"Are you sure?" my father asked. The question amazed me. After years of saying that I couldn't play football my whole life, this was his response when I told him I was retiring from professional football. "Are you sure? Don't you want to just sit out this year and see what happens next year?"
Well, after an unfulfilling five years as a journeyman defensive back for the Colts, 49ers, Bengals and Redskins, I was sure. I was ready to move on. When the Redskins released me prior to the '95 season, I had no desire to sign with another team. It was officially over.
There's a sports saying that an athlete dies two deaths. The first is when he can no longer compete at an elite level and therefore loses part of his identity. But in my experience, this isn't a kind of death but a bizarre, post-athletic purgatory where former athletes are subject to a well-intentioned inquisition. This consists of hearing the same nagging questions day after day: "Hey, Alan, don't you miss playing?" Or having complete strangers tell me, a bit too eagerly: "You'll never make as much money as you did playing football."
And indeed football provided me with more money than most people make in their first five years out of college. Still, the pushy autograph seekers, the total absence of job security and that annual breaking of one's spirit known as summer training camp had all become tiresome and even humiliating. I was ready to move on to the next stage of my life. But the transition from "sports world" to "real world" has been difficult because my friends, and even my parents, constantly remind me that I was, at one time, something "more" than I am now.
But it's not just friends and family. Recently, I was working out at the local gym when an out-of-shape older man I barely know shouted from the treadmill, "C'mon, you're accustomed to being in the spotlight, you can't possibly be happy now." When I insist that I am happy, no one seems to believe me. My friends still introduce me as someone who used to be a professional football player, never as just Alan. Even my mother treats me as if I am in denial and often tries to coax me into dealing with my "identity problems."
At a recent conference for health and fitness professionals, I found myself in one of those semicircles where everyone has to introduce himself. I described my life as it presently is: My wife, Keir, and I live in Marietta, Ga., where we own and operate Total Package Fitness, a small personal training and fitness business. We have a house, and a Scottish terrier named Ted. My previous professional football career did not seem relevant. But one person who knew my background obviously thought it was. He proceeded to inform the others of my past athletic achievements while I sat there trying not to look embarrassed.
I rarely discuss my football career, not because I'm ashamed, but because it's not always appropriate. While others may prefer to see me dressed in a colorful uniform, performing heroic deeds, I prefer to see myself as an easygoing guy who is trying to get on with his life.
Don't get me wrong--it's not that I don't enjoy talking about sports on occasion. In fact, I want to make my living writing about sports. It's just that I don't want my identity tied exclusively to the fact that I once played pro football.
For me, the opportunity to establish an identity beyond the gridiron is an exciting proposition. So whenever someone reminds me of who I "used to be," I am quick to remind them of who I am now.
Alan Grant, '90, is a personal trainer living in Marietta, Ga.
