Blinded

He sits alone in the small apartment, blind now, the room silent except for the hum of the old TV. The screen is useless—just a flicker of light he can’t see—but his headphones are on, the stadium alive in sound. Every cheer, every whistle, every crash of bodies on the field vibrates through him like it’s happening inside his chest.

His jersey clings to his skin. He can feel the threads, the familiar weight, and it anchors him. Blindness has stolen sight, but it cannot steal memory, cannot steal devotion. He can hear the quarterback calling signals, the running back pounding through defenders, and he sees it in his mind’s eye, sharper than any real view.

The apartment is empty. His mother’s cough echoes in his memory, his girlfriend’s voice on the phone, warning him to rest, to eat. But none of it can pull him from the game. This is his sanctuary. This is where he still exists as himself, where the world makes sense.

At moments, he shivers with grief. The weight of his blindness, the pregnancy, his mother’s sickness, the career that slipped away… it all hits at once. Yet he does not move. He cannot afford to move. He clings to the game like a lifeline, because in it, he is still alive. In it, he is still seen.

Hours pass. Friends used to come by for games, but now the apartment is silent. He talks to himself, calling plays, predicting passes, celebrating imaginary touchdowns alone. And somewhere in that solitude, a quiet truth emerges: he can be blind, he can be burdened, but he can still be faithful. Not just to football, but to himself, to life, to the heartbeats that depend on him.

The game ends, the crowd fades, but he sits still for a long moment. No tears, just the echo of the stadium in his soul. He whispers softly, to nobody in particular: I’m still here. I can still fight. I can still love.

And in the emptiness, it feels like the world, for just a moment, listens.