Taking responsibility – part 2
Smart men understand why they get sacked twice
– anon
The doc looked up as Brendan Fevola walked into the office and sighed, collapsing exhaustedly on the chaise. The doc could smell alcohol and fear. ‘What took you so long,’ the doc said. ‘I’ve been waiting for two months.’
‘I voluntarily withdrew from life,’ Fevola said.
The doc smiled. Rehab is brutal, always leaving an impression on its decadents, one that lasts longer than a few months. ‘You’ve been in the news too much, getting arrested, going into rehab and getting sacked. I’m sure you’ve already been analysed by minds greater than mine, so what do you want?’
Fevola sighed. ‘I’m sad,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost everything in less than two years. I got sacked from Carlton, started gambling and drinking, lost my mobile phone. Then Alex walked out on me, taking my girls. I got arrested on New Year’s Eve and got sacked a few days ago.’
‘Sounds like a country and western song,’ the doc said.
Fevola looked up, unsure if the doc was making a joke. Remaining impassive, the doc stared back. Fevola ran his hands through his black hair. ‘Don’t give me any of that crap about having a destructive personality, I already knew that, and now I just feel sad.’
The doc took a breath. ‘The two are linked Brendan, but you already know that too, right.’
Fevola stared at the floor.
‘When you came to see me after getting sacked by Carlton, you talked about injustice, how you felt set up by The Footy Show, who empowered you to drink and conduct colour interviews during the Brownlow Medal count. You said you felt victimised because you did what they wanted and it got you sacked.’
‘I did what they wanted,’ Fevola said. ‘Just colour interviews.’
‘You were blind drunk.’
‘I still did what they wanted.’
‘Some of the footage wasn’t acceptable for family television. You followed a female journalist into the toilet. Only two people, you and her, know what happened.’
‘Nothing happend,’ Fevola said.
‘If it was nothing how did it end up in the media?’
The full-forward shrugged, head shaking slowly, looking defeated. ‘The media have always had it in for me.’
‘An alleged assault against a female journalist tends to rouse the interest of her colleagues.’
‘Lots of footballers do things worse than me and get away with it.’
‘Sure,’ the doc said. ‘I guess they all do worse things than assaulting a barman in Ireland or pissing on a restaurant window in Richmond.’ The doc leant forward. ‘I’m sure they all cheat on their wives and take a nude photo of their mistress, and that phone accidentally gets stolen. I’m sure they all hit on female journalists and get arrested on New Year’s Eve.’
‘Some of them do worse things.’
‘People in society do worse things too,’ the doc said. ‘But you’ve compared yourself to footballers, so we’ll keep that comparison going. Many footballers cheat on their wives, I’m not arguing with you on that one. A lot of them are charged with drinking and driving or get arrested for public drunkenness. Others, like Darryn Creswell, go to jail for fraud.’
‘I didn’t go to jail,’ Fevola said, indignant.
‘It hardly matters,’ the doc said, ignoring Fevola’s glare, his rising anger. ‘You’re footballers. It doesn’t make you smarter than anyone else, or better.’
‘What happened to me has happened to thousands of people.’
‘True, but thousands of people aren’t on a two million dollar contract to play football. If you asked a man in his mid-twenties if he could stay sober for 750-grand a year, he’d say yes. That’s the kind of money you were on, and you claim to feel victimised for doing what The Footy Show wanted.’
Fevola nodded. ‘That’s right.’ He pointed at the doc. ‘A bloke in front of a camera conducting interviews, just what they wanted.’
‘You did what they wanted,’ the doc said. ‘And it got you sacked. I recall all those other incidents, punching on in Ireland, poor body language on the field, urinating in public, the gambling addiction, cheating, and getting arrested.’
Fevola shut his eyes, covered them with his right forearm. He looked out of shape, face ashen, needing a shave.
‘Was all of that what they wanted? Or was it what you wanted?’
Heaving a breath, Fevola didn’t answer.
‘Was sacking you what they wanted?’ The doc scribbled some notes, watching Fevola’s chest rise and fall, his teeth clenched, fists formed. His patient was a big man capable of aggression. The doc didn’t care.
