Watching the recently released Netflix documentary “Untold: Johnny Football” reminded me of a truth – Manziel’s rise and fall helped me understand my own addiction in a way I wish I could pay back. When the world sees clips of the self-destructive, rebellious former Texas A&M quarterback, I see myself. 

Manziel was drafted 22nd in the 2014 NFL Draft. That fall, the state of Texas sentenced me to 30 days in county jail with 90 days of rehab to follow for repeated probation violations. I was in denial about the problem. I blamed the system. My biological father. Crohn’s Disease. Anything to blind me to my own truth – I was an addict suffering from mental illness. 

On a 20-inch television in a southeast San Antonio facility, we watched as Manziel spiraled from fun-loving frat rebel to sideshow. His transgressions were on nightly television. He was clearly suffering and self-destructing. And on those couches, a light finally went off in my head because it was easier to see his actions. His faults. His patterns. And from there, I worked backwards to my own. 

Everyone knows the Manziel story – at least most of it. The documentary helps tell the rest. A three-star recruit out of Kerrville Tivy High School lands at Texas A&M and beats Alabama en route to becoming the first freshman to win a Heisman Trophy. All while partying with rappers and pop stars amid an NCAA investigation for taking money for autographs.  

Early versions of Manziel mischief felt harmless. He was still a teenager in 2012, after all. He liked to drink and have a good time. Occasionally, that landed him in county jail. So what? Most of the college football world loved him for it, not despite it. He rubbed it into the establishment’s face that he was untouchable by throwing up a “money sign” after big plays. 

He was reckless. He was brash. He was different. And we ate it up while everyone profited off the back of a young man who clearly needed help. The warning signs are always easier to spot in rewind. 

When Johnny Football drafted, he was viewed by many, including myself, as a football playing frat boy who needed to mature and take football more seriously. Within two years, he’d be viewed by most, me included, as an addict screaming for help. 

“When I got everything I ever wanted, I think it was the most empty I had ever felt inside,” Manziel says about that time in his life. He continued describing his experience in 2014 as a rookie in the NFL later in the documentary by saying, “I truly only see those days in black and white, and I’m not sure why I couldn’t see the sunny days.” 

An embarrassing amount of comfort comes from hearing a person who seemingly had it all experience your same plight. Mental illness infects the rich and the poor. The athletic and the uncoordinated. The partier and the hermit. Me and Johnny. And whether he considers himself an addict or not, the documentary makes clear that he turns to substance abuse in times of success and stress. “Win or lose, we booze,” according to Uncle Nate. 

Texas A&M probably couldn’t have helped Johnny in 2012 or 2013. Neither could his parents or Uncle Nate or Kliff Kingsbury. Johnny wasn’t ready. He hadn’t hit bottom, and that can be what it takes. But they probably could’ve done more. The road to recovery begins with accountability, and no one took it upon themselves to provide boundaries to a young Manziel. 

“What Johnny needed was to be held accountable,” his father, Paul, said. He then quickly passed the blame over to the Texas A&M coaching staff for that, as if parenting ends at high school graduation. Texas A&M was making hundreds of millions of dollars off Manziel’s talents. Millions more were paid to the coaches. The NCAA suspended him for a half of a football game for cheating. Everyone passed the buck to make a few more. 

“There was nobody that was looking sideways once we started winning and having the run that we had,” Kingsbury said on the documentary. He parlayed the Manziel success into a head coaching stint with Texas Tech. 

That’s not to say Manziel shouldn’t carry his own weight. He self-sabotaged nearly every step of the way. He was hammered the night before games. He “finally broke” a week before the NFL Combine, used drugs, and then concocted a plan to get out of the drug test – a ploy enabled by his agent and parents. He flew to Las Vegas the day before a game and failed to make it back in time, resulting in being cut by the Browns in 2016. His agent fired him, and his own family distanced themselves and finally began to see the reality. 

But that didn’t stop Manziel. If anything, the pulling away by his loved ones fueled the fire. Another easy trend spotted by recovering addicts. Manziel said he bought a gun and planned to commit suicide after one last bender – he estimated that bender cost about $5 million dollars. And when the gun clicked but nothing happened, something Manziel said he couldn’t explain, it finally appears that he saw bottom. Hopefully. 

The reason the Manziel story snaps my brain back to 2014 is because his fate is still in the air. The documentary didn’t provide sobriety details or messaging. One of the reasons addicts enjoy meetings is that other people’s success stories encourage us through the hard times. The opposite is also true – watching a person struggle can make us feel vulnerable and one mistake away from starting over. 

No one could stop Johnny Football on the field. His toughest opponent proved to be himself. And that’s something that makes him human. Conquering monsters in the mirror is a lifetime struggle for all of us – even Johnny Fucking Football.