“Good. Now try it.”
Barry did try it, locking his arm and wrist and swinging the ball at his side, which made its way down the lane and managed a strike, all ten pins falling over with a clatter.
My family erupted into surprised applause and cheers, drawing the attention of the bowlers in the nearest lanes, and Barry grinned down at me.
I poked his bicep. “Were you hustling me?”
His eyes were warm and sparkly, making me feel all bubbly inside. “You’re underestimating your teaching skills.”
“And your athletic aptitude,” I muttered.
“Maybe.”
My dad clapping Barry on the shoulder broke us from our private moment, and I put space between us immediately. Mom and Kate shared a look, a silent conversation I just hoped they wouldn’t press me about later.
When I searched BARRY WRIGHT MENTAL HEALTH, it wasn’t even a hunt for information—I immediately found over a dozen sports articles about him, particularly his advocacy for mental health support in sports, his work with multiple youth and adult foundations, and his own struggle with OCD.
Most of the articles made mention of an incident in his fifth season, when he was twenty-four, three years into an eight-year extension. He’d always been known as a superstitious player but nothing out of the norm—it was seen more as a charming feature than a bug.
But then, apparently, it got really, really bad.
Obsessively maintaining routines, going not just for a couple extra practices, but sometimes two per day, working himself way too hard beyond what was healthy, all culminating in a mental break while rehabilitating a shoulder injury.
In my bed, I watched the feature about him that Jeremy mentioned. Barry was five years younger than he was now, his hair was longer, gelled back and curling over his neck, and there was no gray starting to pepper it. He wore a Columbus polo and looked almost nervous, a tension in his shoulders I wasn’t used to seeing.
“I reached a breaking point after the injury. I was set to be out for at least three weeks, but even though I wasn’t on the ice, Iwas still sure every loss would be my fault if I didn’t do my routines. If I didn’t work harder.”
While he spoke, the video played a montage of clips of Barry looking miserable watching games from a press box and other various B-roll of him exercising or stretching.
“I would’ve really hurt myself if Coach didn’t approach me about seeking help from a therapist. He told me that his mom had OCD and that talking to someone about it changed her life.” Younger Barry gave a wistful laugh, then nodded quietly for a long moment. “I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I was desperate enough to listen.”
Like every good inspirational video, the music took a turn for the optimistic while clips of Barry looking happier showed over his talking.
“That summer changed everything for me. While I worked through my injury, I went to a lot of therapy. Did a lot of exposure work, which was brutal at first, but opened my world up in a big way.”
I blinked through tears—the video doing its job—while he went on about his advocacy work since then and his plea for all athletes to get help and not suffer alone. As soon as it ended, I watched it again, then read an especially long article where he went into greater detail with an interviewer about his OCD until I couldn’t see the screen through the tears flowing over my eyelids.
I could admit that it was more than pregnancy hormones making me emotional. It was seeing laid bare the horrible and blatant torture of this man who was so wonderful, a thorough documenting of all the ways he’d suffered alone, and how strong he was to get through it.
I heard a creak from outside my room and slammed shut my computer, holding my breath. After ten seconds, I had to sniffle.
“Hannah?” Barry called quietly. I was usually firmly asleep by now, my nausea and sleep aid having worked its magic.
I didn’t reply, but snot was dripping out of my nose, and Isniffed again. He peered around my cracked door and most definitely saw my puffy, crying face.
“What happened?” He exhaled and pushed into my room to kneel at my side of the bed. He immediately put a hand on my head, pushing my hair off my forehead.
“Nothing, it’s hormones,” I lied, but seeing that genuine care and worry on his face brought on a fresh wave of tears.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Barry said, and the term of endearment made me worse.
I hiccupped. “It was just a sad video. Elderly cats.”
“Yeah?” I could tell he didn’t believe me, and he swiped his thumb over my wet cheek. “Junior’s going to live forever, so no need to worry about that.”
“You’re right.” I closed my eyes and tried to collect myself.
I knew he wouldn’t press if I told him not to, but I couldn’t get the image of that devastated young Barry out of my mind. With a heavy exhale, I decided to tell him the truth, because it felt too heavy to hold alone.
