After eating lunch, I zipped up my lunch box, quickly threw away my trash, and headed back to my classroom. As I walked down the hall of my elementary school, I contemplated who I would select with my first overall pick for our daily football game at recess. Today was Monday, and it was my turn to be captain; I could either pick the speedster, Eric, or I could go with the reliable hands of Jacob. Once I got back to the classroom, I grabbed the football and headed out the doors to recess. I made a quick jog over to the soccer fields that transitioned into a jam-packed NFL stadium between 11:00-11:30 A.M.
With everyone ready, we started the draft process.
“I got Jacob,” I said.
“Eric, I got you,” said the other captain Connor.
And after some back-and-forth, Connor and I had meticulously selected teams that would hopefully lead us to victory. Since I picked first, the other team would start out with the football.
Within a few plays, the opposing team would work their way down the field. Connor lofted a high pass to his first-round pick Eric for a quick score. Now, it was my turn.
We all had our regular positions, and more often than not, I served as the quarterback when my team was on offense.
I had an infatuation with the quarterback position and always made sure to replicate the style of an NFL quarterback. Whether it was Drew Brees, Peyton Manning, Tom Brady, Philip Rivers, or even Mike Vick, I always did my best to emulate them. I went with the latter that day, doing my best to replicate the electrifying style of play that the Atlanta quarterback possessed.
On the first play, I dropped back surveying the field, and to my discovery, no one was open. In a last-ditch effort, I sprinted out to the right and was able to gain some yards. The following play, I dropped back again and hit my third-round pick, Andrew, for another modest gain. Now within striking distance, I dropped back and hurled a deep arching pass to Jacob, and as anticipated, he made an incredible catch to tie the game.
R
I
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G
G
G
G
G
In unison, we all groaned and headed back toward the school building. The remainder of the game would have to wait until after school.
“That was a great throw,” Jacob said. “I wish we could see that during our peewee league.”
I always made sure to take advantage of this time, given that I was unable to play quarterback in our local peewee football league. It’s not that I was “fat,” per se, but I was definitely on the chubbier side. Our league, Saint Raphael, had a rule for the safety of participants. If you were over a certain weight, you were classified as a “stripper” and were only allowed to play on the offensive line. In my case, I was just barely over this weight limit, and for the first four years of my organized football career, I had manned the middle at offensive line.
I didn’t know this at the time, but ironically, in the coming months I would endure an illness that would change my life drastically.
It first started during a camping trip with my family to New York, near Niagara Falls. I had regularly struggled with stomach ailments, but not one of this magnitude. One of the nights on our trip, I was in so much pain that my parents had to take me to the emergency room. After an all-nighter and an IV pumping me with nausea medicine, they deemed my tests normal enough to release me. The rest of the trip was rather miserable. As a 10-year-old, I began to understand the true definition of pain—driving nine hours in a 2003 Chevy Astro van, sweating my ass off with a grueling stomach pain.
Once arriving back home, the pain continued for a couple of weeks, so my mom made a doctor’s appointment with a gastroenterologist. A bit concerned by the longevity of the issue; the doctor ordered a series of blood tests to see if anything was out of whack.
A week went by, and it was time to head back to the doctor and go over the results. As I nervously sat in the waiting room, my chest tightened with an anxiety that I had not experienced before. It was not the kind of anxiety where your thoughts are racing and you jump to irrational conclusions; no, this was a physical sensation—I was frozen motionless in the hard, cold waiting room chair.
I wasn’t worried something was horribly wrong, but I did know that something was wrong with me. The magnitude? Unknown.
“Dylan?” said the nurse.
“That’s you, honey,” said my mom.
As I walked down the hallway to the life-altering news, I couldn’t help but focus on the clicking sound of the nurse’s shoes.
Click
Click
Click
Click
Click
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“Alright, Dylan; the doctor will be in to see you shortly.”
The doctor went on to explain that for the most part, all of the tests and blood levels had come back normal—except for one.
“The test we use to determine whether or not a person has Celiac Disease came back positive.”