‘You were given multiple chances at Carlton, with the only proof of your worth being your ability to win games. I remember watching you kick some terrific goals, but what did you ever do off the field to create a legacy?’
‘It is what I can do on the field I care about, and I believe I can still do it.’
‘Not anymore,’ the doc said. ‘Not this year.’
Shaking his head, Fevola sat up, wiped his eyes and looked at the doc. ‘I can’t believe Brisbane sacked me,’ he said. ‘I’m sad and depressed and need to play football.’
The doc rubbed his fat chin and frowned. ‘You don’t understand the reasons you’ve been sacked again, do you.’
Sighing, Fevola looked out the window, getting no joy from flowers he saw. If he’d been looking at a nude model he would’ve felt the same. ‘You said my teammates couldn’t trust me anymore.’
‘It was a complete betrayal of trust,’ the doc said. ‘You were given clear behavioural guidelines at both clubs and you weren’t able to uphold them.’
‘By being a bloke,’ Fevola said, laughing bitterly. ‘I’m a larrikin.’
‘Not in the true sense.’ The doc shook his head gravely. ‘Earlier you said the media picked on you.’
Nodding, Fevola held his hands like a camera. ‘They were following me, taking pictures and asking me questions.’
The doc smiled. ‘That’s what the media do. They have vast responsibility and many shy away from sensationalism but others thrive on it. What you did was provide fodder for gutter journalism, and that fodder was devoured by more respected journalists. Staying away from sensationalism was your commission. Your club didn’t want you analysed by the veteran scribes, and you couldn’t do it, which is why you got sacked.’
‘They should never have treated a match winner like that,’ Fevola said. ‘I was one of the best players at Carlton and Brisbane.’
‘You were part of a team, just one man in twenty.’
Fevola crossed his arms and sighed.
‘We can’t move on from this until you understand your past behaviour.’ The doc looked at Fevola, who sat silent with arms crossed. ‘You need to admit your failed responsibility to the team, and only then can you accept responsibility for being sacked.’
‘I’m one of the best players,’ Fevola said. ‘And I’m sad, so I need to play football. It has to be part of my therapy.’
‘I would be sad too,’ the doc said. ‘But you don’t deserve to play football. No one owes you an opportunity. Your wife is gone, your career too. Your captain at Brisbane, Jonathon Brown, said you had lost the respect of all your teammates. That’s a harsh assessment and proof of how far your relationship regressed.’
‘But I’m one of the best players,’ Fevola said. ‘I don’t need to be respected off the field. What I do on the field should be enough.’
‘Your exploits on and off the field are juxtaposed.’ The doc suppressed a laugh at Fevola’s vacant expression. ‘Juxtaposed means placed close together, for comparison, if you like.’ He pressed on when it was clear Fevola didn’t understand. ‘Footballers like you attract publicity for exploits on the field and for having sex with a model or getting drunk off the field.’
Fevola shook his head, though he finally understood. ‘They’re not identical. As long as I played well no one should care what happens off the field.’
‘Not you, obviously,’ the doc said. ‘You never did quite get it, and there are plenty of enjoyable things to do that don’t bring unnecessary publicity to your club, or deliver the game into crisis. Your life has been a simultaneous equation for a long time. Given your penchant to drink, cheat and gamble is the same as your ability to kick goals, you needed to be mature enough to ask for help long before you did. You did not have the mental strength to seek help before getting arrested. We’ve talked about this, it’s basic stuff because all footballers suffer in different ways, as do people in society. The smart ones ask for assistance at the first sign of weakness.’
‘I asked for help and I got it.’
‘Asking for help after getting arrested again is not asking for help at the right time.’
‘It shouldn’t matter when I recognised it.’
‘Then it is an absolute waste of time that you’re here,’ the doc said, looking at the white patch of skin on his finger where the wedding ring recently sat. The skin would tan in a week or so, and the reminder of a failed marriage would be gone.
‘I’m here because I got sacked again.’
