Good-bye.

I’m sad to say that this will be my final blog post. But I couldn’t be happier with the circumstances surrounding it.

Yesterday, I met with the commissioner and the rest of the board of executives. We had a long meeting, about 2 hours, and discussed a lot about my past and future. Obviously, most of the focus was on my anger management and rehabilitation. We even talked a bit about this blog.

In the end, they said that baring any slipups, I am cleared for next season. What’s more, I’ve been given permission to use team facilities and accompany the boys on their away games in the playoffs.

Honestly, I could not be happier right now. All I wanted was a second chance, an opportunity to redeem myself, and now I have it. As I’ve said before, I know there’s reason to doubt me. My past actions have done nothing to show that I have any potential for change. But I’m going to make things right. It’s starts tomorrow, as I begin my offseason workouts a few months early. After that, I’ll come home to pack up my things, and then I head out to Pittsburgh with the team for our first round playoff game.

Oh, I almost forgot. Lost in all the excitement of my meeting is my relationship with Rachel. Date #2 went even better than the first. I’m trying to be as open and honest and positive as I can with this girl. I’m obviously not ready to make any big, overly romantic sweeping gestures after just two dates, but I like how things feel with this girl. And I think she feels the same. I mean, she at least likes me enough to agree to go out with me on New Year’s Eve.

So, this is it. Tomorrow (well, I guess technically tonight) is my fresh start. While this blog has been tremendously helpful in getting me to this point, I feel that now is the time that I should move beyond it. I’ve learned to open up on here, so now I need to be able to open up to those loved ones in my real life. To all of you who have read and commented on this, I want to truly thank you. It meant a lot to see that others were going through similar, trying times and that I was not alone. It’s my hope that you all are able to find a way to get your own fresh starts.

-Blake Sawyer

Maria called...

When I saw her number show up on my screen, I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to think. I had only spoken to her once since she left, and that was in a drunken stupor after I had called her best friend some twenty times begging to speak to her.  That conversation didn’t go too well. Since then, our only means of communication have been through our lawyers as we begin the paperwork for our divorce.

But that isn’t why she called.

She was already crying when I picked up. Apparently, her show was put on “hiatus” after just two episodes aired. Her career as an actress was “over”. She didn’t know what to do, because this was the only project that had shown interest in her. She was scared and alone in a new city. And then she said she missed me.

That was tough to hear. I mean, where does she get off? She left me. She completely abandoned me at the darkest moment in my life, and now I’m supposed to be her shoulder to cry on? No, fuck that.

I told her to pull herself together. There would be other opportunities; one cancelled show doesn’t negate her talent. I also reminded her that she has made a fine career as a model, and since she’s still under 30, that’s still an option for her. I then, as kindly as I could, reminded her that she left me, and that while I was a giant dickhead who probably deserved it, it didn’t mean I was heartbroken. I then calmly told her to send all further questions to my lawyer and hung up.

Look, I don’t want to come off as some “scorned lover”. I think I’ve made it clear in my recent posts that I realize I deserve what happened. But does that mean I have to take her back? I mean, after all she skipped town with no warning. The way I see it, she’s just another connection to the old me that I’m trying to distance myself as far as possible from.

In other news, my date went great. Her name is Rachel, and it turns out she is the head chef at the Japanese restaurant we went to (of course, my buddy didn’t inform me of this). She’s a really cool, down-to-earth girl and we had a great time together. We have our second date tomorrow, and I can’t wait.

Got a date.

Well, if you want to be technical, I have to dates.

The first, and arguably more important, is with the league commissioner. My agent called me with the news a few days ago. Essentially, what I said in my last post was right, and the league wants to talk to me now that I’ve finished my anger management. With only one week left in the regular season, I know it’s a stretch that I get reinstated this year, but this is still a positive step. Who know, maybe they’ll let me back for the playoffs.

