Jack Lowden: ‘Acting is embarrassment’

Because Jack Lowden is a tall, talented, nice-looking, Olivier award-winning actor with a growing body of acclaimed screen work behind him, a celebrity girlfriend – he is going out with the four-time Oscar nominee Saoirse Ronan – and a strong Scots Borders accent, there is an instinct to look him up and down and assume he is not someone particularly burdened by self-doubt. There is an instinct to assume he is one of those restless young alphas you sometimes encounter in acting who seem to have the entire world in their crosshairs. There is an instinct, perhaps, to assume even more. “I met someone recently and he was like, ‘I thought you were going to be a complete c***,’ ” he says, frowning. “And I said, ‘OK, I can see why. But at least give me a chance.’ ” So, let’s give him a chance. We meet for lunch in a north London gastropub – two pints and a plate of risotto each – because he is, ostensibly, promoting Benediction, a Siegfried Sassoon biopic in which the 31-year-old plays the poet. It is an excellent, achingly sad film in which Lowden’s Sassoon quietly absorbs trauma after trauma: the carnage of the Western Front; the deaths of his brother and of his friend Wilfred Owen; a series of painful and acrimonious romantic relationships with other men followed by a lustless lavender marriage; a gradual decline into loneliness and critical obscurity. And through it all, Lowden delivers the kind of subtle, slow-burning performance that wins awards and sends careers stratospheric. He really is very good. But Lowden isn’t sure. In fact, one thing that quickly becomes apparent in his company is that he has as much professional self-doubt as anybody. Possibly a bit more. “I’m very hard on myself,” he says, and describes how he struggles badly when forced to watch his performances back. “You do all that work. And you think that you’ve really researched this person. And then you watch it and you just think, ‘F***! That’s just me!’ ” he says, drawing out the “meeeee”, fingertips pressing into his cheeks. “That’s just me in a costume. And someone’s calling me Dave or John or Steve.” This is not wink-wink self-deprecation. Nor is he being self-pitying: Lowden – who also currently stars alongside Gary Oldman and Kristin Scott Thomas in the Apple TV+ series Slow Horses – is thoughtful, funny and self-aware. But perhaps, if anything, he is too self-aware. Because something about acting – standing in front of a camera and pretending to be Dave or John or Steve – seems to really embarrass him. “Just severe embarrassment,” he says. The fact that he is almost always required to ditch his own accent and perform in another voice only adds to his discomfort and the uneasy sense of confection. He is not the sort of actor forever primed to drop a few apposite Shakespeare verses into conversation. “The idea of me doing a monologue to you right now? I couldn’t think of anything worse.” Plus, he continues, the inherently subjective nature of performance makes it very hard to know, for sure, if what he’s delivering is genuinely any good. “My younger brother has just been made principal dancer with the Royal Swedish Ballet,” he explains. “And what he does is so black and white. You can either jump high or not.” But unlike ballet dancers or athletes, when it comes to acting, it feels as though effort does not always equal results. “It’s never satisfying for you,” he says. He sips his beer. He wonders, long-term, if he might end up doing something else. “I really want to get rid of that feeling. But I don’t know how.” So, what’s going on? How do you end up having such an uncertain relationship with the very thing you do for a living? Lowden was, he says, a “very, very, very shy child”. He and his brother were both born in Chelmsford, where his parents had relocated in order to access IVF treatment, but grew up in the small village of Oxton after his family returned to Scotland. During his childhood, he developed an intense devotion to a number of classic British sitcoms – Only Fools and Horses, Open All Hours, Porridge – and would watch them obsessively. “It was like a comfort blanket.” He would even take his collection of DVDs on holiday, so as not to be parted from them, and would hate it whenever he’d see behind-the-scenes footage of, say, Only Fools, in which the Trotters’ Peckham flat was revealed to be a film set with a studio audience. “I didn’t want to know that it wasn’t real,” he says. “Everything in those programmes just had a lovely air to it. Everything seemed quite innocent. Nobody seemed bored. There was no boredom at all. And I just wanted to live in them.” He would tag along to his brother’s ballet classes and have a bash himself. “But I was shite at dance and was encouraged, very quickly, to do the narrating.” The sensation of being on stage, however, was something he soon came to love. And with the encouragement of his parents and a particularly supportive music teacher at the local state secondary school he attended, Lowden found himself entering the world of amateur operatics in the Scottish Borders. He became, in fact, a fixture at the Galashiels Amateur Operatic Society. This sounds twee, almost comic. But he shakes his head. “It’s a big thing. It’s huge. In the Borders, it’s like life and death,” he says levelly. “There are like eight or nine societies. People who have been in their society for 50 years get their 50-year medal. They take it f***ing seriously. More seriously than in the profession.” He was swept along by the intensity and energy of this tight but passionate rural arts circuit. Four of his best mates did it with him. “It was like a rite of passage. And none of them are actors now. But they loved it, running about and acting in musicals.” The way he describes it, there was something almost transcendental about it. “You’d be in Guys and Dolls performing next to a fireman or a teacher or whatever. Just seeing these people light up on a Tuesday night was amazing.” After doing his A-levels, Lowden studied acting at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama and, in 2010-11, played the lead role in the National Theatre of Scotland’s production of Black Watch. This play, which details the experiences of soldiers from the Scottish regiment in Iraq, toured the UK and the United States. “We didn’t play theatres. We played arenas. You felt like a rock star,” he says, without bravado. More stage credits came, and he won his Olivier for Best Supporting Actor in a 2014 production of Ibsen’s Ghosts. But by the time he reached his mid-twenties he thought, “I’d better do some screen.” He didn’t struggle for roles – he appeared in the BBC’s adaptation of War & Peace, Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk and played a young Morrissey in the singer’s biopic England Is Mine – but he struggled with the change of pace. “The pedestrian element of film sets kicks in. Because film is much more technical and takes much longer. The buzz is not there.” On some level, I think he’s still struggling with the fact that very little in his career so far has been quite as exciting – or quite as profound – as his teenage nights under the lights at the Galashiels Amateur Operatic Society. Knowing that you’ve smashed a song and dance number in front of a packed village hall is more cathartic than doing take 23 of a few lines of dialogue to a camera on a silent set. For a long time, whenever he would get drunk, Lowden would force his mates to watch old Gene Kelly or Bob Fosse dance routines on YouTube. “I’m a music hall actor,” he says, “in this very technical profession.” Still, it’s not all bad. If he hadn’t got into film then he’d never have met his girlfriend. In 2018, Lowden appeared in Mary Queen of Scots opposite Saoirse Ronan, now 28. He was playing Lord Darnley, an English nobleman who marries the Scottish queen. It sounds quite a romantic backdrop against which to meet and then fall in love with your other half. Until, that is, you watch the film and realise that the relationship between the two was violent and abusive. There is a particularly unpleasant sex scene, the preparation for which saw Lowden and Ronan – not yet a real-life couple – throw some ideas around. “It’s this scene where she tries to get him to basically impregnate her. And we were like, what if you started hitting me? That was back when I’d first met her, so I went, ‘Yeah, hit me as hard as you want,’ ” he says, fixing me with his eyes and dropping his voice half an octave. So Ronan hit him – “F***ing bang!” – and when he returned to his trailer, he discovered he had a gigantic blood bruise across his chest and shoulders: “I couldn’t move.” The following day, she asked if he was OK, to which he could only manage a noncommittal, high-pitched noise. He chuckles. “It was a strange way to meet.” Workplace romances are excruciating, I say. Too much like being back at school. Lowden disagrees. “But that’s what makes it fun.” He and Ronan now divide their time between London, Scotland, the US and wherever their jobs take them. “I was up in Orkney recently, on a recce for a film that I’m going to do with Saoirse,” he says. “And I was just in Australia, actually, where she’s shooting something.” Aside from all her industry experience, which is helpful, he says that he sometimes asks her to help him do the audition “self-tapes” he is often required to produce when up for a part. He will stand in front of a digital camera, delivering his lines, and she will stand off-screen, reading all the other parts. “She’s one of the best actors in the world and she’ll be giving twice the performance that I’m giving on camera. It’s hilarious.” Last year, ahead of England and Scotland’s Euro 2020 fixture, Lowden and Ronan posted a short, homemade video online in which the pair of them recreated a pre-battle scene from Braveheart: “I felt it was something that needed to be done to mark the occasion.” Lowden is a supporter of Scottish independence. He had been living in Leith prior to getting a part in Slow Horses, which required him to relocate to London two years back. “But I want to move back as soon as I can.” It winds him up when English people, like me, tell him that they always want Scotland to do well in their sporting fixtures. “Like, you don’t have to say that,” he says, shrugging indifferently. “Want us to lose. Whatever. We don’t care.” Recently, he was at Murrayfield watching Scotland host England in the Six Nations, and he was reprimanded by a fellow Scot for booing God Save the Queen. “He turned around and went, ‘Come on, man.’ And I said, ‘No! This is the problem! It’s got to be difficult for them to come here. We’ve got to create an atmosphere. What’s the point in being polite?’ ” A little later he revisits the subject, a little gingerly, just to clarify that he was talking about anthem-booing in a purely sporting context and that he genuinely doesn’t want to upset anybody. He has friends from south of the border, he says, who can dish it out every bit as much as he can. “Two of my best mates are English, and we always go and watch rugby together. And you’ve got to have a sense of humour around that.” One thing he genuinely does seem to enjoy about his job is hanging out with actors. “They are great people to have around a dinner table. Great people to talk to. They’re very trusting, very quickly, great people to confide in. If you ever have difficulty opening up, find an actor. You’re not going to shock an actor. Well, you’re not going to shock a British actor.” For someone like Lowden, who is naturally shy, you can see the appeal. For a while, in his mid-twenties, he says that he made a concerted effort to be more outgoing. “I looked around and thought, ‘The world wants a gobby person. I’ve got to have a bit of oomph about me,’ ” he says. “So I sort of tried that on for a bit. Like a coat. And it went fine. I wasn’t an arsehole. But it felt like I was having to put a lot of effort into it.” Now he’s back to being quiet, which suits him better and is probably for the best. “Particularly in a work environment. The people you want to work with again aren’t necessarily the loudest in the room.” He’s turned down big money for parts he didn’t fancy. His dad, who works for the Bank of Scotland, never understands. “He says, ‘Why would you do that?’ But I’ve never regretted it.” His social media channels are not exactly the slick shop windows of many other young actors, and his passion for railways and service stations is instantly discernible. “I’m a massive fan of service stations. Wetherby on the A1…” he says dreamily, before finishing his second pint. He is not aware of any intense online fandom, although there is a small but committed group of Jack Lowden superfans who will come and watch him perform on stage. “There’s about five of them, lovely lasses, mainly from England. They came 25 times when I did Measure for Measure at the Donmar. It was like, wow, you must be minted.” He has no concrete professional goals or ambitions. “There isn’t anything where I’m like, I absolutely have to play that,” he says, before gathering his stuff together to leave and catch a train to Scotland. “I just want to play a role where I feel, ‘Wow, you really f***ing pushed yourself.’ Because only I know when I’ve really pushed myself. Because sometimes I think I have done, but then I get home at night and think… ‘Nah, you really didn’t. You just sort of did that thing you always do.’ ” He smiles and sighs. Oh well. It’s hard not to hope that he finds what he’s after. In the meantime, though, we can’t complain. That thing he always does is great. Better than most. Fingers crossed, he’ll see that soon.