‘I could see it happening,’ the doc said. ‘And I wondered what took you so long to get here.’
‘I told you, rehab held me up,’ Fevola said. ‘No amount of self analysis can stop the hurt at being sacked again. I’m one of the best players in the AFL.’
‘This is not about your ability on the field,’ the doc wrote a word, denial, on the pad.
‘All I want to do is play football.’
‘You need to mend yourself first before you even go for a run. You have lost more than football, as I’ve already said. Your career, your wife and family, respect from the industry and your peers. Everything you had is ruined inside two years because you didn’t know how to behave yourself.’
Fevola put his head in his hands. ‘Every day people lie, cheat, steal, commit fraud or run red lights. If they’re busted no one ever hears about it. I’m a footballer so the media want to know everything I do.’ He took a deep breath, smirked ruefully and lay down.
‘It’s lucky you’re not involved with that 17-year old girl,’ the doc said.
Looking sideways, Fevola laughed ruefully, ending the pitiful sound with a sigh. ‘Is Ricky Nixon the dumbest man in the world,’ he said.
Laughing, the doc stared at Fevola. ‘I’m not sure. I know a few solid candidates.’
‘I’m not dumb,’ Fevola said, sitting up. ‘Not dumb like people say,’ he yelled. ‘I’m a good footballer and I want respect.’
‘You truly don’t get it, do you,’ the doc said, head shaking a few times.
‘I have kicked 623 goals,’ Fevola said, voice still loud. ‘Only 25 men in the history of the game have kicked more goals than I have. If I kick 11 more goals I’ll move up three places. Now that’s not a bad performance. I’m a legend of the game.”
‘Is that right,’ the doc said. ‘You just mentioned 25 footballers who kicked more goals than you did.’
‘Out of all the people who have played the game I’ve done well.’
‘Of the men listed above you, how many played in a premiership?’
‘Dunno,’ Fevola said.
‘I didn’t think you would, so allow me to enlighten you. Of the game’s 25 highest goal kickers, 14 have played in a premiership. That’s not a bad percentage, but it is proof that being a great goal kicker is mostly an individual achievement. You must understand that kicking goals does not guarantee team success.’
Fevola sighed. ‘I know that.’
‘So, given you have never played in a premiership, tell me how you truly define your career.’
‘I’m one of the best players in the AFL.’
‘So you say, and that is based on the number of goals you have kicked.’
‘That’s right, and I still believe I’m one of the best.’
‘As you wish,’ the doc said. ‘I’m sure some people might believe that, but there are many who don’t care about your ability anymore.’
Silence settled over the room, the only sounds two men breathing, one deep in thought, the other trying to find thoughts. ‘I didn’t think it would be so bad,’ Fevola finally said. ‘Getting arrested for being drunk shouldn’t lead to this.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘I was sad and didn’t want to go home.’
‘Sadness afflicts a lot of people, Brendon, but the vast majority of them aren’t silly enough to get arrested on New Year’s Eve, a night where every policeman is on duty. You were drunk and argumentative.’
‘I don’t think I should’ve been arrested,’ the stricken man said. ‘Not for drinking.’
The doc wanted to slap the desk, to yell, maybe use violence to shatter the bull-headed bluster he was dealing with. Instead, he took a deep breath and asked a question. ‘Were you out to seek publicity for yourself?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ The doc chewed his bottom lip, took a sharp breath and leaned forward. ‘Why did you go back out on New Year’s Eve after being chaperoned home?’
‘I wasn’t ready to go to sleep.’
‘You weren’t ready to let go of the adulation.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s not that you weren’t tired, it’s that you wanted to be out in public, craving attention after all that had happened to you in the past twelve months, men or women, it didn’t matter. Despite the loss of your wife, your miserable season and issues overseas, you wanted to be seen in public, to be recognised as one of the modern greats. It didn’t matter if you played the clown or flirted with chicks. You were drunk, and your sadness was enhanced by booze and you lusted for attention.’
‘That’s not how it happened,’ Fevola said, teeth clenched, shrugging.
