It’s Sept. 11, 2018.
The day my book, “Football for a Buck,” finally drops.
So how do I feel? Honestly, sad. Because I’m always sad on September 11. Hell, 17 years have passed and the feelings fail to leave. As I type this, I’m sitting in my sister-in-law’s New York City apartment, about a mile from Ground Zero. The Big Apple has moved on. New young people living in new modern apartments; folks who were toddlers at the time of the devastation; folks whose only connection comes via photos and stories.
To me, Sept. 11 is seeing a hole in the side of a building. It’s staring dumbfounded at the TV screen, helpless. It’s finding out a co-worker’s friend died. It’s seeing all the images. The rubble. The smoke. The faces caked in debris. It’s the days that followed—the images hanging everywhere.
HAVE YOU SEEN?
CALL WITH INFORMATION.
PLEASE, WE MISS OUR DAUGHTER.
It’s wanted to do something—anything—but having nothing truly to contribute. I made sandwiches for rescue workers. I hung up signs. Mainly, I wandered, bewildered and lost and wondering what would come next.
So, yes, my book is out today. And I’m insanely proud, and I desperately want it to sell.
But, on Sept. 11, 2001, I experienced hell in a very up-close way.
By comparison, what’s a book?