Dak Warner’s hair has been pulled smooth into a topknot and he’s wearing a black t-shirt with the white, gold and black circular Nighthawks logo on the front. It’s a shirt I’ve seen hundreds of New Yorkers wear on a daily basis, but this one fits him well, closely skimming along his taut biceps and chiseled pectorals. He also has on a pair of black Levi’s, and a pair of black and mustard yellow, high top, Air Jordans that probably cost more than my electric bill did last month. Definitely more money than his team is paying me for this session.
There’s a long silence between us.
A stare off.
I’m giving him space to tell me what’s on his mind today, or where he wants to start the session, but it’s apparent that he’s still resistant to the fact that he has to be here.
And that he actually needs to be here.
Two nights ago, I finally read his intake form but more importantly, I devoured almost seven in-depth articles about what happened to a Philadelphia quarterback named Hunt McCall and Dak’s role in it, complete with video footage. I think I have a better understanding now of why the NFL is treating this situation with kid gloves. A near fatal catastrophe happened in the middle of a game broadcasted on live tv. It was awful, shocking really, and a blemish on the brand.
Suddenly, I get one of my bright ideas. The kind of therapeutic ideas that make John uncomfortable.
“We’re going to the stadium,” I tell him.
“Excuse me?”
“The Citadel Life Stadium.”
“In New Jersey?”
“That’s where you play home games, right?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Does your team practice there?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you think they’re there today?”
“Probably,” he answers tentatively. “Listen, Miss Banks, I think we should talk.”
“Talking is what we’re here for.” I smile. “Go ahead.”
“The league wants me to have six sessions with you, but I think we both can agree that spending the next six weeks with each other in this room sounds like torture.”
More resistance.
And rude as fuck.
“What are you proposing, Mr. Warner?”
“How about we limit this thing to three sessions and you clear me to play?”
Typical indulged athlete.
He’s used to getting what he wants and thinks everything can be negotiated.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why? I thought three sessions were fair.”
“I can’t guarantee you that I’d clear you to play after those three sessions. In fact, I can’t promise you that I’ll clear you after six.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I don’t work for you, Mr. Warner.”