Dumb Ducks in the Water: Part 14

IT’S FINALLY HERE. Three actual years later, but it’s here.

A lot has happened in my life for the past three years and, to make a long excuse short, I was doing a lot of life questioning and dealing with events. And once I got out of my dark cloud, I decided to return to this fic while returning with my own writing projects. So I’m here to finish this fic, though I’m not sure how long it will take (I hope within a year?)--I’m just promising not to go MIA again, is all.

Anyway, some notes on this chapter:

- Listen, I did NOT plan on returning when the 3rd season of Free! came. This is pure coincidence, honestly. That being said, SO MANY THINGS HAVE CHANGED. Side characters have personalities now... Isuzu exists (I’ll have to, at some point, change Yukiko’s name)... People are in college now... Anyway, I want to remind folks that I started this fic in 2014/2015 and I’m trying to stay true to that, so anything that doesn’t match up with the current season is kind of like oh well for me.

- This chapter features tweets. Yeah. I used some website that make them look like they were written in 2009, lol, but we’re just gonna go with it. Also, want to give a shoutout to my best friends, who spent like five hours coming up with the twitter handles.

- Speaking of which, trigger warning possibly: cyber bullying (?) and rumors. Now, I generally try to keep this fic lighthearted, so I am also touching the mentioned subjects in a lighthearted manner for the most part, but I also know that if what happens in this chapter ever happened to me in high school, I would have been mortified. So I tried to respect that and take it a little seriously, which also pertains to the rest of the plot--but this is still Dumb Ducks. No PSAs, just some self-awareness.

- I am a little worried the quality is not up to par with this chapter because it’s been a while and I just wanted to get this chapter over with because I’d rather write other scenes, so I’m super sorry if it’s only sort of funny/cute or too serious. It’ll be better next chapter! (Which hopefully comes out by December?)

Anyway.

Start from the beginning or go to the handy-dandy tag page and pick up where you left off.

Enjoy.

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It was still Tuesday.

But worse yet, it was time for him to face the swim team.

And to be honest, if you asked Nitori, that was kind of bullshit.

There he stood, observing the pool of sharks in the distance just waiting for him to make a move. A whole lot of damage had been done in the past eight hours since Rin shouted a profound WHAT THE FUCK at Nitori and Momo’s dorm doorway, which immediately stirred up a banana telephone game of epic proportions throughout Samezuka Academy. Pair that with the fact that both of the dimwits were publicly announced to head to the principal’s office together and that something amiss had happened in the cafeteria last night—and boy, oh boy, were the rumors trending the social sphere like something straight out of Nitori’s nightmares. They had gone viral, top of the chart gossip among their peers, who were all too ready to roast the couple into infamy.

It all started with a tweet.

Some rando on the basketball team had overheard Rin catching Nitori and Momotarou getting caught in an explicit position at their dorm, and what with the rumors of Samezuka’s swim team having more tea than a J-drama now stirring, this caught the attention of several bored teenage boys before classes had even started.

The sports news network was simple. Basketball passed the rumors around to get some details. One teammate asked who found out about this and were replied to with the captain caught them. Another asked, which one’s the captain?? And another replied, the guy who cries all the time.

Once the rumors spread over to other sports teams at the academy, the Samezuka Swim Team Thot Conspiracy began. It was the volleyball team who mentioned that both Nitori and Mikoshiba were sent to the principal’s office that same day, as sourced by a classmate in Nitori’s homeroom. A peculiar detail because how did the school find out about what the couple was doing in their bedroom? Did someone rat them out?

Then someone on the tennis team who was also in the culinary club mentioned, I heard they got caught doing shit in the cafeteria.

Cue the controversy.

This made folks on the baseball team wonder just how many times the two had done it and bets were being taken about when the relationship started. Someone on the bicycle team hashtagged the gossip thread as #bombezuka, which set off a flurry of well-intentioned, damage control tweets from students who didn’t want the reputations of Aiichirou Nitori and Momotarou Mikoshiba to get tarnished.

Things like who cares if they’re banging and let them live in PEACE to they’re not gay and who are we even talking about flooded social media circles as the rumor spread outside of Samezuka’s sports clubs and into the general student body. Did things get out of control? Naturally. Details were being made up, people weren’t entirely sure who was involved in the cafeteria fucking, and lavish erotic assumptions about who had the biggest dick energy on the Samezuka swim team were battling it out for all of this side of Japan’s internet to see.

One person assumed the captain (Rin) was angry because he was in a secret love affair with “the silver twink” or something. Another person insisted, Mikoshiba-san has been bragging about being with Nitori-san since last weekend. Another student saw them nuzzling faces on the metro train, claimed they were on a date. Oh, definitely, said another, saw them on the beach making out.

