Endless promise. A huge, infectious smile. A young man brought up, by all accounts, to be the polite, respectful kid you were proud to know.
A total team player in high school. A lock-down cornerback who had “Future in the NFL” stenciled on his helmet.
We’ve lost him; Avery Atkins is no longer with us. Somehow, it was all short-circuited by a seemingly endless train of bad decisions followed by a steady descent into the dark world of drug abuse.
I wrote just last week about the Sad Saga of Avery Atkins not knowing how sad the ending would truly be. Losing a future in football and possibly the NFL is a huge disappointment, but it doesn’t even register on the scale compared to losing a family. And that is what Avery Atkins lost — himself, his family, his future days with his son, named Avery Atkins Jr. The exact cause and reason for death is not yet known, but it seems that whether Avery intended to end it all on purpose, or by accidental overdose, the cause was still the same. Avery’s bad decisions, and his inability to cope with their consequences, led to his death.
I never knew Avery Atkins. I followed his story from the time he was recruited, which seems like yesterday. I watched him play in the ‘05 spring game, and watched him step in as a freshman for an injured Vernell Brown and make big plays against Florida State later that season. I watched him whoop and holler and beat his chest and hug his teammates as the Gator offense strapped on their helmets and ran back on the field. It might have been one of Avery’s best moments; certainly one of his best as a football player, although hopefully the moment he first met his son was his best as a man.
I’m angry at Avery Atkins. Angry that he could squander so much. Angry that he didn’t have the strength to get his life on track, to take care of his family, to take care of himself. I’m angry that a young man with so much potential — not just in football, but in life — fell down, couldn’t get back up, and for all I know, didn’t even try — despite the help of so many around him, including Urban Meyer and the coaching staff, even after Atkins’ days as a Gator football player were done. I’m angry that a young man who had a chance to graduate with a University of Florida diploma threw that amazing opportunity away. I’m angry that a little boy will grow up never knowing his father and will likely watch that FSU game fifteen or twenty years from now, watch his father leap up and make an amazing play which brought 90,000 people to their feet, practically feeling the cackling energy flowing through his young and athletic body like an electric current, full of life, full of hope, full of promise, and wonder how he could be found dead in a garage less than two years later.
I’m angry. But Avery Atkins was a kid. Kids do stupid things.
And sometimes kids aren’t strong enough to get back up.
Kids are supposed to get a few chances to get on track, to get things sorted out, to re-prioritize, to focus. To grow into adults. To become parents. To live their lives.
Avery ran out of chances. That’s no one’s fault but his own. But he was just a kid. Don’t lose sight of that fact.
I didn’t know Avery Atkins. But I’ll remember that improbable leap, defying gravity as he soared skyward to pick off an errant pass, and remember how happy a young future father-to-be was, staring into the yawning gape of a brilliant future, on a beautiful fall day in Gainesville, Florida, in 2005. And I hope that is how you’ll remember him too.