The second date that I got was with a woman. It all started when I reached out to my closest friends on the team, and asked them if we could meet up during their bye week. Luckily, I hadn’t completely burned that bridge, and they agreed to come over to my place. After I thanked them for meeting me, I opened the floodgates. I told them everything I’ve been going through, what I’ve been feeling, and how sorry I was for acting as I did. I completely abandoned them, not just as a teammate with my selfish actions, but also as a friend. I told them my intentions of becoming a better leader in the locker room, especially to the younger guys. I could tell they were skeptical, and I can’t blame them for that, but they accepted my apology. We hugged it out, and I’m not ashamed to say I shed a few tears.

Anyway, after we got all the serious talk out of the way, we got right back to shooting the shit like we did before I got suspended. Naturally, my impending divorce was a major topic of discussion. The guys never liked Maria much anyway, and with hindsight being 20-20, I see why. One thing led to another, and next thing I know, I’m being set up on a blind date. We have reservations at a local Japanese fusion restaurant for tomorrow night. It’s been years since I’ve been on a date. I’m shitting my pants.

I guess we’ll see how things go.

Checking in.

Hello all. While I don’t have a ton to say, I figured I would check in especially after I saw your (somewhat weird?) comments.

•      I’m selling my house. It was really unnecessary for me to live in this large of a house by myself, and honestly it was a bit depressing. I’ve already begun moving into my new penthouse in the center of the city. It’s a much smaller place, but it’s a lot closer to the team facilities.
•        Speaking of the team, my agent has informed me that the successful completion of my anger management has perked a few ears at the league office. While this hasn’t been confirmed, he heard this could positively affect my suspension. I’m hoping to schedule a meeting with the commissioner in the coming weeks.
•         Finally, despite my hesitation after my experience with Precious (remember her? Bitch…), I’ve gotten a new pet. Well, pets. My penthouse came with this baller-ass fish tank.

That’s all I got for now. I’ve decided I definitely want to keep up with this blog, it just won’t be as frequent as it was. I hope you keep reading.

Funny story.

So, a funny thing happened to me today.

I woke up around 6 to get an early morning workout in. I’ve been really focusing in on my workouts to get back into playing shape. You never know when the opportunity may arise…

Anyway, I finished up around 9:30 and noticed I had a voicemail from my attorney. And he had good news. Apparently, my three-month anger management sentence ended a week ago (I’m still on probation for another 9 months). What does this mean? I don’t have to keep up with this blog anymore. I guess I should technically change the title.

So… yeah? I don’t know. When this all started, I was (quite obviously) hostile to the idea of keeping a blog and having my personal feelings available for the entire world to read. But now I’ve gotten accustomed to it. I mean, I know that I don’t have the largest readership in the world, but I look forward to writing this stuff for you guys. Fuck, I enjoy writing it down for myself. After all, I feel that personally I’ve made great strides lately and writing it all down helps me keep everything in check.

I really don’t know. Maybe you’ll hear from me again. But maybe you won’t.

Congratulations!

I just wanted to congratulate my teammates on clinching a spot in the playoffs. I’m not going to lie, it hurts my ego to say this, but you guys have been playing incredibly without me. I mean, shit, clinching a playoff berth with four weeks left in the season? Amazing.

Well, that’s it. Just good job and keep it up. I wish I was in there with you boys celebrating…

Raining.

Today it is raining, so my 3 consecutive days of going outside streak appears to be over.

I spent the morning playing around with the functions of Blogger. I’m still not very good at this whole “programming” thing, but I think I’ve managed to do a decent job of making my blog different from anybody else’s that I’ve seen. If anything, at least the colors and font all mesh together now. A lot of people don’t know this about me, but I’m actually quite concerned with aesthetics. I take great care in my appearance wherever I go. I always told people that it was Maria that decorated our house, but in reality I did most of the work. I guess I was always afraid of letting this passion known since it didn’t coincide with my “bad boy” reputation. But who the fuck cares now?

My somewhat self-imposed isolation has forced me to do a lot of thinking lately. Obviously, I was initially only concerned with Maria and why she would leave me. But recently, I have moved past that. Ultimately, I’ve decided, it doesn’t matter. Maybe she was fed up with my shit. Maybe she found someone else in LA. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All I know is that she’s gone and we’re over. So instead of fretting over this (although trust me, I’m still heartbroken), I’ve begun looking inward and I’ve got to say… I’ve been a real douche.