Eventually someone had the nerve to try to confirm some things with the swim team by messaging Toru Iwashimizu, who only responded:

But because Iwashimizu had responded, the #bombezuka thread had popped up on the rest of the swimming team’s Twitter feeds, who righteously had mixed reactions of freaking out to defend their teammates’ honor and freaking out because their suspicions had finally been confirmed.

To no one’s surprise, Nagisa Hazuki caught wind of the frenzy, despite being from another school entirely.

And with Rin Matsuoka’s name mixed in with the rumors, it did not take long before six degrees reached his younger sister Gou, who could not believe what had unfurled throughout the day without any comment by her brother. In a desperate attempt to get him to notice the Twitter storm, she tweeted:

The only silver lining of the tweetastrophe was that at least no one was being inherently meanspirited about the potential lust blossoming between Nitori and Momotarou, which was partially due to the swimming team’s notoriety. On paper, sure, the swim team was the pride and joy of the Samezuka Academy, but that’s not why they were famous among their peers. They were famous because the rest of the school viewed the swim team as a group of guys obsessed with swimming. They did nothing but swim. The whole point of the indoor swimming pool was for the team to practice even during the winter—when they didn’t even have to swim—or whenever it rained.

Barely anyone knew anything about the students in the swim team, so many folks figured they had the stock personalities of a school of fish. All going for the same goal to be a professional athlete and not much else. They were untouchable; their schedules surrounding practices, training camps, and swim meets, with not much room for dating in between. The only other thing people knew about them was their annual tradition of hosting a maid café at their school’s cultural festival, which no one could reasonably explain.

That was it. Listen, people figured if there was ever going to be a scandal coming from the swim team, it was probably going to be about some guy shooting up steroids in the locker room or wearing unapproved swimsuits for better aerodynamics in competitions or maybe even something crazy like the students were all brainwashed and manufactured into disciples of Poseidon himself to carry on the legend of Samezuka forever. They weren’t known for actual drama, not even while people heard about Rin Matsuoka swimming for some other school’s team halfway through a competition for some reason last year (that was weird, but okay) or even this year when some folks whispered about Sousuke Yamazaki having a hurt shoulder and, like, that was sad, but he still swam in the championship, so other students figured it wasn’t so bad. Hell, if you even heard about those two so-called incidents, you had to be real close to the swim team—and the fact of the matter was, what happened in Samezuka’s swim team generally stayed with the swim team.

So, when rumors spread about last year’s swim team captain’s little brother possibly dating this year’s captain’s ex-roommate, who some said might be next year’s captain, too, things got a little bit juicy.

To the student body of the Samezuka Academy, this was like finding out the royals were having incestuous affairs behind the castle doors, which got people thinking: maybe the reason no one had ever heard of the Samezuka swim team dating anyone outside of school was because maybe the swim team was dating… each other.

Yet, while folks were reveling in the swim team’s supposed love triangle plot twists, it was all at the expense of Aiichirou Nitori’s dignity. People were quick to forget that. It was one thing to be teased by his teammates about possibly dating Momotarou, but to witness his reputation get warped into being the promiscuous sexpot darling of the swim team was a level of humiliation Nitori had never known. He read tweet after tweet, seeing his name become the butt of a thousand jokes by students who he had never heard of, let alone spoken to.

It was a wild exchange. There were positive messages at first that called him cute, saying no surprise he’s dating someone, remembering him as the second-year breaststroke swimmer, saying how quiet in school he was, saying how small he was, saying well, if he’s still on the swim team, he must be good, right? They said he must be flexible, then mentioned Momo and Rin and Sousuke and Seijuro and damn near any teammate people saw him with at some point during the school year. They got more invasive, calling him relay boy, and assumed he was experienced, assumed he was bottom, assumed he was easy.

He cried about this, locked his dorm room and wept at his desk as he used his laptop to delete his Twitter and turn all his other social media accounts private before the gossip switched platforms. And once it was done and he could finally use his phone again without notifications stalling the system, Nitori stared at his last text message, one from Sousuke that read, emergency meeting at the pool now.

There stood Aiichirou Nitori at the entrance of the indoor swimming pool, with eyes puffed red and swollen, just like his ego.

“I hate this,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

No one wore their swimsuits, which was good because like hell was Nitori going to do some goddamn laps after all the bullshit he went through today. As he sauntered down the gym in his hoodie and sweatpants, he looked down at the tile floor and listed the day’s events in his head. He woke up at 5:30 in the morning, broke into the cafeteria to smuggle in paper cranes, got caught, kissed Momo, had a nice breakfast, kissed Momo again but in his underwear so Rin could catch them—and thus the downward spiral set off. Today was the first day he started his first relationship. He should have been happy. It should have been a good day, really. But all Nitori felt was tired.

He was so, so tired.

“Honestly, fuck ‘em,” said Toru Iwashimizu, who sat at the edge of the pool with his feet dipped in the water. “Summer break is coming up anyway. They’re going to forget all about this.”

Most of the swim team sat down on the floor as a huddled group, with a few teammates just off to the side by the pool edge or by the wall. Nitori couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with anyone, knowing what had been rumored, but he saw someone approaching him and stepped back.

“Nitori-senpai?” whispered Momotarou, still in his school uniform. Not because he couldn’t get into their dorm room to change clothes, but because he chose not to.

“Where were you?” asked Nitori. He looked up at Momo then, pointing an incredulous glance at his manic kouhai, and didn’t care if anyone noticed their confrontation.

There was no question that Nitori-senpai looked like a wreck. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose and lips cracked at the irritated dry patches he must have wiped too many times, and his skin dulled from exhaustion. Once he found out about all the rumors, Momo’s first reaction was to go straight to his dorm room and talk with Nitori, but when he heard his senpai’s sobbing and how obviously hurt he was, his next impulse was to stop the madness. For the past twenty minutes, Momotarou went to several sports teams and people whose names he recognized in the tweeting threads and made a small statement to each of them in person. He needed to come up with a better solution, he knew that, but it was all he could think of for now.

He told them, you have hurt someone I care about.

“I was trying to fix this,” he told Nitori, even though he also knew the concept of fixing their shattered reputations might have been impossible by now.

“How could you possibly fix this?”

“Oy, Ai,” interjected Rin, who like the rest of the swim team had been taking note of Nitori’s dejected state. “That’s what we’re all trying to do now. Come up with a way to fix this mess.”

Fix messes, huh, Nitori thought. It seemed like he was always caught in some mess that needed to be fixed, at least for the past four days. Eventually the escalation must stop and crash, that’s what he was learning. He just never thought it would crash on him.

Nitori looked up to evaluate the rest of the team, taking note of their worried yet puzzled expressions as they looked back at him. He saw Minami and Uozumi sitting up against the wall, their lips pursed as if holding back their own commentary until they felt safe to do so. Off to the side, where most of the team sat, lied Nakagawa on his back and yet he averted his attention up at Nitori, then began to sit up when he noticed Nitori staring down at him. Iwashimizu took his feet out of the water and turned toward Nitori, sitting cross-legged and cross-armed. They looked guilty, or maybe Nitori just wanted them to feel that way. He wanted to blame them for their casual teasing as some sort of fuel for the rumor fire, even if he couldn’t prove it as the catalyst to the day’s events.

There was a moment when he wanted to blame Rin for shouting so loud that morning, for getting involved, for being so known at school. It didn’t last long, though, because even with everything that had happened, Nitori couldn’t muster up the nerve to blame his senpai for caring about him and his reckless behavior. As he looked Rin directly in the eyes, Nitori noticed the accountability Rin felt for his part of the scandal, how much of a captain he looked during this crisis—if you could call it that, Nitori wondered, feeling dumb. God, he felt so dumb, standing dead center at an emergency swim team meeting—a meeting—over rumors about him fucking—fucking—Momo.

Over fucking Momo.

When it came to Momo, his anger was complicated. It wasn’t the rage of someone who felt betrayed or even the kind of frustration someone felt because of how stupid their friend was. His fury was much more personal, a fury that made him obsess over every bad mistake he made in the past few days because of Momo’s whims and how any sane person would have said no, would have said the line was being crossed, would have realized they were setting themselves up for a messy catastrophe, but not him. Truth was, as Nitori realized it after sobbing at his desk, that he was, in a way, having fun. And the reason he was mad was because it had been spoiled.

