David McElroy

Nightmares always end, but when you’re in the middle of one, it seems as though it might last forever.

Last year was terrible for me. For several years, I’d been letting myself slide into a very deep hole. I was depressed. I was broke. I was alone. I was confused.

It was a nightmare that felt as though it would never end. In fact, I didn’t just slide into that deep hole. I fell into the hole and kept digging it deeper and deeper. It seemed as though nothing I could do was right. For the first time in my life, everything felt bleak and hopeless.

But I’ve finally dug my way out of the hole, even though I’ve not really recovered entirely. I’m not where I want to be in life. I don’t have the love or family I need. I haven’t achieved the things I want to achieve. I haven’t become the person I feel driven to become.

I sometimes complain about the things in my life that I’m still unhappy about, but then I see things in the lives of people I care about — and my troubles don’t seem as big as they had seemed before.

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It was about eight years ago. I was dating a woman who lived in North Carolina at the time. One day, I got a sweet and loving card from her in my mailbox, which I appreciated.

The next day, I got another one. For many days, the post office delivered another card from her. I don’t remember how many there were, but it was something like eight or nine. Great, right? It was a sweet and loving gesture from a thoughtful woman.

But I didn’t see it that way. I was a fool, because I chose to interpret something through the lens of my own thoughts and practices. I was an idiot.

Let me explain.

At some point early in the procession of daily cards, I noticed that each envelope had a tiny number written in a corner of the back. They were in order, so I quickly surmised that she had bought all the cards at once and written them all at once. She had done the whole project and numbered each envelope so she would know which to send when.

Great, right?

Now this is where I have to ask you not to judge me too harshly, because I’m embarrassed — humiliated, actually — to admit the way I reacted.

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I didn’t grow up playing sports. When I was younger, we moved around way too much for me to be anywhere long enough to learn a sport.

Besides, I gravitated toward the kids who weren’t so likely to be athletes. As I became more of the stereotypical nerdy brainiac by junior high school, it was easy to simply say that I disliked sports, because I could lump the jocks into a group and paint them with a very broad (and unfair) brush as idiots. I didn’t know much about sports and I was pretty disdainful of those who played.

My first real interest in high school sports came when I was editor of my high school newspaper and my own school’s team had a storybook year. The Walker Vikings lost the first game of the year, but they didn’t lose again until the Alabama state championship final in the largest size classification at the time. Even then, though, I was seeing it from the perspective of a student inside his own school. I didn’t see the bigger picture.

It wasn’t until I started working at a newspaper during college that I developed a love for football and basketball. High school sports mattered in the communities we served, so I wrote hundreds of stories about football and basketball — and shot pictures in many dimly lit gyms and many tiny stadiums. Many of those games were in tiny communities where those schools — and pride in their teams — was a big part of holding the community together.

On Friday nights, I might drive to a couple of games, staying long enough at each to get pictures and a feel for the game. Afterward, I’d talk to coaches on the phone, getting quotes from men who were excited about wins and from others who were heartbroken and frustrated about losses. Although I might attend a game or two in person, I would also write another few game stories for games I’d never seen, just based on quotes and stats from coaches.

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