And it’s not just how I acted with Maria, or what I did during my days of binge drinking (Have I mentioned that I’ve stopped drinking?). As someone who is a (young) veteran in the NFL, I haven’t maintained any of my off the field responsibilities. I know you’ve all seen those “NFL Cares” and United Way commercials, where Star Player X is helping plant trees or having a catch with an underprivileged youth.  What you might not have notice is that I, as one of the top-billed players in the league, have never appeared in a single one of them. That’s because I’ve never showed up to one (much to the chagrin of our commissioner) because I’ve never deemed it important enough. Like I said, I’ve been a douche.

I’ve also been a real dickhead in the locker-room. As a three-year veteran, I should be a team leader. There’s no reason for me not to be a captain, or at least looked upon as a defensive leader. But I’m not. Instead, my leadership experience consists of hazing rookies and organizing the upheaval of our coach last year.

Now, I could sit here and write that that’s all going to change, but if my failed marriage has taught me anything, it’s that words don’t mean shit. Instead, I plan to change my actions when I’m reinstated. Well, if I’m reinstated. Now, I just have to hope I am given that chance.

Rebuilding.

Today was my first day out of the house since she left. I didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to go, but I just needed to go out. I really don’t have much else to say.

It was a start…

I don't know what to say.

Let me start by saying thank you to those of you who have left me words of encouragement. I may not personally know you, but your sentiments meant a lot.

I still haven’t heard from Maria. After much begging, I finally convinced one of her friends to give me her phone number. I must have called 100 times over the course of two days. Some messages were angry, others apologetic, but all of them were tearful.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about all of this, but I still can’t really make sense of it. I mean, I know that I’m no angel. In fact, there were plenty of instances where Maria could have left me for good reason. But why now? We hadn’t been fighting at all. I mean, besides my suspension, our lives were fine. In the end, there is only one explanation that I keep coming back to. It torments me… but there must be another guy.  

Maria, if you’re reading this, please give me a call.

My thoughts.

To begin with, she’s gone. She’s really gone and I’m pretty sure she’s never coming back.

I still don’t know what happened. As I wrote on here, she called me a week ago to tell me that she was coming home early. There was no hint of anything wrong in her voice. She simply said that they finished with the preliminary shooting early, so she was going to head back.

Of course, I, being the idiot that I am, got all excited assuming that she was coming home because she missed me. I decided to surprise her at the airport, and before I went down, I picked up a chauffer’s outfit from a local costume shop. I met her at her gate, full regalia, with her name written on a sign card and a bouquet of roses. I guess I should of noticed something was up when she didn’t run and jump into my arms, but instead gave me a lukewarm hug with a deadpan face underneath her oversized sunglasses. She was awkwardly quiet the entire ride home, brushing off all of my questions with simple one or two word answers.

We barely got through the front door before she told me. I can’t even remember her exact words. I was fucking blindsided. But the gist was this:

“You’re a fuck up. You’ve always been a fuck up. You’ll always be a fuck up. I deserve better, and I’ll find it out in Los Angeles.”

And that was it. The next 24 hours were a blur of yelling, alcohol, and moving trucks. She was obviously thinking of this for a while, since she and all her stuff were out of the house by Wednesday night. I tried calling her, but she changed her number. She blocked me on Facebook and Twitter. And since I’m giant douchebag, I don’t know any of her friends or family members’ phone numbers to find out where she is.

So here I sit in my living room. What was once a room filled with nice furniture and photos of the past four years of my life is now empty. I’m sitting on an old beanbag chair from my freshman year in college and using an overturned milk crate for a desk. Apparently all of the furniture was hers.

I’m a fucking wreck. Every time I think I’ve hit bottom, I get thrown down another level. I mean look at me. I’m a 250-pound, professional football player crying like a teenage girl. But that’s what happens when you take away a man’s rock. His best friend. His love.