‘How would you have it?’ The doc finally noticed the words on Fevola’s t-shirt, what happens?
‘Nothing ever happens like the media says it does, or how you say it does. Things have happened in my life that isn’t even close to what the media says, or what I’ve told you.’
‘Sure,’ the doc said. ‘The media disregards reality, and those things that happened on Brownlow night, or a few days ago when you got sacked were taken out of context.’
Fevola shook his head, looked briefly at his fingernails then at the doc. ‘Imagine having the media camped outside your house, watching what you do, what you eat, trying to see how you feel, how your wife feels and taking photos of your kids.’
‘You can’t blame the media for preying upon you. Look at your behaviour over the past ten years. You’ve given them vast amounts of scandal.’
‘It got so bad I could make the news for spitting on the footpath. I couldn’t do anything without the cameras on me. It’s hard to act natural with someone following you around wanting to get a photo.’
‘You were great for selling newspapers,’ the doc said, ‘by acting natural, and getting pissed, distributing nude photographs and getting arrested. That is all the journalists cared about.’
‘They didn’t need to make me feel like an outcast.’
‘Brendan, please, it wasn’t the media that made you feel like an outcast.’ The doc, surprised at the pain in his aching right hand, rubbed the desk where he’d just hit it, as though wiping away the pain. His palm stung. ‘It wasn’t anything you did on the field that led to your sacking from two clubs,’ he said, trying to lower his voice. ‘It was what you did outside football, damn it. Why can’t you see that?’
‘I was having fun, just drinking like anyone else.’
‘I get arrested for fun too,’ the doc said. ‘I do it all the time. Sometimes I walk right up to a cop and slap him on the face or knee him in the balls.’
The sacked full-forward closed his eyes, his body seeming to slump into the lounge. ‘I want to play football.’
‘Footballers never want to quit.’ The doc closed his eyes a moment, taking a slow breath, wondering the last time he yelled at a patient. ‘What did you say to the board a few days ago?’
‘Don’t sack me.’
‘It wasn’t good enough.’ The doc could feel the onset of a headache, a bad one at the base of his skull. Argument had raged for days across the country, on radio, television and the internet. Most people wanted Fevola sacked. Some didn’t. The doc didn’t care about public opinion, because he figured Fevola really understood why he’d been sacked, he just refused to admit responsibility.
‘I didn’t want to get sacked. I’m shattered.’
The doc shook his head. ‘Brendan, we’ve talked about responsibility and honesty, how to use truth to your advantage. What you’ve done over the eighteen months is forget all we’ve talked about. You let your destructive personality split the teams you played for. That was not to your advantage or your clubs advantage.’
Fevola looked at the doc and smiled without humour. ‘I wasn’t craving attention on New Year’s Eve. I just wanted to have fun because I felt sad.’ He pointed a finger at the doc. ‘You just treat depressed people. It doesn’t mean you know how they feel.’
The doc shook his head, ignoring the jibe. ‘Craving attention is a natural human reaction, particularly for some depressed people. While a lot of people with a mental illness seek solitude, others crave company.’
‘No one deserves to get arrested for having fun.’
‘Police don’t arrest people for having fun.’ The doc sighed. ‘I don’t want to explain the machinations of arrest. It is quite simple. I need to know why you were arrested and I believe one of two things happened. You were craving attention or you can’t resist your compulsive personality. Now that I think about it, they’re juxtaposed.’
Fevola stayed silent.
‘Why didn’t you stay home on New Year’s Eve? Why did you have to go back out? Why did your wife leave you? Why did Carlton sack you? The question is always why, Brendan, and I’m always asking why without getting answers.
Fevola didn’t say anything.
‘I’m thinking, deep down, you’re craving controversy, and you also exhibit traits of self destruction.’
‘Garbage,’ Fevola said. ‘I’m a legend of the game. Legends don’t self destruct on purpose.’
‘Nobody does,’ the doc said, leaning forward. ‘Think about it. Twice you were sacked for being drunk and disorderly. In getting sacked you lost the respect of your teammates, coach and the board. When you were repeatedly warned by those close to you, including your wife, you continually ignored that advice. That is self destructive behaviour.’