“Celiac?”
“Yes, Celiac. In simple terms, Celiac is a serious autoimmune disease that occurs in genetically predisposed people, where the ingestion of gluten leads to damage in the small intestine.”
“So I can’t eat gluten?”
“Correct. Gluten is the protein found in wheat, rye, barley and triticale, a mix between wheat and rye. It serves as the ‘glue’ to hold foods together.”
As a 10-year-old, I had no idea what I was just told or the implications that this news would have on my lifestyle. I didn’t even know what the hell gluten was or what had gluten in it, but I would find out soon enough. Over the course of about two months, I became a world-renowned gluten expert—reading the ingredients on the back of each label and being a pain to the server when dining out.
More importantly, it meant none of the food that was horrible for you. No more greasy, cheesy pizza, no more spaghetti, and no more sugary doughnuts with the rainbow sprinkles; I really liked doughnuts—so much so that I would opt for a dozen doughnuts over a birthday cake on my birthday. I slowly started to realize that many places were not hip to this new diet I was sporting. When I would go out to eat, there were no gluten-free buns for burgers or gluten-free pizza crust. This often led me to eat burgers without the bun—and a LOT of salads.
The summer following my diagnosis of Celiac Disease was consumed by doing my best food snob impression and endless days of swim team, football, baseball, and basketball camps. I was getting more than enough exercise, and for the first time in my life, I was also eating healthy. It didn’t dawn on me initially, but this was the start of a personal transformation. Despite the fear and anxiety, I had once felt, this “catastrophic event” was actually benefiting me.
With school back in full swing, this also meant that football was starting up again: the NFL, college football, and of course, peewee football. This was an especially exciting year because we were playing with nearly the entire team that we had the year prior.
Even though we were playing with the same team, we still technically had to attend the tryout; this was mostly to get the measurables and weight of each player.
There must have been a couple hundred kids, because the line for the weigh-in was out the door and around the corner of the facility. We stood in the blazing-hot August sun for well over an hour before we finally made it to the door. When we finally got to the door, it was about another 20 minutes before we got within distance of the scale.
“NEXT UP!” shouted one of the dads volunteering.
The next kid hopped on the scale.
“87.2 pounds… STRIPPER!”
A look of utter disappointment swept across the kid’s face. The weight limit was 75; if you were over, you were bound to the offensive line and classified as the dreaded “stripper.” With only four more kids in front of me, the anxiety began to take control.
“68.4 pounds… REGULAR!”
This wasn’t the kind of anxiety I had felt previously; this was the kind where your mind races.
“73.9 pounds… close, but REGULAR!”
I didn’t even think about the possibility of not being a stripper; I mean, I was eating healthier, but could it have been enough?
“78.5 pounds… STRIPPER!”
Just the thought of me being able to play any position—maybe even quarterback—was a surreal thought; it felt almost too good to be true.
“62.7 pounds… REGULAR!”
“Fadden, you’re up.”
Now, it was my turn to step onto the cold, rectangular, steel scale that would determine my fate.
“71.4… REGULAR!”
At first, I wasn’t even sure if I had heard him correctly. I finally wasn’t a stripper? An overwhelming amount of joy took control of me. I couldn’t even fathom what this meant. The best thing about this was that I wasn’t intentionally trying to cut weight; it just sort of happened. And then it dawned on me—Celiac Disease. The only reason why I would get a chance to play quarterback in an actual football league was because of a disease that I had originally thought would be a pain in my ass for the next 70 years.
This event would lead to me playing quarterback through junior high, and even a couple starts on the varsity team in high school. I know it’s nothing crazy, but it meant a lot to me. It provided me with a certain wisdom that most 10-year-olds weren’t prone to. As cliche as it sounds, everything happens for a reason. Sure, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder, but it allowed me to live out my dreams of playing quarterback—a blessing in disguise.
This was a lesson I have carried with me ever since: If something in your life takes a turn for the worst, take a deep breath, and know that eventually, it will lead you to a place even better than where you were before.