Page 5 of Necessary Roughness
Great, I thought.Now I’ve made eye contact, and I’ll have to introduce myself later.
Another thought suddenly raced through my mind; I had almost no privacy in this house.
I waved politely and crossed the living room to the wall of glass on the other side. As I studied the beautiful Mediterranean villa next to me, I noticed a suitcase in the living room. The house wasn’t empty after all. I could only hope I wouldn’t have another Leonard on my hands.
Shadows moved within the room, and I watched intently to see who my neighbor might be. A male shape formed, and I squinted my eyes to make out a face.
No. It can’t be.
Brett Mercer.
The dirty, underhanded, asshole of a sports journalist that had hounded me relentlessly the last few months of my final year in the NFL. Constant criticism, even when my play was solid. Brett was incessant, as if he has some sort of vendetta against me. In fact, some were saying Brett was using my name to build his own crummy career.
The constant barrage of bad publicity was part of the job, but it had become unbearable when I lost a lucrative sponsorship deal with Monarch Watches. I’d been in the running for a multi-million-dollar campaign, but when the CEO of Monarch sawBrett’s hit piece, he decided to go with a celebrity with a “safer” image.
I lost millions, and someone else snagged the deal.
Sure, criticism comes with the territory when playing major league sports, but Brett had taken it to a new low. His condemnations of me had even spawned their own online discourse. Brett was building a fanbase of people who loved his snarky commentary and take-down style. I, on the other hand, wasnota fan.
Seeing Brett’s face mere feet away from me made me furious. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Writing pieces and doing podcasts, constantly tearing me down.
And now, it appeared we were neighbors. I wasn’t exactly sure how Brett was able to afford the rent on a Malibu beach mansion. Up-and-coming sports journalists were not paid handsomely. At least not until they hit it big. And clearly Brett had no problem sacrificing my career and image for personal gain.
That infuriated me.
I stood silently and watched as Brett hauled a microphone out to his front patio.
What the hell is he doing? And how the hell is he able to afford that house?
Finally, I realized: he was about to record a podcast on his patio. A podcast that no doubt would feature more wrath directed at me.
That transformed my fury into rage.
My rental was about the same size as his, and I had to pay over seventy thousand dollars per month—for three months! But after one of the most successful careers in NFL history, I had the cash to spare.
Is this asshole making millions from talking shit about me?
The anger that coursed through my veins was palpable. I hated Brett Mercer. And now I was going to have to spend the summer pretending like I didn’t see him hanging around while he slanders me for profit from the house next door.
Just then, a thought occurred to me: maybe he was only renting the house for a short stay.
Yes, that’s it. A short stay.
I wasn’t sure if I believed it or not, but I wasn’t exactly going to go over and introduce myself just to awkwardly ask if he’d be staying long.
Turning away from the window, I walked back into the kitchen to be sure I couldn’t be seen by anyone. I’d need to install curtains or drapes or…somethingto cover these damn windows. On one side, I had a nutjob old man who may or may not accidentally blow up his house. On the other side, was my all-time enemy. The man who had cost me so much.
The sponsorship deal with Monarch wasn’t just about the money. I had made enough money playing football. The real goal was to transition myself from a ball player to a public figure beyond the field. If the deal had been successful, it could have launched other opportunities for sponsorships. The sky was the limit on what could come professionally for me after that. The world was my oyster.
Monarch Watches had wanted someone with credibility; a respected sports icon who could project strength, endurance, and leadership. I was perfect for it. But Brett’s icy comments during my final season changed everything. He’d written that I was washed-up and lacked heart. He’d written that I was just coasting until my final paycheck.
The executives at Monarch had never told me directly that Brett’s comments were my downfall. But I knew it. I could sense their hesitation, and then the deal fell through.
No one knew about the lost sponsorship. The deal hadn’t been public, so even Brett had no idea. Part of me felt tempted to rush over there and tell him off. But he’d say the same thing most people would probably say: that I didn’t need the money. No one, least of all Brett, understood that I needed something more than that. A new purpose, something to strive for.
I was furious. I’d been angry for weeks since it had all gone down.
Before I could think about it further, I heard a loud crashing sound from Brett’s house next door. Rushing over to the window, I saw that Leonard’s hot air balloon had slammed into Brett’s podcast setup. His microphone was knocked onto the ground, and his laptop and notes were scattered around. The laptop looked as if it might have broken, but I couldn’t be sure.