He looked back at Momo and weakly raised his hand with his fingers twitching in frustration, pulling the air as he pulled his thoughts together.

“Nitori-senpai,” said Momo, who stepped closer ready to accept any punishment he was about to be given. “I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this.”

Yeah, he got anxious. Yeah, what they were doing was stupid.

But it was fun.

Nitori got mad because he hated how everyone wanted to rewrite his memories. They weren’t there watching the sunset at the beach with Momo while eating ice cream after a day of dancing and shooting water guns. They weren’t there going into downtown to shop for origami paper and eating lunch while binge-watching anime in their dorm room, just hanging out together and enjoying each other’s company for like twelve hours straight. They weren’t there eating breakfast in a little kitchen shop, planning dates and dodging bashful glances on the morning of their first kiss. They had no idea how much of a big deal it was, how it felt, that first time. All they had was this idea of who they were—just a couple of zany kids, off to the side, doing nothing important, just messing around. Who were they to try to tell Nitori the story of (maybe) the first time he fell in love?

Momo and his big mouth, his stupid ideas, his dumb heart.

Nitori dropped his hand. He took one step forward and plopped his head onto Momo’s chest, letting out a deep sigh. First day of a relationship and he was mad. God, he felt so dumb.

“Is it worth all this?” he said to Momo. “How long are we going to hide this secret?”

This secret, of course, referred to the surprise party they were planning, which had clearly become the bane of their existence. What started out as a prank turned sentimental gesture had wildly spun out of a control as the basis of their public outing for all to jest—and there was still another half of the week to go through before it was even supposed to happen.

Yet, given the rumor situation, when the swim team heard “secret,” a slight misunderstanding prompted folks to speak up.

“Oh, well, you don’t have to hide anymore, Nitori-san,” said Minami from the back, a little preemptively. “We’re totally cool with it.”

“Uh,” Momo stuttered, looking down at Nitori, who merely closed his eyes and sighed further. “That’s not—”

“That’s right, Ai,” said Rin. “We’ll make sure this doesn’t get out of control.”

Sousuke also chimed in with a supportive, “You’re not alone.”

And while it was sweet how quickly the Samezuka Swim Team turned into the Momo-Ai Defense Squad, hearing the phrase you’re not alone had channeled the exact reason Nitori was furious in the first place. He wasn’t alone, was quite prophetically forced to not be alone—when that’s what he wanted. He gripped Momo’s shirt, tugged down at the neckline as his silent call for freedom, and whispered into Momo’s ear, “Fix this.”

As more teammates spoke up to lend their support, it dawned on Momotarou that despite the fact that there was no real plan on how to come out as a couple since they were originally just rolling with the team’s own suspicions, this was probably not it. This was not how anything was supposed to go. He wrapped his arms around Nitori, feeling his senpai give in the embrace and start to choke up. Things had gone too far over nothing and no amount of white lies could change the fact that Momo, frankly, messed up.

“Stop,” he announced, then groaned as he gave in to surrender. “We were just trying to plan a party.”

Huh?

Even Sousuke, who was helping plan the party, wondered why the flustered ginger had snapped out and revealed the party plans. Collectively, no one on the team could tie the connection between Momo and Ai’s relationship outing and a… party? Unless, maybe it was a coming out party? Were they gonna be that elaborate about announcing their relationship? Wouldn’t that be a little much? Was that even a thing?

“What are you talking about?” asked Rin.

But the truth had to come out, and so with Nitori still in his arms, Momo exasperatedly confessed, “It started with the bread, but then you saw the bread, so then we couldn’t use it anymore, but I didn’t want to give up on—well, see, I was trying to plan a surprise because, come on, look at this pool, it’s so big! Like, how am I supposed to be at this school and not put stuff in it, so then why not origami cranes? No one can get mad at origami cranes—because they’re beautiful—and it’s barely a prank if there’s 5000 origami cranes—I mean, that’s practically art—like, honestly, I think it’d even be a good idea for the summer festival, just putting it out there because I’ve been working really hard on making them, you can ask Yamazaki-senpai, who—actually—is the reason we started planning a party. Yeah, ugh, because it was just a really good idea and we couldn’t explain why we are on the beach on top of each other—but nothing happened! We weren’t even thinking about that yet! We were just having a good time and then Yamazaki-senpai was like oh, what are you doing, give me my radio back, you’re planning a party, right? And we were like, yeah, that’s a great idea because it was, so then we had to go through with it, which is why we were always together, but then everyone kept thinking we were together together because we took a shower together and like, yeah, okay, so I checked Nitori-senpai out, but who wouldn’t? Look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t—no, you can’t, because Nitori-senpai is an amazing person who deserves to be checked out and, you know what? I’d do it again, honestly.”

Momo took a moment to breathe.

“Ugh, not that it matters,” Momo continued, his confession getting louder, “because then everybody was getting suspicious because of how much we hung out and Yamazaki-senpai couldn’t take the cranes to the cafeteria, so we had to, and the freaking cafeteria manager came in too early, so we had to run and run and it was sunrise and Nitori-senpai looked beautiful and, like, that was the moment—I couldn’t just not kiss him, especially after last night’s failure, so I did and it was great and today was supposed to be a great day because today—TODAY—was the first time I’ve ever kissed someone and today was supposed to be special because I asked Nitori-senpai out on a date and he said sure and I was,” Momo panted before he calmed down and finished, “I was really happy about that.”

Nitori looked up at Momo, then softly uttered, “Momo-kun…”

“I’m angry, too,” said Momo, meeting Nitori’s gaze. “I ruined our first day.”

The team stood there, stunned.

It was a lot to digest, particularly since Momo gave no context to anything he said, just spouted out a stream of consciousness that only select people could put together in a coherent timeline. But while some team members were trying to figure out the missing details, Rin—who felt he understood most of the Momo speak—hesitantly spoke up and said, “So, you two were planning a party here in the gym?”

Momo and Nitori nodded.

“And you knew about this?” Rin asked, turning around to Sousuke.

“Yup,” he said.

“But you two,” Rin turned back to the frazzled couple, “weren’t dating until… today?”

“Right,” confirmed Momo.

“But I saw… you both… this morning,” said Rin, trying to make sense of the lewd scene he walked in on earlier in the day. Who hooks up on the first morning they’re together?

“We were trying to distract you,” explained Nitori, who stood straight while still in Momo’s embrace and motioned his hands toward their intimate hug. “And it worked really well because we ended up distracting the whole school.”

“I can’t believe this.” Rin threw his head back, trying to be respectful toward his kouhais’ newfound relationship, but also absolutely using every fiber of his being to contain his frustration over the day’s events. “You guys literally test me every goddamn day.”

Sousuke chuckled, covering his mouth with his hand.

“What are you laughing at?” snapped Rin. “This is a disaster!”

“Yeah.”

Still waiting for an answer or a punchline, Rin bucked his shoulders for Sousuke to continue.

To which he shrugged and said, “Oh, nothing. I just think they’re funny.”

“Oh my god,” groaned Rin.

A sense of freedom washed over the two kouhais, who both took in a relieved breath about not having to keep up the lies anymore. They looked at each other then and sort of smirked at each other. Nothing was fixed by confessing about the party and, now that they confirmed they were interested in each other, the dating jokes were probably only just beginning, but it was their truth and they just wanted to live in it. For a moment, neither of them wanted to feel anxious about what was going on around them, even as the team shouted more questions about why were they throwing a party in the first place or why were they showering together if they didn’t like each other then or why would they go to these extremes, dear god, and why weren’t they answering?!

Toru Iwashimizu, who knew very well that today was the first day of their relationship, called out to the team, “Let them have a day, guys. We’ll rag on them later.”

All Momo and Ai wanted was a simple moment together.

-

They lied on Nitori’s bed together on top of the sheets, facing each other with a quiet acceptance. So much chaos in one day, but for a moment, it didn’t matter. They could just enjoy being near each other. Give them a chance to get used to each other. Be with each other.

“I’m sorry I ruined today,” said Momotarou.