I literally have nothing left… 

Maria left me...

Good news!

I finally got some good news today. Maria is coming home tomorrow! Granted, she was supposed to come home over a week ago, but they had to extended her initial time there due to some fuckup in the writer’s room.  I don’t even care, I’m just happy she’s coming home.

This is exactly what I needed. Life has been handing me nothing but shit lately, but maybe this is the start of things turning around. I mean, first Maria comes home, and then maybe the league will uphold my appeal of their suspension. Alright, maybe not, but this is at least a start.

I don’t know if you could tell but I’ve been pretty down in the dumps lately. Shit, I’ve even been commenting on other people’s blogs on this stupid site. I was about ten minutes away from joining a message board, but I would kill myself before I got that lonely. But none of that matter’s now, because my baby is finally coming home.

Sorry for the lack of posts lately.

No I'm not. I'm only writing this because I got another angry call telling me that I wasn't holding up my end of the deal that kept my ass out of jail. Frankly, I could give two fucks at this point.

Seriously, what do I have going for me that would make jail so bad? I can't go to work. My wife's halfway across the country. And that bitch "Precious"? Fucking bit me, so I had to return her to the pound. 

Honestly, I don't know if things could get much worse...

Fuck.

I guess it was only a matter of time before my luck finally ran out. And that time was today.

The commissioner just handed down his ruling… I’m suspended for the entire season, with a reevaluation of my future with the league sometime before next year. Even then, they may decide against reinstating me and nullify my contract and essentially, my career. His reasoning was that, despite my declared innocence and lack of jail time, my actions (both past and present) have damaged the league’s reputation. Essentially, he said he’s done with my shit.

In the past, I would take this out on the nearest wall or bottle of whiskey, but I’m not even mad. I’m not angry. I’m not hateful. I have no ill will towards the commissioner or his decision. I’m just so fucking numb.

In the end, I did this to myself. My irresponsible behavior continuously fucks up every good thing I have in life. First, it almost ruined my marriage and now, it may have just cost me the second dearest thing to my heart; football. I legitimately don’t know if I will ever be able to play the sport that I love ever again. And that scares the shit out of me.

I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. Without being a complete fucking cliché, something’s got to give. And I think that something is me.

REDACTED.

Thanks to the work of my crack legal team, I was able to settle my case out of court. It wasn't cheap, but we managed to write a check big enough to shut that fucker up. It may have also required a few greased palms ;) hahaha.


Now, onto the meeting with the commissioner and the league's disciplinary committee.


The following post was edited by the legal team of Mr. Blake Sawyer to fit the gag order that was included in the plaintiff's settlement.

Judgement day.

"We walk toward desire,
Hand and hand through fields of fire,
With only love to light the way,
On the road to judgement day..." ~ "Judgement Day" by Whitesnake

Ha! Bet you thought I'd go with the "Judgement Day" by Iron Maiden, didn't you? Curveball!

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. This isn't a time to joke around, or quote shitty songs by even shittier hair metal bands. This is the most important week in my life, the events of which could forever change my future.

I'm talking about the trial. I've briefly alluded to the incident that lead to my suspension, and in reality that's more than I'm even allowed to be talking about (as per my lawyer). But while I cannot talk about the events that occurred to land me in this predicament, I can reveal what I'm up against. There was both a criminal and a civil trial, but obviously I already faced my criminal trial (seeing as that's the only reason I'm writing in this stupid thing to begin with) and was found (relatively) innocent. But what I still haven't faced is the civil suit. In the civil case, I'm being sued for over $2.5 million; an outrageous number for the mythical "pain and suffering" claim.

Now, the money isn't what I'm worried about. Granted, I have lost some of my sponsorships since this all unraveled, but 2.5 mil is a weekend's work for me. No, what I'm worried about is that once this whole trial is cleared up, then the league is going to officially determine the length of my suspension. As of right now, the term "indefinite" is being applied to it, but the commissioner has told my manager that it can be turned into "infinite" if I'm found guilty.

