Fuck God. I never thought I would think those words let alone say them, I’ve been to church every Sunday since I was 8 years old, but here we are. “Fuck you God” is all I can even think right now. Fuck God for striking down my only son, my boy, in the prime of his life on such a schedule that we need to have the funeral during shit fuck goddamn playoffs!
No words can accurately describe the pain and anguish of losing a child and then having that loss saddle you with an obligation during peak football. It just doesn’t even seem real. This is something that you read about, something that happens to other football fans, not something that happens to you. I simply cannot reconcile the fact that on Sunday I am going to put my son into the ground when I should be watching the Patriots beat the Chiefs.
I keep playing the last time I saw my son over and over again in my mind. He had just gotten his licence, and was all excited to go pick up his girlfriend for the first time. On his way out the door, for whatever reason, he turned back and he looked me in the eye and he said “Dad, I love you.” And maybe it’s just memory playing tricks but I swear, in that moment, I had the most surreal feeling. Somehow right then and there I just knew that the Pats were going to go all the way this year.
They say anger is a stage of grief, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop being angry. I’m angry at God. I’m angry at the rest of my family for deciding that Sunday is the best time everyone can get together. I’m angry at my son for dying. I see no acceptance on the horizon.
All of this over a senseless accident. You know the driver had the nerve to show up to my home and apologize to me? Like that changes anything?! “I’m so sorry” he said, “He just came out of nowhere” he said “I’m a Patriots fan myself!” he said. Actually, pretty cool guy. He volunteered to text me updates for the whole game, which is big of him.