One Shot

One Shot

I lie in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Though I am perfectly still I can feel my heart racing, along with my mind. Why can’t I calm down? Why can’t I shut my mind off and just relax? This has been happening for a few weeks now. Although my life is perfectly fine, I feel like it’s spinning out of control. My legs start to shake and my body wants to move so I get out of my king-sized bed and walk across the room to put the light on. I start to jog in place, swinging my arms back and forth across my chest, trying anything to lessen the restlessness that I constantly feel.

I start to walk through my house turning on every light that I pass. I can’t stand the dark. I’m a grown ass man but I still believe in the shadows that lurk in the dark. I feel them all around me, almost as if their eyes are penetrating my skin. This house is supposed to be my fortress, keeping the monsters outside, but that’s hard to do when the monsters are living inside my head. I don’t know what is wrong with me lately. This is not how I am supposed to be. This is not how I ever was and I don’t know what changed to make me this way.

My mentality has always been that each day is a new opportunity to take a new shot at life and make it the best you can. You do your best every time and you can almost guarantee success. In my career as a professional basketball player, I know that every shot I take on the court has to be perfect. I can’t miss, there are too many people counting on me, and I can’t let them down. I can’t let myself down. This is a standard I set for myself and I strive for it every day.

I sit down at my kitchen island and reach for the bottle of whiskey and the tumbler that sits next to it. These are a constant lately. They are always here when I need them. I have never been a drinker, especially when I’m out in public, but when it’s just me and my thoughts alone, I have been going to the bottle more often. I don’t want to be drunk, I just need something to take the edge off, to calm my nerves, to numb my senses a little bit. It’s not a big deal. It’s just something I need every now and then, though it has been more often lately.

I look around my kitchen and the size of it amazes me even today, after living here for the past seven years. This kitchen is bigger than the apartment I grew up in with my parents and two brothers. Living in that small space made me determined to have something bigger when I got older. It made me determined to make something of myself. It made me determined to take my shot and not blow it when it came. I was ten years old, just starting middle school, when Eminem was on the radio telling me ‘You only get one shot, do not miss your chance.’ I took those lyrics to heart. I listened to that song every day. Those lyrics became my mantra and I will tell anyone that those words helped me get to where I am today.

But as I sit here in my kitchen watching the alcohol slowly leave this bottle I wonder where exactly am I today? I leave the kitchen, bottle and glass in my hands, and slowly walk to my trophy room. I come in here often to remind myself of who I am and what I have accomplished. I sit on my brown leather sofa, put my drink on the coffee table in front of me, and take it all in. My eyes scan the room as I look at each of my trophies, starting from when I was in elementary school. I see the jerseys signed by all of the greats; the basketballs encased with my records engraved in each of them. I see the championship banners hanging on the walls, and I admire every jersey I ever wore through my career, now framed for me to relive the path I have walked. Anyone would come in here and think I have the best life, that I have everything I could ever want. I am one of the most famous athletes in the world. So, why isn’t it enough for me? Or, more importantly, why isn’t it enough for everyone else?

I put my head in my hands as I hear the voices of everyone in my life roaming around my head.

‘Derrick, you missed that three pointer,’ my coach says with disappointment in his voice.

‘Derrick, you’re scoring less points than you did last year,’ my father scolds.

‘Derrick, your brother needs rehab again, can you pay for it?’ my Mom pleads.

‘Derrick, I need…’

‘Derrick, you have to…’

‘Derrick, Derrick, Derrick.’

Everyone shouts my name waiting for something from me. They want an autograph, they want a picture, they want me to sponsor their kids’ team, they want me to advertise their product, they want this, they want that, they want everything and anything I have to offer. And I do it. I give and I give and I give away every piece of me to anyone who asks and at the end of the day what am I left with? Do I have enough pieces to make anything of myself? Do I even have a soul left or have I sold it to the highest bidder just for the promise of something more? That’s always been my problem. I always want more. It’s never enough for me, I’m never enough for me or for anyone else. That’s what the voices in my head say to me.

‘You aren’t good enough.’

‘The world needs you to be better.’

‘Do it for your fans, do it for your mother, your father, your brothers. Do it for the world. They’ve given you this shot, don’t fuck it up.’

I gulp the whiskey straight from the bottle, not wanting to waste time sipping it from a glass. I need the sweet brown liquid to hit my veins and numb my soul. I need to quiet the voices, hoping one day they will shut up for good.

Yeah, everyone looks at me and they think that I’ve got it made. They think that there’s nothing in this world that I could possibly want. They think I’m the luckiest and happiest guy in the world. Look at my house, look at my cars, look at the diamonds that sparkle in my ears. Look at all of the zeroes on my check, look at the commas in my bank account. Yeah, I’ve got a great life, don’t I?

Whenever I walk around the house, I only hear my voice as it echoes back to me, I only have my shadow walking beside me. I’m 33 years old with no children, no wife, no significant other. That’s been my choice. I can’t have any distractions. I have to stay focused on my career, on my stat line, on getting the wins and not the losses. I don’t have time for anyone in my life that isn’t going to help me be better, because every day I need to be better than the day before, so that one day I can say I’m the best. I don’t give a shit about yesterday’s stats or records. The only thing that matters is that tomorrow they are better. I’m not the best. People don’t say that, but the voices do.

‘You suck, Derrick.’

“How could you miss that shot?’

‘You’ll never be the G.O.A.T.’

‘You’ll never be like Mike.’

They scream at me every chance they get. I hear them when I’m on the court, I hear them when I’m out at an event, I hear them in my dreams. I’ll never be good enough.

‘But why do I have to be the best?,' I slur to myself now.

‘Because that’s what you demand of yourself,’ the voices answer.

I put my head back on the couch and close my eyes.

Nobody ever asks if I’m happy. No one ever checks in on me to see if I need anything. No one ever worries about me because they don’t think there’s anything to worry about. How dare I complain about anything? How dare I say I need something? Don’t I have everything already?

I show up to every game. I do my job better than anyone else playing right now. I kiss the asses that need to be kissed, I say yes when I really want to say no. I go to the events, I smile for the cameras. They look my way but do they even see me? Do they see the emptiness in my eyes, the sadness that I try to hide? Do they even care or do they just see dollar signs? I hide it all well. I give my million-dollar smile, I wave to the people, I shake hands, I kiss cheeks. I am Derrick mother fucking Thomas; I’m the king of the world! And the whole time I feel like I’m dying inside.

My Grandpa used to tell me, ‘Derrick, you have one shot to make a good impression. If you fail at this, no one will ever remember you.’ Damn, Grandpa, why did you have to put that in my head? I’ve carried that with me my whole life and it’s been so damn heavy. Can I ever put it down?

I get off my couch and slowly stutter step my way to the safe I have hidden in this room behind my very first jersey. On the third attempt I get the combination right. Damn whiskey.

I take the black box out and make my way back to the couch, placing the box on the table and removing the contents, one by one, laying them out side by side.

One gun. One bullet. One shot.