Fuck.

My sanctuary.

I don't know if you could tell from my last few posts, but I've been going a little stir crazy lately. My wife's gone, I essentially can't go to work, and that means I can't be with any of my friends. It's just me and Precious, and frankly I think she's getting sick of listening to me talk.

So today, I decided to go to the one place in which I am completely in control. My sanctuary. The gym.

As I posted earlier, I had to find a new gym recently as per the stipulation of my suspension that banned me from all team and league facilities. This meant no more world class trainers, no more top of the line equipment, and most importantly, no more whirlpools (I really miss the whirlpools). Instead, now I have work out with the unwashed masses, "working in" sets with other people and waiting for an open treadmill. And don't get me started on the amount of old dude ass I have to see in the one working sauna. 

People always ask me if "the field is my home", or if I "live for gameday". But the fact is, I don't. I live for the gym. I'm at home in the gym. When I'm on the field, I'm unpredictable. I don't know what I'll do or what I'm capable of (and I think my track record of fines speaks to that...). I can lash out in any direction, and often it's just the nearest person to me that feels my wrath. But in the gym, now that's a different story. In the gym, it's just me and the weights.

With Anthrax, Megadeath or the like blasting in my headphones, I am isolated from the outside world. I approach the weight and address it formally, although the kindness is a front. We both know my intentions aren't pure. As my gloved hands grip the steel, I take a sharp, deep breath, trying to shock my body as if I'd just dove into an ice cold lake. The next breath is slower, more precise, as I visualize the end product that I'm trying to build. A better me. A perfect me. One final breath, where I close my eyes on the inhale, and on the exhale I open them, facing my reflection in the mirror in front of me. But before I have time to even recognize my own face, I explode, triggering a series of muscle contractions, some of which I didn't know existed. I let out a guttural scream, announcing my dominance to the world around me. As I put the weight down, my face becomes flush like a satisfied lover... Which is exactly what I am.

That feeling. That release. It's what I live for. 

Glory days.

Still alone. Still bored. Still watching Kourtney and Kim.

But I figured since I’m alone, I might as well try and do something productive. I realized in one of my earlier posts, I stopped talking about my past before I got to the best part. My glory days. College.

After rising to prominence as one of the top high school football players in Ohio, I had college recruiters swarming me, looking for my signature. Of course, there was only ever one school that I was going to commit to. Ohio State. And luckily, they were interested (of course they were), and granted me a four-year scholarship. Growing up, going to an Ohio State football game was one of the few luxuries my father afforded me. The Horseshoe was about the closest thing to a church I ever stepped foot in. All of the greatest memories from my childhood took place in that stadium. Eddie George shedding tackles in ’95. Breaking the losing streak against Michigan in 1998. The undefeated season in 2002. Hell, the first time I ever got laid was at a Metallica concert that came through there in ’03.

(Me at said Metallica show, with said first lay)

Of course, not all of my memories are as a fan. I played for the Buckeyes from 2005-2008. Over the course of that time, we went undefeated against Michigan, won four-straight Big 10 Championships as well as attended four-straight bowl games… Those fucking bowl games. Getting embarrassed by Florida in ’07 was one thing, but we had those pricks from LSU. 2008 should have been our year! And it would have been if that piece of shit didn’t eject me midway through the 2^nd quarter. That shit still haunts my dreams today.

Whatever. So I graduated from OSU and immediately went into the 2009 Draft. There, I was a first round choice (obviously), selected by Kansas City. You hear a lot of professional athletes talking about playing sports as “their dream”. Egomaniacs. My biggest dreams as a child was my old man dying, me getting his life insurance policy, and moving Cincinnati to open a car dealership. Cars have always been my real passion.

(One of my babies)

So there you have it. You’re now effectively caught up on the life of Blake Sawyer. And look, that killed… FUCK. Only 20 minutes? God damnit. 

Struggling.

Struggling.

I’ve spent the past three days curled up in bed, doing nothing but watching reruns of “Kourtney & Kim Take New York”.

