He knows precisely when the NFL tests for banned substances, cleans himself up like a gentleman after an iniquitous series of hundred hour binges. Sweating like a pig, burning through dozens of lighters a day, lining up twenty crack pipes in the bathroom so he can always hit one while the others cool down.
+++++The quarterback cooks cocaine in the kitchen when his crack supply runs out. Sometimes he makes freebase; knows he’s way too gacked to use ether. One off-season after losing the AFC Championship Game he met a toothless whore who cooked it in the microwave and cleaned the toilet bowl for seven hours straight.
+++++Number seven blows yellow clouds into the bathtub, listening to ESPN Radio.
+++++“You have crack lung,” doctor says.
+++++“Team physicians can’t let you continue to play if you take one more hit,” coach says.
+++++Seven terrible concussions, less than a half dozen years in the league, last year he signed a multimillion dollar endorsement deal with McDonald’s–tossing Big Mac Hail Mary’s across a stadium made of French fries and lettuce–paid for his mama’s house. Living in the suburbs is the perfect cover for smoking rock; no cops. Only your son’s role model alone with the shower curtain, heart hurting like Hell, and burning glass till it turns yellow, brown, and black on burnt fingers.
+++++Blisters grow. Phone calls go unanswered. Knocks become thunderous. He pages his agent to say he’s in Bermuda so the intrusions can go away. Hasn’t eaten in days, one last rock; a few final hits before he quits. Vision blurry, he’s a fiend, a naked beast of a hero; he sucks so hard he swallows a Brillo pad, sizzling into his esophagus it smolders as the radio commentators discuss his concussions. He grabs his throat and crashes against the tiled tub. His head a bloody mess, he cleans up the evidence, gets dressed.
+++++Too wired to drive, let alone find his keys, he walks down the road and waits for a bus. The driver slows, pulls over, but doesn’t open the door. Just looks at the legend, an unrecognizable shell of a human being. The door never opens. Words were never spoken. The quarterback walks home and takes one more hit for the team.
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Matthew Dexter is an American writer living in Mexico. He survives in Cabo San Lucas.