Nitori reached his hand out to Momo, twiddling their fingers.

“You didn’t really,” he said, accepting that fact. “You didn’t start those rumors.”

They scooted closer to each other, enough to press their chests together and nuzzle their necks like swans. Let them feel each other’s heartbeats, that’s all they wanted. Just enough to hear that they were still excited about each other even with clothes on, that their breathing was still deep for each other because they were comfortable in each other’s arms, that when it got quiet it was intimate, not awkward. Maybe they couldn’t have a first day, but they could have a first night.

“Can we kiss again?” asked Momo, who gently tucked some fallen bangs away from Nitori’s face in case he said yes and who noticed the faint blush creeping up his senpai’s ears.

“Sure.”

Their noses bumped, as they realized they weren’t sure how to tilt their heads for a kiss in bed. A soft giggle slipped out as Nitori pointed his finger to the right, and they both adjusted their heads for a second try. A sweet kiss for an evening, involving parted lips and heated cheeks.

Just a moment to relive that morning, that’s all they wanted.

Another kiss.

Performative Action: The College Admissions Scam is Symptom of Image-Driven Illness

[Note to Reader: The author of this article recently finished working a temporary position at Staples High School where she acted as advisor for the school paper, the staff of which includes the students interviewed. It is important for the purposes of journalistic integrity to fully disclose the author’s relationship with these students.]

Olivia Jade Giannulli was a budding social media star, which meant that by today’s standards, she had it all. The doe-eyed spawn of actress Lori Loughlin and fashion designer Mossimo Giannulli parlayed her beauty into brand deals, and her generous bank account (courtesy of her famous parents) afforded her a jet-set, photo-ready lifestyle that incurred envy among the millions of followers she amassed between her YouTube and Instagram platforms. She had seemingly perfected the art of illusion that an “influencer” career often demands—presenting a glossy version of her life and using “likes” as currency.

It seemed almost poetic, then, that someone who specialized in presenting a carefully crafted image to her audience would meet her downfall by the same methods. In the past month, Giannulli has become the face of the recent college admissions scandal, wherein the super wealthy bought their children admission to elite universities. Whether it was by cheating on standardized tests or elaborately faking athletic credentials—or both, in Giannulli’s case—parents with deep pockets found that the coveted Ivy League or Ivy-equivalent bumper sticker was only a price tag away.

But lambasting the wealthy because of what they did to get their kids into college is only focusing on part of the problem. Our image-obsessed culture has afflicted a much larger demographic. With the rise of social media, we have made teenagers hyper-aware of others’ perception, and the idea of “branding yourself” extends to the college application process. Society has placed such high importance on name-brand colleges and, in turn, has nurtured teenagers who do anything for the application just as much as they “do it for the ‘gram.”  In many ways, the Internet and college admissions have become one in the same: we photoshop our lives and present the most appealing version of ourselves in the hopes of acceptance.

“Photoshopping our lives starts way before college,” Poppy Livingstone, a sophomore at Staples High School in Westport, Connecticut said. “But it starts to get unethical when you take opportunities away from people who are less fortunate than you with your photoshopped life.”

Even without photoshopping, Livingstone recognizes that she has privileges most don’t. Staples boasts the title of best public high school in the Connecticut and Westport the ninth wealthiest town in the country. Having grown up in Silicon Valley before moving to the east coast, Livingstone describes both wealthy, achievement-oriented communities as “rich,” “white,” “privileged,” and “competitive,” in that order. With that competition comes extreme pressure to perform.  

“People I know that live [in Silicon Valley], especially my age, a lot of them have some kind of anxiety or depression or a lot of stress in their lives,” Livingstone said. “A lot of them, similar to here, just do a lot of extracurriculars they don't really feel like doing and a lot of them end up going to high-end schools. So I think yeah, the same pressure exists there that exists here.”

Several of the parents involved in the scandal hail from glittery, image-driven areas of California, including Silicon Valley. Livingstone’s mother is even acquaintances with one of the alleged perpetrators. When Livingstone heard about the admissions scandal, she was disturbed on a level that was almost meta.  

“I think that it has imbued in me a deep and never-ending fear that I am also in on this con by doing SAT prep and paying for a college counselor,” Livingstone said. “I mean, am I complicit? It makes me feel super gross. [...] If I’m angry about this, I should probably be angry about myself.”

In affluent Westport, many of the students that I spoke with about the scandal expressed this guilt. But at the same time, SAT prep and college counseling are the bare minimum demanded of applicants, making this exclusive college dream really only a possibility if you have the money to pursue it.

“I think about people who are expected to get into the same colleges I’m expected to get into and how they will not have access to [test prep and tutors],” Livingstone said. “It’s unrealistic for them to get really good [scores] on the SAT, and it’s unrealistic for them to take a billion AP [Advanced Placement] classes if they have to work a job to help support their family, for example. I mean, we’re on a greased slide into college and they’re like trying to skateboard down a staircase with rocks on it.”

Because standardized test results are solely attributed to the test taker (college admissions scandal aside), high scores become shorthand for intelligence. Test takers don’t need to disclose whether they received expensive tutoring, so impressive scores are necessary when aiming to portray inherent genius—and therefore, creating the image of an ideal candidate.

In addition to high test scores and excellent grades in rigorous classes, students should have an incredible essay, ideally attend an elite prep school, display a resume that shows a focused and developed passion, and should have a demonstrable humanitarian streak according to USA Today College.

And hilariously dotted throughout USA Today’s advice about how to get into an Ivy League school—from the mouths of college admissions deans and Ivy professionals—is the key: the student should be genuine. Don’t do this in pursuit of college, we have the audacity to tell our students. Exhaust yourself with rigorous course loads and time-consuming extracurriculars because it feels right.

It’s nice for colleges to peddle the idea that being yourself is all you need to be in order to gain admission, but students aren’t buying it. And the slim admission statistics for elite universities back up their skepticism.

“As soon as you enter high school, it’s not about being in high school and having fun, it’s about how you’re going to get into college,” Staples junior Sophie Casey said. “What clubs you join, what classes you take [...] It’s hard to have genuine feelings that are the primary motivation for doing something.”

Casey began mapping out her path to college in eighth grade. She made a list of the classes she wanted to take, the clubs she was going to join, what level she wanted the classes to be, and which teachers she wanted to ask for recommendations.

“I made a literal four year plan,” Casey said, laughing. “It was neurotic and crazy and depraved.”

“Did you follow it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “There have been small changes, but I actively continually edit it.”

The plan only shows that Casey has gotten more ambitious. Instead of the original four AP classes she envisioned herself taking, Casey now has 11 between sophomore, junior and senior year.

But the regimented prescription that will help a student get into college—the AP classes, the laundry list of extracurriculars, the off-the-charts scores and the professional tutoring—effectively strangles any chance for students to discover who they truly are during their adolescent years. It discourages them from finding and pursuing their passions because that may involve some degree of failure along the way. And failure is not allowed, as it might potentially derail the perfect achievement streak they need to have in order to compete for admission. Authenticity is the most impossible ask because every other standard demands that students tailor their image to what colleges want to see on paper.

“It’s sad that [students] put so much emphasis on what other people—what colleges—think about [them],” Casey said. “Whenever I’m filling in an application and it’s like ‘what about me’ I don’t know what else to put outside of academic achievements. I don’t know what I am outside of school.”

Casey is not an anomaly, nor should we pretend that prioritizing college in her high school career means that she is somehow doing it “wrong.”  As much as college admissions gatekeepers may request authenticity, their standards demand a very specific brand of teenager. Ideally, elite colleges look for a student with ambition, talent, and preferably money. In exchange, the students will receive access to a network of alumni who will welcome the new generation into the fold and help him or her succeed in the dreaded real world. But the concern for the future isn’t quite in the forefront of students’ minds.

“I feel like it’s more about self-validation and the opportunities that esteemed colleges offer,” Casey said. “Success past the collegiate realm is almost an afterthought because it’s already attached to [the] name.”

But does all that effort to get into an elite college really make a difference long-term? Some say no, that elite bumper sticker prestige ultimately won’t make you happier and that Ivy Leagues specifically have a terrible return on investment. But one banker, who attended an Ivy-equivalent school and agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity, said yes.

