I heard the words, nodded at the right times, but what I absorbed was different—win, push, don’t slow down, don’t look weak. I chased the parts that got applause and ignored the parts meant to keep me whole.
He tried to teach us patience. Longevity. To be players with honor. To treat our teams like family.
I wonder if he would take my photo off the wall if he knew about the way I treated Amy.
Looking at these photos now, I wonder who I might’ve been if I’d listened better. If I’d learned that compassion wasn’t failure. That asking questions didn’t mean doubt. That slowing down could actually keep you stronger.
Because I’m the guy who knows how much bullshit is really captured in photos.
“Appreciate you coming in, Brennan. Take a seat,” Coach Collins gestures to the chair in front of him before leaning back in his chair. He’s got the kind of tired eyes that come from juggling budgets, parents, and kids who think they’re invincible. “The kids really like having you around.”
“I like being here,” I reply honestly as I sit down. “They listen. That matters.”
“It does,” he agrees. “Especially coming from someone who’s lived it.”
The polite way of saying I paid the price for it.
He slides a folder across the desk toward me. It’s thin. Too thin. I don’t open it yet.
“I wanted to talk to you about something the school’s been pushing for but can’t get the funding for,” he continues.
“What is it?”
“Better baseline screenings to avoid injury. Access to specialists. Someone who understands head injuries beyond ‘shake it off and drink some water’ for all of our athletes.”
My jaw sets as I recall a time not too long ago where I’d do just that. “You’re right. It’s needed.”
“I know,” he replies, rubbing a hand over his face. “Believe me, I know. It’s on our department list. Has been since I took over.”
I can appreciate that. School sports budgets are notoriously ill funded except for the ones that draw the biggest crowds.
“But,” he adds, and there it is, the word that always shows up like a body check you never see coming, “We don’t have the funds for a full-time athletic physician. Or a nearby neurologist. Or even a dedicated sports trainer, let alone a physical therapist.”
I finally open the folder. Budget numbers. Red ink. Grants that didn’t come through. Requests deferred to next year—that mythical season where everything is supposedly better.
“How much?” I ask.
He names a number. It’s not astronomical. It’s worse than that. It’s just out of reach.
“We do what we can,” Collins says quietly. “Local urgent care, ER when it’s bad. Coaches do their best. But it’s not…comprehensive.”
I nod slowly. I’ve seen those gaps even in college. I was covered by hockey, but even though I was taken care of, others weren’t. “I know the kind of things that happen when injuries aren’t treated.”
“We also want to talk to the kids about education,” he continues. “Teaching them how to advocate for themselves. What pain is normal, what isn’t. Why rest matters.”
My mouth twitches despite myself. “That sounds like my trainer for the Kings.”
“Does it?”
“You have no idea.”
“We’re grateful for you.” He looks at me directly now. “The time you’re spending with them—talking about safety, recovery, what ignoring injuries actually costs? That’s making a difference.”
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with old injuries.
“I wish someone had done that for us,” I admit.
An idea starts forming at the edge of my mind. It’s not complete. It’s not ready. But it’s there—persistent. The kind that doesn’t go away once it shows up.
