He couldn't walk away from football (who would tell Marv?), but he couldn't stand to stay in the sport, either. He now understands why his NFL career ended the way it did, with just eight appearances over two seasons in L.A.
He has stolen from everybody in his family, from wallets and purses and anywhere he could find money for his next high.īut this summer, after detaching himself from his father, he finally took a hard, honest look at his upbringing. When Todd was 40, Esquire quoted him telling Marv, "Someday people will realize what a genius you are." The next year Todd told documentarians for ESPN's The Marinovich Project that Marv "loved me when I didn't love myself" and "I never really blamed my dad for any of my life's adversities" and "as I got older, I understood where he was coming from." And then, of course, there were the lies of desperation, an addict's worst sins. He has spent the last few months wading through the dishonesty that came before, and gosh, there was a lot of it. He feels alone, and when he feels alone, he goes back to where he is most comfortable, even though he knows the comfort will not last. He is sad about his father's deterioration, irritated by some people in his recovery group, suddenly detached from the football team he joined.
And if it doesn't, he'll wish it had.īy now, Todd is self-aware enough to know why he is relapsing. He has the perverse discipline of an addict: He smokes heroin, but he won't shoot it, because he believes that might kill him, the way it killed Forster.
Then, he says, "I get too worked up with speed, I gotta bring it down with a little smoking of heroin, now I'm done.
Addiction has been his companion for most of his life, and as with any other companion, he knows it intimately: its touch, its moods, the pain it can cause and the pull it can exert. When he returns to Orange County with his kids, he has a marijuana habit again, and after a while pot is not enough.
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