“For front end positions [those that are the highest paid] our bank only recruits from a list of maybe twelve schools,” he said. “And those recruits are for region-specific positions.”

A bleak reminder: there are eight Ivies.

In order to secure a job at a large bank, he explained, students are funneled through an employment pipeline. They’re recruited for internships at the undergraduate level and the best interns will be offered a job as an analyst for a select few spots after they graduate the following year if they perform well.

“So it 100 percent matters where you went to undergrad,” he said. “And that’s why you have so much emphasis [placed on the school name], because you have these parents working at these companies that only hire from certain schools.”

“Do you think it’s only a finance career that does that [hires from certain schools]?” I asked.

“No, I think it’s any career that’s good. That’s competitive,” he said.  

The students I spoke with didn’t seem to feel that their parents actively pressured them to go to a specific school. However, they did have internalized pressure that came from growing up in an achievement-driven area. Like the banker, the students tended to equate competition with quality. After all, elite colleges are considered “elite” specifically because the competition for admission is so high.

“What do you think is attached to a person when they say that they’re an alum of an Ivy League school?” I asked Casey.

“There’s definitely...respect but also a lot of envy. And I think, I don’t know if this is true, but I definitely think that people here like to be envied,” she said. “How much of a difference [getting into an elite college] is going to make to you is maybe negligible compared to how it’ll affect others’ perception of you. People define themselves by—or maybe they think that other people define them by—achievement.”

Olivia Jade Giannulli managed to achieve measurable success in the social media realm, a field that is inherently unpredictable and notorious for taking prosperity as quickly as it gives it. Her parents, neither of who went to college themselves, may have believed they were giving her a more stable future through the USC degree they bought for her.

But success without substance isn’t success at all. The banker I spoke with agreed that it’s very hard to fake your way to success in a highly competitive field. Once you enter those competitive colleges, you need to perform at that level or else drown among candidates who will outshine you. His bank weeds out candidates who have coasted on privilege with a 3.3 GPA minimum  requirement (no exceptions) from top universities and tough interview questions that require both industry savvy and classroom study.

“It sorts itself out because if they start their career and they’re not good, they’ll get fired. They’ll be pushed out. That’s part of the sorting process,” he said. “That’s the thing, you can only fake it for so long.”

New Post has been published on https://www.madpicks.com/sports/nfl/15-nfl-stars-completely-destroyed-personal-demons/

15 Would-Be NFL Stars Who Were Completely Destroyed By Personal Demons

Athletes who are involved in the NFL run the risk of harboring personal demons, just like every other member of society. In some cases, they’re able to work through it, get treatment, and continue a productive life on and off the field. Other times however, they’re enslaved to these problems, and it ends up ruining their career in full. They’re never able to recover from their personal problems, and it cost them in a big way.

Unfortunately, many of the NFL players over the years who have dealt with such issues have been among the most talented of their generation. In some cases, they never even got to have a taste of success in the pros because of their personal issues. It’s always a tragic scenario (most of the time) when a talented athlete goes down the wrong path and isn’t able to excel to the fullest extent of their capabilities. Issues like mental health and substance abuse have derailed many careers, and will continue to do so in the future. Let’s take a look at some of the notable names in NFL history who just weren’t able to sustain their careers because of these problems.

Ranked below are 15 would-be NFL stars who were completely destroyed by personal demons.

Aaron Hernandez

Whether or not Hernandez actually had personal demons which caused him to commit the terrible murder, it’s no secret that he wasted away what could have been an all-time great career. He was near-unstoppable at times with the Patriots, and was one of the best tight ends in the league. The truth is, Hernandez always had red flags with his anger, and it became abundantly clear that he wasn’t playing with a full deck most of the time.

Everyone knows the story by now. Convicted or murder, Hernandez was sent to prison to serve a life sentence. Earlier this year, he took his own life while incarcerated. It was a disturbing end to a person who struggled with some degree of mental illness, even if his crimes were committed on his own volition. He’s definitely one of the bizarre character studies in sports over the past decade.

Greg Hardy

Whatever it is that makes Hardy a borderline sadistic person is anyone’s guess, if they aren’t in a medical field. His complete lack of remorse for his actions, along with the actions themselves, have made him one of, if not the single most hated player in the league right now. A phenomenal pass-rushing talent, he wasted his career away because of his horrific abuse towards women, and was never able to recover.

Despite the Cowboys giving him a job in 2015 after the fact, he only lasted a single season, and was essentially forced off the roster by public dissatisfaction. Hardy’s attitude and abusive actions have cost him the accolades of being one of the best defensive players in the game. There’s not likely a team who will be willing to take the risk on him with so many inherent problems to his name.

Johnny Manziel

“Johnny Football” may never play another snap in an NFL uniform, and he really has nobody to blame but himself. Manziel’s partying antics have been put on display since he was at Texas A&M, and haven’t let up no matter what was going on around him. His substance abuse was never concentrated to just one thing; Manziel was simply addicted to nightlife first and foremost. Unfortunately, it came at the expense of not learning the NFL game, and he was quickly out of the league.

It’s hard to feel bad for Manziel, who has had every advantage to make himself a successful football player. Wealthy family, good college program, quality coaches; none of it has made a bit of difference, and his chances of getting back into anything athletic for a career are swirling the drain with each passing day.

Aldon Smith

A former top-10 draft pick, it’s easy to forget that there was a time when Smith was one of the absolute best pass-rushers in the league. He helped lead the 49ers to a Super Bowl appearance in 2012, and everyone figured that he’d be an elite player for the rest of his career. Instead, he checked into rehab in the middle of the 2013 season, and was suspended for a good portion of the 2014 season.

Smith was just never able to recover from his substance abuse. He’s currently on the Raiders, but the quality of his play has dropped dramatically, and he’s still dealing with suspension issues, and recurring problems. He probably won’t last much longer, and is a big disappointment after being such a promising young player.

Justin Blackmon

A game-breaking receiver at Oklahoma State who many thought would be an elite talent in the NFL, Blackmon fizzled out after just two seasons in the league. Struggles with substance abuse, and numerous arrests followed, and it’s clear that Blackmon just wasn’t going to be able to make a career in the NFL.

He’s still struggling with the same issues today, and unlike someone like Josh Gordon, has pretty much given all hope entirely about ever playing again on an NFL field. It’s sad to say, because Blackmon had a chance to be a truly marquee receiver in the league, but he wasn’t able to get his consumption under control, or get rid of it all together.

Ryan Leaf

Selected 2nd overall in the 1998 draft, there were some people who claimed that Leaf would be a better NFL quarterback than Peyton Manning. Quickly after joining the Chargers he started spiraling out of control, and wasn’t able to shake clear issues with anger, and lingering issues with substance abuse. Leaf was a mess, and he would be gone from San Diego after a disastrous pair of seasons as their starting quarterback.

The issues never seemed to cease with Leaf over the years, and he’s had several run-ins with the law well after his playing days ended in 2002. He may never have ended up as an all-time great, but with less outside distractions he could have been a solid one. It just wasn’t in the cards, and he remains one of the biggest draft busts of his era.

Ricky Williams

He’s not an outright failure of a professional player like some others here, but Williams definitely squandered away a good amount of his potential. After a few very productive seasons coming into the league, Williams tested positive for marijuana, and a slew of suspensions and controversy began surrounding him. He missed a year with the Dolphins, ended up trying a stint in the CFL, and then came back to the NFL several years later, in much less effective fashion. It was a mess.

Williams was never the same once the suspensions started rolling, and even though he would play in the NFL up through the 2011 season, he wasn’t the same player that he was before. A solid career could have ended up being a great one had he not made smoking weed his primary concern as an NFL player.

Randy Gregory

There were legitimate concerns about Gregory coming into the league in 2015, but in true Dallas Cowboys fashion, they opted to take the risk and draft him anyway. Going in the 2nd round, Gregory was slated to be a boost to the Cowboys’ pass-rush, and their defense as a whole. After some injuries got him early on, he suffered numerous suspensions for substance abuse, and that’s the status on him now as we speak.

