Given the stories we read about brain damage, depression and failed situation comedy ventures amongst the NFL’s retired players, should we really feel bad for former Broncos/Jets DE Trevor Pryce, who left the game at the age of 37 in relatively good physical and financial condition? Pryce, whose dabbling in the worlds of independent label operations and film/TV production leave him with a deeper background than most ex-jocks, admits in a Monday New York Times guest editorial, that he’s “secure and utterly bored”.
Now I find myself in music chat rooms arguing the validity of Frank Zappa versus the Mars Volta. (If the others only knew Walkingpnumonia was the screen name for a former All-Pro football player and not some Oberlin College student trying to find his place in the world.) I wrote a book. I set sail on the picturesque and calming waters of Bodymore, Murdaland. And when I’m in dire straits, I do what any 8-year-old does; I kick a soccer ball against the garage hoping somebody feels sorry and says, “Hey, want to play?”
During the six-month off-seasons, I pretty much educated myself, dabbling in music, Hollywood, journalism, real estate and everything in between, with varying degrees of success. I was able to do a lot in so little time. Now that I have all the time in the world, it’s amazing how little I accomplish every day. Sometimes, that’s a good thing. Most times not.
Nothing truly prepared me for retirement. It hit me across the face like a Deacon Jones head slap. Suddenly, I’m sitting around at 10:30 a.m. looking for something good on television — which is impossible.