Gee, I hadn't: Rehab
By Gee Kane
February 21, 2008
A lot of ink – well, not ink, but words -- were wasted on this site two weeks ago when one of my mother’s daughter-in-laws complained about being married to a sports addict. The article was so compelling that an intervention followed resulting with me agreeing to enter rehab --sports rehab. I decided to chronicle my rehabilitation and journey to sports sobriety.
Who knew that there was such a thing, but sure enough there is a complex 20 minutes west of Myrtle Beach that has served as a sports rehabilitation facility for 30 years to movie stars, famous athletes, sports writers as well as anyone who has the money to pay for the treatment and the desire to get better.
The intervention performed by my family and friends happened last Thursday night, Valentine’s Day, after I spent the night insisting on watching every second of the Butler-Youngstown State basketball game instead of taking my wife out for a Valentine’s Day dinner. My family and friends sat me down and proposed that they would send me away for the 30-day in-patient treatment program if I would agree to go. As the weekend sports calendar raced between my ears, the sweat beads began streaming down my forehead.
My first sports sober weekend would be like kicking that good raw Prop Joe heroin. Going cold turkey would mean missing out on a lot of quality sports over the holiday weekend. A Georgetown-Syracuse noon tip-off on Saturday, which was circled on our family calendar six months ago. A Taylor-Pavlick rematch of one of my favorite fights of the past 10 years that was scheduled for Saturday night at the MGM. The NBA Slam Dunk contest. The three-point contest. The Rookie-Sophomore challenge. Holy Cross on the Deuce Saturday night, not to mention a full slate of very important college basketball games.
I began to doubt already that this rehabilitation attempt was going to end well. Phil Mickelson fighting all weekend long for his first win in Los Angeles at the historic Rivera golf course. I would also miss rooting for my Tee’s Weekly fantasy golf pick, Big John Daly, in the same tournament. The NBA All-Star game. Not to mention a Georgetown-Providence game with a special 4 p.m. President’s Day tip. No, no, no.
I begged, pleaded and eventually broke down and wept. They told me I had to go. I finally relented and said I would go and get well.
I started to panic on the way to the airport. What about the fact that I’m going to be in Myrtle Beach and won’t be able to bring my golf clubs? No pick-up basketball on President’s Day. No PlayStation online FIFA leagues. You know what, guys? I think I’ll first try to get better on my own and see how it goes. Gee, get in the car, they said.
After a long trip I finally arrived at the facility with my wife on Friday night after avoiding sports in the airport bars in Baltimore, Atlanta, and Myrtle Beach. I spent my time at the gate just quietly reading a GQ article about how our world’s temperature rise is affecting animal predatory behaviors and wondering how it had all come to this.
But as I was dazing out at the tarmac in Atlanta, a city not overly passionate about sports, I thought to myself, do you know what is really wonderful about spending a weekend without access to any sports or television? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
After registering at the front desk of the converted bed and breakfast, I checked into my room. I lasted in the facility for exactly 12 hours and five minutes. It started when a counselor the patients had nicknamed “Bacon neck” found me attempting to get updates on the Hoyas game on my phone. I received a text before they confiscated my phone, informing me that Georgetown was down 20 points but had roared back to cut the lead to five.
I snuck out the bathroom window and ran as fast as I could to the nearest bar to try to catch the last five minutes. I stumbled quickly upon a rustic dive bar. Huffing and puffing, I sprinted in to belly up to the rail. I asked for a Jameson’s on the rocks and for ESPN on the TV above the register. The bartender was young, big blond and could easily be responsible for one of the industrial sized bras slung over the wood beams on the ceiling.
She replied after looking over her shoulder at the row of liquor bottles, “We don’t have Jameson’s. We don’t have any Irish whiskey.” Said it just like that. In this day and age. Then she sassed, “We’re showing the ’79 Daytona 500.” She stared at me waiting for a response, “where Petty won on the last lap.”
I stared back at her like I wanted to eat her face but just didn’t know exactly where to begin chewing flesh. She grumbled, “…and Scooter don’t like it when folks start fiddling with the programming.” I became faint with rage, my knees buckled in slow motion, “Lady, for the love of God will you please…”
The next thing I remember is asking two orderlies if they could loosen the strap on my forehead and ankles. A clock on the wall said it was a little after 8 p.m. and I thought if I could just find another way out I could break into a nearby house and order the Pay-Per-View middleweight fight.
To avoid temptation, the facility has removed all televisions and computers. This means if I didn’t escape, my options for Saturday night entertainment were watching the river outside my room, participating in a “team feelings” exercise, or picking my best 10 golf shots of all time in my head while pretending to read the Bible.
I opted for the team exercise. I thought team meant maybe we would be keeping score somehow. When it was my time to share, I got very choked up and told everyone I was in the facility to avoid prison time for being an unsanctioned blimp pilot competing in “street race.”
No points were given to me or anyone else. Life without a scoreboard seemed utterly void of all meaning. I was asked by the mental health director to “contract for safety” or promise that I wouldn’t hurt myself. But all I wanted to do was hurt myself. They took away all my possessions except for a paper safety gown.
Sunday, I woke up with the cold-hot shakes. I had heard that Selena Roberts was scheduled to be on ESPN’s Sports Reporters that morning. I am her biggest fan in a special kind of way. Two of my bedroom walls are covered in Selena Roberts pictures. My wife gets the other two walls for Mitch Albom. After all, fair is fair.
I’ve been waiting for the Duke collapse for months. There was a chance it was going to start Sunday night at Wake Forest. I didn’t witness it; instead I attended a group session with a former middleweight champion (I can’t give his name because he’s seeking help with the urge to announce he’s coming out of retirement again for the ninth time). While he was sharing his story, I made eye contact with an Irish professional poker player who won a World Series bracelet but ended up losing everything including his ma, his lassie, and his lucky shamrock gold necklace. He told me after the group therapy session that if we left at dawn and swam along the Waccamaw river, we could follow the tracks to a taxi stand to get the next flight out.
Well, with sports addiction like any addiction, relapse is part of the recovery process. The weekend made me realize that I am not ready to cut sports out altogether, but I’m gonna cut back -- you know, stay off the hard stuff. Cut out the D-League, German professional soccer, and resign from my Hooters Golf Tour fantasy league. My family needs to stop crying about my broken promises and realize you can’t help someone who doesn’t want help.