Despite being a legitimately great college talent, he couldn’t keep it under control in the pros, and the Cowboys’ worst fears were realized. Whether Gregory plays another snap in the league or not, he’s not likely to make much of an impact given how much time he’s lost to suspensions.

Art Schlichter

Trying to reclaim the days of Johnny Unitas, the then-Baltimore Colts drafted Schlichter with the 4th-overall pick in the 1982 draft. It was a high-profile selection at the time, as Schlichter had been an outright star while at Ohio State. He was considered to be one of the best young quarterbacks in the country at the time.

Unfortunately, his vice was gambling, and it quickly got out of control once he got into the professional ranks. Suspended for the entire 1983 season because of it, once he got back into the NFL he was never the same. He committed a bevy of felonies on his way out of the league, most of which were directly related to gambling. It was a serious problem, and one that he never really recovered from.

Todd Marinovich

Marinovich was supposed to be the future franchise quarterback for the Raiders when they drafted him in 1991. He lit up the college game at USC, and was slated to have a great NFL career on the horizon. What followed was nothing more than a classic problem, cocaine being the main vice in question.

He wasn’t able to sustain an NFL career, but did manage to bounce around to peripheral leagues here and there. The drug problems never went away however, and his career was a mere shell of what it could have been had he not gone that route. He’s currently facing a methamphetamine charge that could land him in jail. Just a sheer waste of talent for this one.

Josh Gordon

In the 2013 season, Gordon may have been the best young wide receiver in football. It was his coming out party with the Browns, and he racked up monster numbers on his way to a Pro Bowl appearance. Everything seemed like it was on the up-and-up, and that he would be a marquee NFL star for years to come. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite work out that way.

The next season in 2014, he was hit with a year-long suspension for driving under the influence in North Carolina. From there it was all downhill. Gordon faced additional suspensions, and was never able to get his substance abuse under control, for a long enough time to be reinstated long-term in the NFL. As it stands, it’s unlikely he ever plays another snap, after being one of the most promising young players.

Rae Carruth

Carruth was a wide receiver for the Panthers in the late-’90s, who conspired to murder his girlfriend who was pregnant with his child in 1999. In simply one of the most tragic stories involving an NFL player, whatever would prompt Carruth to do such a horrible thing is beyond comprehension. As a 1st-round pick of Carolina, it was a shocking development for one of the most notable young players in the league.

Now, he’s looking at an expected release date in 2018, after being sentenced in the year 2000. There’s not much in the way of recurring personal problems here. Carruth simply snapped one day and was the catalyst of a terrible murder. Obviously, his football career ended right away.

Donte Stallworth

Appearing on seemingly a different roster every season he was in the NFL, Stallworth was one of the league’s most reckless players when he was in it. He was convicted of DUI manslaughter in 2009, and struggled with substance abuse for the majority of his career. While it didn’t derail his career entirely, he never was able to live up to his potential, because it was always clear that he had priorities other than excelling at football.

Ultimately, he never did fully crack, and he didn’t truly succumb to any one aspect of his personal demons. But it’s safe to say that his career would have been much better off had he not had the struggles that he while simultaneously in the prime of his career. There was a lot of wasted potential when it came to Stallworth.

Lawrence Phillips

Phillips’ story is one of the most tragic in league history, and it was truly a horrific demise for one of the game’s brightest young talents. He just wasn’t able to shake the substance abuse, and even though he flashed brilliance during his brief time with the Rams, that was about the extent of his professional career. He became a journeyman soon after, and bounced around the league to no avail.

After retiring from football, things went from bad to worse. A bevy of arrests, assault charges, and the continued substance abuse all had a hand in ruining Phillips’ life, and landing him in jail. It was there that he unfortunately committed suicide in 2016. It was really just a nightmare of a story involving a player who could have been one of the league’s best of the Y2K Era.

Maurice Clarett 

Perhaps the most popular college football player of the late-’90s, Clarett projected to be a transcendent superstar when he was at Ohio State. There were warning signs even then that Clarett was a deeply disturbed person, having problems with anger and attitude, but those issues and others came to light when he moved to Los Angeles to train for the NFL Combine.

Clarett developed a serious problem with drugs and alcohol while on the West Coast, and by the time he was drafted by the Broncos, he was already in the throes of addiction. He spent one training camp in Denver, but never was able to shake his problems, and was promptly cut in 2005. Other problems such as gun charges, armed robbery and significant prison time awaited Clarett after he was done with his very brief stint in the NFL. With a DUI arrest as late as 2016, it’s clear that he hasn’t been successfully rehabilitated.

Clarett represents perhaps the quickest fall from grace in football history.

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Playing Nice

    Sports….uhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggggg. Am I right? I don’t get it. I know that’s a pretty generic statement, but it’s my reality, and it is insane how much people don’t understand or accept that conceit. It’s something that baffles and confuses sports fans to the point of indignant anger. “But its America’s pass time!” “ This only happens every four years!!!” “It’s the super mega championship sports extravaganza festival to which you are contractual obligated to care about!!!!!!!!!!!!! USA. USA. USA. USA.” Barf. My lifelong lacking of national pride aside, I think for most sports fans what’s frustrating is that there’s no real reason why I’m not interested. Some people look at a ball and see a world of possibilities, I see potential embarrassment and exertion. Put a professional display of athleticism in front of me and I will watch diligently, for a few moments. Inevitably though, I will drift away to distant thoughts, occasionally being snapped back by the inordinate amount of screaming and jovial movement of the crowd around me. It’s just how my brain works. I can’t focus on humanities various interactions with a ball.

     This lack of obsession was not loss on my father, who, for all intensive purposes, is an American Football fanatic. His team: The San Francisco 49ers. His god: Joe Montana. Highly despised traitor and disgrace to the game of football: Jerry Rice. Offense: moving to the ever despised and vile rival The Oakland Raiders. I was raised with the simple truth that we were a Niners family and with that came certain expectations. Game day is sacred, burgundy and gold is the greatest color combination known to man, and The Oakland Raiders and all of their fans are horrible people. (I suspect this last credo is a little racial tinged, but I’ll save that gem of social commentary for another post.) Regularly, my birthday was postponed so that we did not have to disrupt playoff season, and one special year I got a birthday / Superbowl party. Every 8 year old girls wildest dreams come true! If you think that’s sad, you should have seen the collective toddler scale tantrum thrown when is was revealed my cousin’s engagement party, planned months in advance, would be on the same day as a playoff game, determined essentially the day before.

     It may seem insane, and it one hundred percent is, but that’s just the way things are in our family. This is also incredibly mild compared to some. If you want to understand real fanaticism look to football (AKA soccer, and yes I am going to be the pretentious American that uses the name literally the entire rest of the world uses.) Being in Chile for the world cup was a next level sporting experience. I grew up going to games, and despite my short attention span for ball maneuvering, there is something very fun about the fury of a game day crowd. I have seen people cheer, scream, fight, and even riot over their team, but I have never experienced the level of emotional investment that Chile showed me during the World Cup. After a win, the streets were filled with songs and insanity, but after a loss I was shocked to find grown men listlessly wandering the streets straight up sobbing. The only time I had ever seen that level of emotion over a game was the last time the Niners lost The Superbowl and I honestly thought I would see my dad cry for the first time in my entire life. It didn’t help that he had installed 7 new TVs for the event and had to witness the crushing defeat from every possible angle.

     I am usually pretty good at comforting people in pain, but I honestly have no idea how to console someone distraught over their team not getting a ball past a line more times than their competitors. It’s just not in my wheel house. Weirdly, this is a pretty large disadvantage, as many humans seem to be of the opposite end of the empathy spectrum when it comes to strategic ball movement. It’s particularly crushing when, as a teacher, I am expected to engage with my students athletically. As you can tell, I don’t like watching sports, but I fucking hate playing almost all of them. I enjoy two sports, swimming and yoga. One of those is not a sport, and both of them involve me alone, cut off from the world, and zero balls. So, when my coworkers came to me and said we were going to put on a two day sports tournament you can imagine my full on ass clenching terror. This is essentially my worst nightmare. For two days I would have to summon the strength to endure HOURS of people bouncing, tossing, and smacking balls for points. Insert epic eye roll. I am a professional however, and I endeavored to complete this task with respect and gratitude.

