If you were a college football fan in the 1970s you might remember me if I used my real name, so I'll go by Mark in this story. When I walked into a bar in a middle-sized Texas town, I had just one agenda: to get blind drunk. If that happened to be a down payment on drinking myself to death, I was alright with that. The bartender was an older fellow who looked like a cowboy. He brought me my first whiskey, and said "Mark, you can call me Red". The bar wasn't too busy yet, so we talked for a bit while I was working on my whiskey. He remembered my football career, and he told me "life really dealt you a shitty hand. I'm so damned sorry."
I wasn't ready to talk about that yet, so I asked about him. I was right, he had been a cowboy earlier in his life. At one time he'd been about as well-known on the rodeo circuit as I was in football. But he got old, and he was having some heart problems, so he retired and used his savings to buy the bar. He had saved a decent amount since he never married or had kids. He probably could have gotten by on his savings, but he loved running the bar. The crowd was starting to come in so Red went back to serving the other customers. When I raised my glass to order another whiskey, this young woman (young but about two years older than me) served me.
She said "my name's Rose, pleased to meet you Mark. I was two years ahead of you in college, and I was and still am a big football fan. There is a warm place in hell for those bastards who did that to you." She wasn't the kind of drop dead gorgeous cheerleader type I had gotten used to. She was blonde, but not platinum or golden, more dishwater blonde. She had a pretty face but was a bit on the chubby side. She did however bear a strong resemblance to Dolly Parton in the chest area. I really like large tits, but it isn't a deal breaker one way or the other. What was striking about her was her attitude. She came across flirtatious and sexy (but not cheap) on the one hand, but more than a little motherly on the other. Or maybe more like a big sister.
I wasn't really interested the way I was feeling, and wouldn't be if she was a flaming hot fox, either -- that wasn't where my head was at, though a man never fails to notice what a woman has to offer, that's how we are wired. But I felt safe with her, and we talked quite a bit while she brought me more whiskeys. At one point, my inner comedian went for the obvious joke "so you're the Yellow Rose of Texas?" She laughed a bit and answered me "you are only the tenth or twelfth guy that's asked me that this week. Wish you boys would come up with something original." She stormed off in an obvious imitation of being angry.
After I downed a couple more whiskeys, she said, "cowboy, you've had enough for the night, I'm cutting you off, but I'll bring you a big pot of coffee." She went behind the bar and brewed some. Then when it was ready, she asked one of the regulars to cover the bar for a while, since Red had gone to bed in the back room a long while ago, and she didn't want to go wake him. She brought the pot to my table and sat down, saying "Mark, I can tell you're hurting bad and I have a general idea why, but I think it would help you to tell me the whole tale. I'm all ears for as long as you need." I started in telling my story, in a much more drunk and disorderly fashion than I'm doing here. She listened and asked questions that made it clear she was listening well, and cared.
I was born in California. My mom and dad were killed by a drunk driver when I was three. I don't remember much about them, but I was very aware of how much they loved me and one another. Still hurts every once in a while, but I'd come to terms with that grief by the time I got to college. I had no relatives nearby who could take me in, so Child Protective Services sent me to my mother's parents in Texas. The lived on a ranch not far from town. Grandpa was the stereotypical strong silent type, but when he spoke he made it obvious that raising me was a joy not a chore, and he loved doing it, and he loved me. Grandma wasn't a bit quiet about it at all -- she felt the same.
Being that football is the Texas state religion, grandpa got me started in Pop Warner football the minute I was old enough. It turned out I not only loved the game but had a real gift for it. I grew up big and strong and surprisingly fast for a big man. My college coach said I was the fastest big man he'd ever seen. In high school our opponents feared me. I was versatile and could handle any position except quarterback and place kicker. That came in handy because we were a small school, and we were often left short-handed by injuries. My senior year we went undefeated and won the state championship in our division.
