Don't Hate the Player...Hate the Game(23)

Silence echoed back at me, but I slowly began to feel lighter—like peace was chasing away the heavy feeling. I cocked my head and grinned up at the ceiling. “Thanks man.”

I then hurried out of my bedroom and pounded down the stairs. After giving Mom a final kiss and hug, I hopped in my Jeep and headed to the funeral home. Instead the of the mini-panic attack I braced myself for when I pulled into Whitfield’s, a sense of calm washed over me and stayed with me through the next two hours before it was time to start to the church for the funeral.

Even though Jake had been cremated, his parents had selected eight guys to be honorary pallbearers. It ended up being Alex, me, Bubba-Sean and Ryan, and several of the football players. We each had a blood red rose on our lapels. We rode in a separate car behind his parents and brothers. As we got ready to pull into the church, I had never seen such a crowd. Cars were even parked along the highway. I shuddered at the thoughts of all those people—all those people I’d have to sing in front of. But more than anything, it was all those people I had to try to keep a hold of myself in front of.

The car pulled in the front of the parking lot, and we all hopped out. The funeral director started lining up the family members, and then he positioned us in front. I drew in a deep breath as he threw open the double doors.

The sound of everyone rising to their feet rumbled through the church like distant thunder signaling a storm on the horizon. As we moved towards the opened door, the aisle to the church altar stretched out endlessly before me. Jake’s urn sat on a pedestal at the top of the altar. It was bathed in multicolored light from the stained glass windows and surrounded by baskets of flowers. I could practically hear Jake’s voice in my ear. “Damn, makes me look kinda fruity, don’t ya think?”

Pastor Dan started in first—somber-faced and outfitted in his black mourning robe. The pallbearers were to go next. From all the way outside, I could hear the weeping. That same weeping had remained a constant ringing in my ears for the last forty-eight hours. It closed in around me, shrouding me in darkness.

I just wanted out.

I wanted to turn and run just like I had that day in the counselor’s suite. I was under water again—fighting to reach the surface, fighting for air, and most importantly, fighting for life.

A hand on my shoulder jolted me out of my thoughts. It was one of the funeral directors. “It’s time, son,” he whispered.

I nodded but putting one foot in front of the harder turned to be harder than I thought. Alex, who was walking beside me, gave me a little tug on my suit sleeve. Finally, I was able to lift my feet and start the march down the aisle.

The first pew on the left was reserved for us. The funeral director moved the red velvet rope blocking it off the same way a bouncer would at a club. Jake’s parents, brothers, grandparents, and slew of aunts, uncles, and cousins would be sitting on the right side.

Once all the family had filed into the church, Pastor Dan motioned for everyone to be seated. He gazed into the crowd and cleared his throat. “It is with heavy hearts that we come together today to say farewell to Jacob Anthony Nelson. Jake is survived by his father, Martin, who always supported him on the sidelines of sports and life.”

“Asshole,” I muttered under my breath.

Alex shot me a look.

“His loving mother, Evelyn, who…” I tuned out as the nerves overcame me. After the opening introductions and prayer, I was up. A sickening knot twisted in my stomach. I wasn’t ready for my first real performance to be in front of almost a thousand grief-stricken mourners. I tried to remember my mom’s reassuring words, but in the end, it didn’t help.

“Now, I’d like to ask our associate pastor to lead us in prayer. Let’s all bow our heads.”

I lowered my head, but it was a sham. I twirled my guitar pick anxiously between my fingers. I must have been pretty jerky because Alex leaned over and put his hand over mine. I didn’t realize I was practically bouncing the entire bench.

“Amen,” echoed throughout the church, and I jerked my head up.

“And now Jake’s best friend, Noah Sullivan, is going to sing Jake’s favorite song,” Pastor Dan said.

I practically bolted up from the bench—overcome with nervous energy. A hush came over the mourners as I strode across the pulpit. For once the cacophony of sniffling and sobbing ceased, and the sound of my shoes tapping along the floorboards echoed off the walls. Easing down in the chair, I propped the guitar on my thigh and adjusted the microphone. I drew in a ragged breath—trying to fill my lungs and steady my already out of control nerves. The irony that I was singing a song by a band who had lost members in a fiery plane crash wasn’t lost on me.

As I strummed the opening chords, I could almost see Jake in my mind—lighter in hand and a wide grin on his face. “FREE BIRD!” his voice screamed in my mind.

I pinched my eyes shut—fighting back the tears. I willed myself to focus on the chords—they were the only things keeping the melody and my sanity in check.

“If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?” I sang. While the words flowed out of my mouth, I detached from the crowd and even myself. I wasn’t singing in front of a mass audience. I was somewhere else like in a weird out of body experience. It was truly freeing, and it was the only way I think I would have ever gotten through that song.

After I finished, the last chord still echoed off the walls. It was kinda an awkward moment because I don’t think people knew what to do. Should they applaud? Wouldn’t that be disrespectful? In the end, I just eased the guitar back onto the holder at the edge of the pulpit and went back to my seat. Alex gave me a reassuring smile and thumbs up sign. I mouthed a quick thanks.