     So, now that we’ve made it this far, I feel I should talk about the inherent sexism of sports. YAY! The fact is there’s little respect for female athletes and certainly none on par with the reverence men receive. Professional sports industries were created for and are dominated by men. There is not a single women’s professional sports league that comes even close to the level of fame and respect that any male league receives. Its shitty, and sexist, and not really a reason I hate sports, but it certainly doesn’t incline me to give them a little slack. Everyone else might be inclined to let this slide with a slight shrug and a what can we do about it attitude, but to me they’re all buying into the same patriarchal bullshit we’re always fed. I joke a lot about balls and fanaticism, but I need to point out that this is a real sticking point for me. This is the lens through which I view the world and it’s very hard for me to ignore that view just to let go and have fun.

     It was with all of this swirling in the back of my mind, and after nearly a full day of sports overload, that I sat down to watch the girl’s basketball tournament. Or, I should say, the one and only girls basket ball game we were going to get because the boys took too long. So, all the girls teams were combined into two that would face off for the revered title of champion. (smile and nod at the totally logical lack for respect for female athletes.) So ok, Basketball! Woooo. With the basket, and the ball, and dribbling and …free throwing? I have no idea how this game works, but I didn’t know how American football worked for the first ten years of my life and I still managed to enjoy going to games. How hard could this be?

     Very. Fucking. Hard. See, basketball is not really considered a girl’s sport here. It’s very popular but primarily as a pass time for boys. They take it very seriously, and are very good at it. Girls, on the other hand, rarely ever play, and that was the case for every single one of our female learners on the court, save one. A tomboy. Or trans man as we would say in the states. She (preferred pronoun) was amazing. ( I assume, she was amazing because she is male presenting and her outward masculinity gave her access to the boys club and thus the court. Fascinating, but this post is about me and my unyielding judgement of the world. So, I’ll  leave my conjectures on trans culture for another day.) One awesome athlete, however, does not distract from the spectacle of a bunch of girls trying their best, but inevitably being really bad at basketball.

     While the boys were playing there was a seriousness in the room, and apt attention was payed to every play. Once the girls took the court, however, the room was filled with waves hyena like cackles and insult tossing. To be clear, majority of the players were absolutely terrible at basketball, and I understand how that can be funny. I was left with this nagging feeling though that it wasn’t just that the girls didn’t know how to pass a ball well, or dribble properly. Rather, I felt that the sight of females on a court was such an absurdity that it could never be taken seriously. I know I am probably projecting a lot of my world view on all of this, but I guess that’s my trigger. I know that the boys were laughed at for every one of their sports blunders, and while that should ease my tension I think it only adds to it. Why is failure so funny? Why do we need to acknowledge that failure so intensely, and with mockery? And knowing that girls are never really afforded the opportunity, let alone encouraged to play basketball, why do we find it acceptable to mock their every blunder with such gusto? It’s maddening to me and it left me so angry I was ready to grab the ball and punt it out of the gym, despite years of blunders and embarrassment that proved I would never be able to complete such a task. So, I seethed. For 20 minutes I just tried to let it go, and I think that’s the hardest part of working in another culture. Letting it the fuck go. On a daily basis I have to tell myself, “Not my culture, not my call.” It’s so difficult sometimes to set aside what you truly believe are injustices and accept the world your in not as flawed and broken, but different and evolving.  

    At around minute 15, my fist were clenched in fury and I was moments away from grabbing the mic and making a teenage movie level declarative speech about inclusiveness and accepting one another, but with more screaming. Despite my rage lens though, I came to realize that while they never get to play elsewhere, and they may not be as revered as the boys for their efforts, my school was giving these girls an opportunity to throw a ball at a hoop. Also, this was a qualifying game and the winners would move on to throw that ball at another hoop, in a district tournament. That there were two trans students on the court and no one questioned or mocked their involvement and cheered just as loudly for their achievements as the rest. Most importantly, maybe I was being a bit of a judgy bitch. Everyone around me was having a blast and captain downer over here, sitting alone carefully outlining her verbal assault, was probably overreacting. Or maybe I’m right and the world sucks and people are terrible. It’s a toss up really.

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Missy Franklin had just announced her retirement, hastened by chronic shoulder pain, in a letter published on ESPN's website once the very first mournful e mails arrived in my inbox. People expressed surprise which among swimming's smartest lights could render the game at"only" 23. This kind of opinion, however well intentioned, underscores a lamentable by product of this professionalization of all Olympic sports. No more do we grant our celebrities that a graceful exit.

Franklin left the game more exquisitely than many, along with five Olympic gold medals, the environment record from the 200-meter backstroke and a sterling perspective. As the tributes poured in, a number sounding unnecessarily like eulogies indicating a great competitor's departure, Franklin sagely wrote,"I decide to check at this a new start "

Good for her. Franklin always appeared to have her size 1 3 feet firmly planted on the bottom. After three years of health woes which may have squeezed anybody's fire in to pulp, Franklin used her farewell address to discuss the inherent rewards she reaped from swimming: the lifelong friends, the more lasting memories, the lessons in leadership, sportsmanship, goal-setting, time management, perseverance and humility.

Franklin ensured her legacy when she won five medals, including four gold, at the 2012 Olympics in London.

Franklin made super-stardom seem simple, even as she hurried at a 200-meter freestyle and a 100-meter backstroke 14 minutes apart at the London Olympics. However, that kind of fame and excellences comes at a high price.

Franklin, a selfdescribed pleaser, opened up after the 2016 Olympics regarding her struggles with anxiety, sadness memory foam mattress box spring and disordered eating -- even conditions which were potentially inevitable for some one wired not to forgive people as she listened with fans, swimming and patrons officials pining to the return of their indestructible"Missy that the Missile."

In the winter of 2016, over dinner at suburban Denver, where she grew up, Franklin explained in a chance encounter over christmas. While searching for her daddy, she awakened to the parent of a young woman she used to race against. She stopped to say hello and the person told Franklin that everyone else was rooting for her. Knowing that she had slowed down somewhat, '' he added they were all praying that she would return to shape in time to the 2016 Olympics. Franklin recalled thinking,"Was meant to be a compliment?"

She laughed, but at that time the purchase price tag on being America's chlorine queen looked exorbitant. Her farewell letter provided proof that as much openly yearned for Franklin to reclaim her past glory, she had been continuing to rise in ways which no time frame system could quantify.

If Franklin had been a teenager in the 1950s or 1960s, her career could have been after her five-medal first Olympics, and, for example Donna de Varona, she probably would have transitioned from the pool to the broadcasting booth.

If Franklin had been a teen in the 1970s, she probably would have been done with swimminglike Tracy Caulkins, while she was in college.

[learn about Missy Franklin's coming in the Cal campus at 2013.]

Advancements in equipment, training, and nutrition along with an influx of cash for its elite few -- have helped prolong athletic careers, but the Olympians who compete into their 30s should not be considered the norm. Perhaps particularly if they are early bloomers such as Franklin, that was 5 feet 11 inches, at 1-3, when she became one of the youngest participants at the 2008 Olympic trials.

The deterioration of competing in a higher degree necessarily takes its own toll free. All of the so if you're a international brand ambassador currently being tugged at like the past cashmere sweater in a sale heap -- since Franklin was in the lead-up to the 2016 Olympics.

Rather than ruing Franklin's departure from the game, her legions of fans should appreciate how long she stuck around. Every athlete, however wondrous, includes a shelflife. If tendinitis in her shoulders hadn't attracted her to the ending, another thing would have -- psychological disturbances or maybe appearing new interests.

Franklin, who is engaged to become wed, said she had been looking forward to becoming a mum, and would like to be able to fully engage with her prospective children without being confined by physical pain. The only reason to mourn Franklin's retirement would be if the curtain was falling on her very best act, but Franklin sounded as when she got what she wanted from swimming to keep on her personal and professional evolution.

"I was able to stay true to that I had been," she said in her letter,"up to failure and disappointment as I had in winning and being the finest on the planet ."