Fevola stared at the doc.
‘Even when begged not to misbehave and to treat life rather than football seriously, you stuffed it up. I know you’re depressed, but you’re a patient now, another depressed man of society, a footballer no longer, so don’t expect to be treated as such.’
Standing up, Fevola pointed at the doc. ‘This is getting us nowhere. It’s all garbage. I’m not self destructive, I’m sad, and I am a footballer, one of the best full-forwards in the modern era.’
‘Brendan, there is a pattern here. Your troubles are compulsive, they have been for years and only now, in complete humiliation, are you defeated. Can’t you see it? You’re not upset because your legacy is ruined or your wife is lost, you’re upset because you can’t play football anymore.’
Fevola glared at the doc.’
‘No one is accusing you of poor performance on the field. They’re accusing you of ignoring every value kids ever learn, betraying their trust, as your destructive behaviour commanded headlines. Brisbane was the focus for all the wrong reasons, you too, and people ran out of sympathy for you. You were sacked twice for disrupting the team, and because no one trusts you anymore.’
‘You know what,’ Fevola said, pacing back and forth. He shrugged. ‘I’ve listened to your sermon. Now you need to help me. Tell me what to do.’
‘I already have. You must help yourself. Forget about football. Focus on yourself, not like a sad man focuses on attention, but as a member of society, a father with a problem. You must not drink or gamble. You must maintain fitness and be the best father you can. Seek wisdom from true friends and family. Analyse what you do every day and try to be a better person.’
Fevola sat and sighed, head in his hands. ‘What about football?’
The doc smiled. ‘You’re going to be paid out. Take the money and enjoy it. A few weeks after the football season, the media won’t be camped at your house looking for a photo or a statement. You can use the solitude to regain your health, and in a few months you might find the media writing about a possible comeback or a fairytale draft selection. If you can put all this behind you and emerge stronger the media will love you.’
Fevola smiled. ‘I just want to play football.’
‘Exactly,’ the doc said. ‘You’re only 31, and you’re a former star. It’s a good space to be in and that’s what you’ve got to focus on. There are thousands of men who never played one game of AFL football and more who never will. Don’t focus on the past. It’s got to be the future.’
‘I think I have a future,’ Fevola said.
‘There will be 18 teams next year. One of them is going to need a proven full-forward. A club president will offer you money to play, but you’ve got to use this year to prove to everyone you can stay off the booze, out of the TAB and away from cops and models.’
Standing up, Fevola walked to the doc, who also stood up. ‘That’ll be easy,’ he said. ‘I’m serious about playing football again.’ They shook hands. Fevola nodded and smiled. ‘I’m glad I saw you today,’ he said, heading to the door.
‘One more thing,’ the doc said as Fevola put his hand on the doorknob. ‘Don’t get upset when journalists highlight the fact you’ve been sacked by two clubs, or write about your scandals instead of your goals.’
Fevola turned to the doc, puzzled for a moment, then breaking into a smile. ‘I’m a legend of the game,’ he said.
‘More than most,’ the doc said, smiling too. ‘All that stuff is in the past. You’re about the future, and there is redemption in sport. It happens every year. They say a great old champion always has one last great performance. Yours might be next year.’
‘I don’t care what the journalists say. I’m a great footballer. Staying out of trouble will be easy, because I really want to play again.’
‘So go and be a legend, but you must be a legend in your own home first,’ the doc said. ‘Only by kicking goals at home will you kick goals on the field.’
‘Kicking goals at home,’ Fevola said, opening the door. ‘One week at a time.’
The door closed. The doc sighed, wondering how long it’d be before Fevola was back. Football was brutal. It breaks some people, just like life does. Strong performances on the field are often a front to weakness. Fevola needed to behave to have any chance of playing AFL football again. The doc thought he might struggle. He slumped in the chair.
‘I hope the Lions or Carlton don’t make the finals,’ he said. ‘Christ I hope he stays away from that seventeen year old.’
