Page 31 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

PAIN AND SUFFERING

Sebastian

In the car on Tuesday morning, Ben said, “I wish we could bring Lexi.”

I wanted to say, “Well, we can’t.” That was probably for the same reason Ben had said that: because we were both nervous about taking this trip to visit his mom.

I couldn’t even tell what Solange thought about us coming, because when I’d called her last night, she’d barely responded.

This was a big old trip into the unknown.

We’d be there about three hours, but three hours can be a long time.

I thought about it, changed lanes, and said, “I’m sure it’d feel better to have her with you. I’m nervous about this too.”

“I’m not nervous,” Ben said. “She’s my mom. I’m going home. Why would I be nervous? Just if she gets sick again or anything. Lexi.”

“On the other hand,” I said, “better that she gets sick at home than on the plane, even if we were allowed to take her. Imagine our unpopularity.” Which made him smile, at least. I added, “Francine’s taking her out at noon, Callie’s taking her after school, and we’ll be home by seven.

And she was almost back to normal last night anyway. Lexi’s tough.”

“Except that she’s still farting,” Ben said. “I’ve never smelled farts as bad as that. Why would a dog eat hot sauce anyway?”

“The vet told me on the phone,” I said, “that a dog’s motto is, ‘Might as well eat it. I can always throw it up again later.’ That sounds pretty close.”

“That’s, like, all wrong for evolution,” Ben said. “It doesn’t help survival of the species if you poison yourself by being dumb. You’d think the dogs that survived would be the ones that didn’t eat gross things, but it seems like it’s the opposite.”

“Excellent point,” I said. “Worth researching. You could do that before our flight. Unless you’d rather do your homework instead.”

“Ha,” he said. “That just means you don’t know.”

“You’re right,” I said, scooting around a slow-moving truck. “I’ve never had a dog before. Also, I don’t know everything. Newsflash.”

He said, “You aren’t all that parental, you realize.”

“Makes sense, since I’ve never had a kid living with me before. In what way am I not parental enough?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t parental enough. Just that you’re not. Like, how you drive. And you got me a tutor, but you don’t even check my homework.”

“Oh.” I considered that. “Maybe that’s why I make you wear your seatbelt.

No, wait, that’s because it’s the law and it’s stupid not to protect yourself.

Like playing football without a helmet. The homework?

It never occurred to me, honestly. Nobody ever checked my homework.

Wouldn’t have occurred to my dad. He was more of an ‘It’s your life’ guy, I guess. Or a busy guy.”

“That’s not it,” Ben said. “My mom’s busy, but she always checked that I’d done it, at least. ”

“Probably Option One, then. I mean, you’re getting grades, right? You want to have some kind of future? Natural consequences. Would you rather I checked it, though?”

“No. Thomas already goes over every single thing I get wrong.”

“All right. What else? In what other way am I not parental?”

“You haven’t bought me a video game system,” he said. “Everybody has a video game system.”

“You’re right,” I said, “and I’m not going to, at least not right now. Why? Do you have one at home?”

He looked away. “No. My mom doesn’t believe in them. Which makes me the only guy without one. I have to go to my friends’ to use them, except, whoops, I don’t have any friends anymore.”

“So maybe I am parental.”

“Also, you should probably be worrying more. About the fact that I have no friends here, for example, and I can only play video games with the old friends on the computer, which is lame. Or text, I guess.”

I laughed, and he said, “Hey!”

“Sorry. But, first, sometimes your life changes and you have to find new friends. I’m sure it will happen for you once we get you back in school, because you’re a likable guy. Personally, I’ve had to do it every year or two since I was eighteen. And second, I worry plenty.”

“You don’t seem like you worry. You just say, ‘OK, problem—solution—done.’ Or if it’s somebody you can’t boss around as easily, like Alix, you say, ‘problem—solution—oh, you don’t agree? Let’s fight.’”

I laughed again. “Definitely true. Are you asking me how I handle anxiety, though? I can answer that, but I won’t if it’s just going to sound like, blah, blah, blah, here’s my good adult advice for you, you stupid teenage kid. No point in that.”

“Like you even have anxiety. You guys are playing the wild card game next weekend, and you’ve barely even mentioned it. Even though you’re in the Number Seven spot and playing the team in the Number Two spot!”

“You looked it up,” I said, taking the airport exit.

“Yeah. I can use the internet. I must be a genius.”

“I’ve had plenty of anxiety,” I said. “Right now, in my personal life, I told you, I’m anxious about this visit. Get out, though, and grab your stuff.” I pulled to the curb, hopped out, gave my name to the valet, and handed him my key fob and a twenty.