My college won the bidding war to recruit me. I got everything the NCAA allowed (and quite a bit that wasn't allowed), including of course a full ride scholarship for four years. I wasn't aware enough to get my scholarship guaranteed. That failure bit me in the ass big time. One of under the table things they did I'm still grateful for: by the time I got to college, Grandma was getting feeble and grandpa was getting senile. The college paid for extensive home health for them, while they arranged to have the ranch sold and kicked in enough extra money to set up a trust to pay for lifetime care at the best nursing home in Texas, which catered to rich people and accordingly had excellent quality care and a very comfortable environment. That bought the college more than a little forgiveness for what they did to me later.
The team was pretty strong already in most areas, but they needed another running back who also had good blocking skills. We had a good quarterback and a some wide receivers who could get the job done well when passing was needed, but we were primarily a run oriented offense. The fact I also had good hands and was a capable receiver was a plus, but the focus was my running skills. In my freshman year I surprised opponents who just saw a big man and didn't realize how fast I was. If they left an opening (and I was strong enough to force one), I could run like the wind. My freshman year we had a good team, and we beat almost everybody, one game I scored so many times that the scoreboard operator stopped waiting till I crossed the goal line to put the six on the board once I broke loose and really started running. By then end of the year, pro scouts were giving me the eye. We beat our traditional rivals and cruised to the conference championship. It was a close game and I scored the winning touchdown.
Off the field I was living the high life. I had money and was into partying and exploring the sexual proclivities of cheerleaders and other sexy ladies. One thing I'd like say up front: I'm not particularly moral, but Grandpa taught me honor and Grandma taught me to respect women. Other players at my school and elsewhere did some very wrong things up to and including what is nowadays quite properly regarded as rape. I never laid a hand on a woman who didn't say straight out she wanted me to, and who was a good enough approximation of sober that she knew what she was doing. Guys who play the game a different way are welcome to burn in hell. With the memory of my parents' death, I also never drove drunk, no matter who deeply I explored the bottom of a bottle (or more likely the bottoms of a shitload of bottles). People who play that game differently are equally welcome to join the drunk who killed my parents in hell.
My sophomore year was another great season, and our annual game with our rivals was their homecoming, and we beat the living shit out of them. I scored four of our seven touchdowns. They vowed revenge on our team and on me in particular, and next year they would get it. Another conference championship. By now, it was obvious that after college I'd be a high pick in the NFL draft, likely first round. I had the world by the tail. I still did a lot of drinking and screwing, but I was beginning to settle down. By the start of the next season, I was going steady with Linda the head cheerleader, a stone fox with flaming red hair who was deeply into kink. That isn't really my thing, but I don't mind at all doing anything that makes a woman happy. I did also learn some more vanilla skills that were quite useful, such as how to eat pussy like a pro. She said I'd be a first round pick in the National Sex League draft. I really cared about her and believed she cared for me. We had talked about getting married after graduation.
That season was off to a great start, we were undefeated for our first six games and had a shot at the National Championship, the papers were saying that I had a pretty good shot at winning the Heisman. I was at the top of the world. Our seventh game was at home against our rivals who had vowed revenge. In the first half that wasn't going too well for them, we were drubbing them again. They struck gold in the third quarter. Five minutes in to the third, I got outside and was streaking down the field on the sidelines for another sure TD. Their players on the field hand no chance to catch me. Their defensive captain yelled "now" and the other player players were yelling "get him". One booming voice screamed out "kill him." Two guys from their bench came on the field and blocked my path, forcing me further outside. Then one dove low in front of me and the other hit me high in the back, harder than anyone had ever hit me before. Last I remember, I was flying through the air towards their bench, and all the other players had moved out of the way. The bench was a permanent fixture, stainless steel mounted on steel poles set in concrete. It wasn't going anywhere. I hit the bench hard and blacked out.
I woke up a day later in the hospital. The doc told me I had a concussion, but my prognosis was good, and he didn't detect any signs of brain damage after a butt load of tests. He said "you were lucky, if you had hit that steel monstrosity head first, you very likely would have died, probably before the ambulance arrived. But I have bad news, you hit the bench with your right knee first, and the impact completely shattered it. We will do our damnedest to repair it, but the outlook is uncertain."