Maria’s gone. She got the job, so she has to be in LA for the next two weeks, doing table reads and promotional stuff. My teammates are gone too; a three week road trip means that I’m completely alone. Just me, the Kardashians, and my new puppy, Precious.

Isn’t she adorable? I went out and bought her yesterday to help fight the crippling loneliness that I’ve been facing. I never noticed it before, but I’m an extremely dependent person. I guess that’s one of the reasons I’ve always been so involved in sports. When you’re on a team, you build a strong community in the locker room that sort of becomes your pseudo-family. Now that that’s been taken away from me, and add in the fact that Maria’s gone, I really don’t know what to do.

But at least I have Precious. She’s been a bit of a hassle to train (the piss stains on my new carpet can attest to that), but I lover her all the same. Huh… I wonder if Maria is allergic to dogs?

Maria.

Her family is from Uruguay, but moved to America when she was 3. She is well known for winning Miss America as the representative from Missouri, and now she is moving on to acting.

I met Maria a few days after I was drafted to Kansas City. As the new “face of the franchise”, the Missouri Tourism Committee thought I would be perfect for their new ad campaign. There was me, along with one of each of the top young stars from each of the local pro teams, Kansas City’s own Don Cheadle, and Maria.

Maria was the toast of the city, even before her beauty made her world famous. As a child, she found herself in the national spotlight after winning the first ever-televised National Spelling Bee. From there, she went on to play field hockey for the University of Missouri, leading the team to a National Title (something even I couldn’t do at OSU). It wasn’t until after she graduated with her Bachelor’s in Theater and History that she was noticed by a talent agency, and thrown onto the pageantry circuit.

Me and Maria hit it off right at the photo shoot. Even the cameraman was enthralled with us, telling us how natural we looked in the photos he took of us together. You know, it’s pretty strange going on your first date, only to see a billboard of the two of you hanging above the restaurant. Anyway, our chemistry continued away from the cameras, and one date quickly became multiple. Things couldn’t have been better.

That is until I went and fucked it up. See, towards the end of my rookie season I blew out my knee, and was sidelined for the rest of the year. I was crushed as I not only established myself as a starter, but we had also worked our way into the Wild Card race. Sure enough, once I went down things started to fall to shit, and we eventually finished third in the division. I took things pretty hard, and one night after mixing my pain pills with a bottle of whiskey, I started a fight with Maria. I blacked out for most of it, but what I can tell you is what you probably already know. I was charged with domestic violence.

What followed was months of begging, crying and drinking. I damn near got cut from my contract because of the shape I was in at the beginning of the following year’s training camp. In the end, she took me back. But I couldn’t begin to tell you why.

I almost died.

You gain a new perspective on life when you’re in a plane, cruising at 35,000 feet above the ground, and suddenly begin to plummet to your death.

As I mentioned in my last post, me and the wife… I just realized I never mentioned her name. Wow, I’m a shithead. Her name is Maria. Maria Ana Suarez-Sawyer.

Anyway, we were headed out to LA so she could read for a part on a new TV show. We were in a good mood as we boarded at Kansas City International, and everything was smooth through takeoff. Maria was asleep and I was watching a movie when, somewhere over New Mexico, we hit bad turbulence. Like, really bad. I mean, I fly all the time for games, appearances, etc. but I’ve never hit turbulence this bad.

Maria immediately woke up. “Honey, what’s going on?!” I couldn’t forget the fear in her voice if I tried. I think what made it worse was that I was just as scared, and there was nothing I could do to help either of us. As she grabbed onto my arm, the cabin pressure dropped as we began to free fall from the sky. When the oxygen masks dropped, I was sure that I was going to die. I could already hear the “sad SportsCenter music” playing as they announced my death on ESPN. I’m sure Maria would have gotten a piece on Good Morning America, or something.

We must have only been a few thousand feet off the ground when the pilot finally began to regain control and level off the flight. The new few minutes are hazy. I think I blacked out. But I know we eventually made it to Albuquerque, where we made our emergency landing. I don’t know why I’m admitting this, but when we touched down, I cried. I balled. It was the first time I had cried in 5 years. I buried my face in my wife’s shirt and I wept like a small child.