Ben said, following me, “This isn’t how normal people park at the airport.”

I said, “This is how guys who fly home at two A.M. after playing a football game do it, though,” and went through the pneumatic doors.

“It’s probably really privileged,” Ben said. “How much does it cost?”

“Forty-five dollars a day. Plus a tip on each end.”

“See? Nobody else can do that.”

“You’re right. I’m a fortunate man.”

“Just because you can kick a ball,” he said. “How is that even enough of a skill to get paid millions of dollars for it?”

“Well, if somebody else does it better, they can take my job. I’m sure there are plenty of guys trying right now. Come on.”

A quick pass through the PreCheck line, and then we were walking to the gate. Ben was silent, and I said, “Do you still want to talk about handling anxiety?”

“I was just, like, making conversation,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “OK, then. ”

Another fifty yards, and he said, “So you’re not even going to tell me? Adults are usually dying to tell you stuff.”

“But as you say, I’m not all that versed in the parental deal. You saying you want to hear?”

“I guess. Since we’re walking, and I don’t have my headphones in.”

Right. I seemed to be going out on another limb. “I meditate, for one. First thing in the morning. Takes less than ten minutes.”

“What does that mean? Do you say ‘Om’ or something?”

“I do something called a gratitude meditation. It’s a script. I practice focusing on my breath and feeling gratitude and kindness toward people.”

He stared at me. “You’re kidding. That’s so lame. Not badass at all.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, “but it works for me. It shifts my focus from my needs, my worries, my desires, to considering that the people around me have their own needs and desires, and it also puts me in a more receptive frame of mind to get feedback, which is how I do manage to make a living kicking a ball. But mainly, it gives me a framework to practice letting a thought or a feeling pass through me without getting stuck there. It’s the difference between pain and suffering. ”

At the gate now, with boarding happening in fifteen minutes, so I found a seat, and Ben sat down with me and asked, “What do you mean? They’re the same.”

“Vocabulary-wise, maybe, except for this. One meaning of suffering is ‘troubled by pain or loss.’ The suffering isn’t the pain. It’s being troubled by the pain.”

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“I didn’t get it for a while either. I guess the idea is, everybody has pain.

Like your mom dying, and my dad dying. That’s serious pain, and grief is a whole process.

Just like getting cut from a team is a process.

It’s always going to hurt, but how long it keeps hurting and how much you spiral down when it happens—that depends how much time you spend in the suffering.

Radical impermanence requires radical acceptance, because everything changes.

Always. It’s the one truth of life, that there’s no long-term security, no long-term comfort, and the more we chase it and try to wrap our arms around it and hold it down so it won’t get away, the more afraid we become.

The trick is accepting that, being able to ride the waves of those changes. ”

“That sounds like, ‘Think positive!’” Ben said. “Or, ‘Go through life with no attachments! Much easier that way!’ I hate it.”

“You can hate it,” I said. “Nobody’s making you do it.

But I’m a professional athlete. Succeeding at that takes more than physical fitness.

It takes mental fitness, emotional fitness.

I can’t be thinking, every time I go to make a hard kick, ‘What if I miss this? Am I going to get cut?’ See, the thing about kickers is, you may not seem that important, but when you’re on the field, you’re about as important as it gets, and you’re all alone.

Anybody can make the kicks in practice. Making them in the clutch situations, that’s the trick.

To do that, I’ve got to be able to feel things and let them go.

I have to be absolutely present in the moment and not in my head, and I can’t afford to let doubt and fear creep in. ”

“Because if you go out to Baltimore on Saturday and choke,” Ben said, “that’s the end of your season.”

“Exactly. Whereas if we do our absolute best and we lose anyway—that’ll suck, but that’s sports, too.

You have to hate to lose in order to win.

I mean, you have to hate it. Enough to do anything to try to make it not happen.

Ask Harlan Kristiansen how it feels to drop a pass in the postseason.

How it feels to drop a Hail Mary in the postseason, especially.

He’ll probably tell you the same thing. Got to have a whole lot of confidence in your ability to improve, and in your ability to perform next time, to deal with that.

When you do screw up, or just try something that’s beyond you—jump for a ball you can see is overthrown, or attempt a sixty-five-yard field goal because that’s the only possibility left—you can’t let failure affect you beyond pushing to improve in every way you possibly can.

You can’t afford to feel like a loser. You can’t let yourself suffer. ”

“Great,” Ben said, as they called our flight. “I’ll just do that, then. Totally applies here. Good talk.”

“I said it’s what I try to do,” I said as we stood up. “I didn’t say it was easy.”