An experience like that changes a man.

New gym.

(The only reason I’m writing about this is because I got a call last night that it was “unacceptable” that I haven’t posted in a week.)

With my league suspension being applied to “all team activities”, today I had to go out and find a new gym. It took a few stops, but I think I found a solid place to get my swell on for the next few weeks.

Won’t get to use it for a few days though, as I have to fly out to Los Angeles with the wife tomorrow for a television read. Now that she’s done with the beauty pageant circuit, my babe wants to become an actress. She will too. I swear that girl is the most talented person I’ve ever met in my life, and I hang out with fucking professional athletes! Oh, and did I mention that she’s a total smokeshow? Winning!

Bored.

I'm bored. 

I'm so fucking bored that I played around on this stupid site and changed all the fonts and backgrounds and shit. What am I, a preteen girl? I'm starting to think this "therapy" is doing more harm than good.

I'M A FUCKING FOOTBALL PLAYER!

There. I guess I wasn't clear enough, and I need to spell out every little fucking detail for you nitwits. So here it goes:


My name is Blake Sawyer.
I play professional football.
I live in Kansas City.
And I punched a dude in the face.


Now maybe, just maybe, I can get on with my fucking life and prepare myself for when my suspension is lifted.

Is this good enough?

Apparently my last entry was deemed “insufficient” as an introduction to my story. My shrink (he hates it when I call him that… SHRINK!) said that I need to talk more about myself so I can “get in touch with the real me”. What a bunch of fairytale bullshit (He also said I should cut down on the profanity. Fuckhead.).

Anyway, my name is Blake Sawyer. I was born August 9, 1986 in New Lexington, Ohio. I didn’t have shit growing up because my dad was a small-time farmer who spent most of any profit he managed to gain on booze. My mom died when I was 4. I was her only child.

Don’t take this as some sort of sob story though. Nobody else had anything growing in New Lexington either. Either you farmed your own land, somebody else’s, or you worked at one of the factories over in Dayton. Luckily for me, I latched onto one of the only surefire tickets out of that piece of shit town; sports. I was a three-sport athlete in high school: captain of the wrestling squad, power forward for the basketball team and, most importantly, star linebacker on the football team. And since you know who I am, you know which one I hung my hat on.

As for why I’m writing all of this shit, well read the title idiot. It’s state mandated. Two weeks ago I was out at a bar, with a few of my buddies and my wife. We were celebrating the start to another season, pounding down drinks like there was no tomorrow. Stories were told, laughs were had, yada yada yada… At some point during the night (memory is kind of hazy), I caught some dude across the bar giving my wife the eye. Nope. Not in my town. Long story short, I bashed his fucking teeth in.

Now, apparently, that type of behavior is frowned upon by the Kansas City Police Department. I was arrested for aggravated assault, being drunk in public, resisting arrest, etc. (the list goes on for a while). Luckily for me, my name carries weight in this town and my judge just so happened to be a season ticket holder. So, I avoided jail time but was sentenced to three months of anger management. There, my shrink had the genius idea of having me keep a “personal, online journal” to document my actions and “get in touch with my feelings”. I know, what a quack.

So there, I think that’s enough for now.

This is bullshit.

What? I'm supposed to just type my day-to-day actions and "feelings" into this stupid website and everything is going to be better? That's going to prove that I'm "rehabilitated" and over my "anger issues"? Give me a fucking break.


I'm a goddamn football player. Not a poet. People pay to watch me destroy the opposing quarterback on any given Sunday, not read about what I bought at the mall yesterday.


And so what if I have anger issues? That anger landed me an 8 year contract worth almost $100 mil in one of the largest, most profitable sports' leagues in the world. That anger won championships in college. And you know what? That anger made damn sure that douchebag would never give my wife a look like that again.


Fuck, this is stupid. I almost wish that prick judge had just sent me to jail.