Why Write Marinovich?

They say timing is everything, and that’s certainly true of my book, Marinovich. I was settled into a blissful existence in Hawaii when an old Raiders teammate reached out. I had no idea that his one call would lead to my memoir, but here we are.

Spoiler alert: Marinovich isn’t just about football, although that’s where it starts and ends. How could it not be given my life history?

But it’s much more than that, too. It’s also a love story following my dark, twisted path towards self-acceptance. Like each of us, I’m the compilation of a million different decisions. Some come with heavy regret and a conveyor belt of baggage, while others usher in redemption. It was time to share the good, bad, and ugly, to set the record straight as only I can do.

Another spoiler: You’ll need to park any misconceptions, and here’s why . . .

No one pushed me into football, least of all my dad, Marv. I chose it. Any suggestions to the contrary were lies offered freely by the media to manufacture a Greek tragedy. Worse yet, I peddled similar falsehoods in my darker moments to appease the relentless badgers. Ironically, I was so skilled at lying that everyone, including me, believed them. My deceit knew no bounds: from diet to football and Marv, but most often, my sobriety. I said what others wanted to hear or what might make my life easier at the moment, objective truth be damned.

Marv was a thorny scapegoat, as he’d delivered the genes and created the environment offering addiction fertile ground. He could be a ruthless tyrant obsessed with perfection, but his criticism was child’s play. The most damaging voice came from within. At the height of addiction, I needed drugs to silence my mind as much as others require air. The relentless quest turned my life into material for nightmares. I didn’t know it was possible to inflict so much harm on my death march.

A harsh reality accompanied addiction: There wasn’t a cure. The insidious nature of my illness meant that it always loomed just out of view. It awaited complacency to return with unmatched fervor. So my wellness was contingent upon discipline and hard work—two things I knew well, introduced in the crib under Marv’s watchful eye. This early primer set the stage for my demise, yet also my eventual salvation: a nuance lost on many commentators and armchair quarterbacks.

Decades later, I finally owned it—my addictive personality. But it was nearly too late. It wasn’t easy to accept that my most fundamental flaw was both a tremendous blessing and a horrible curse, but it was my reality. I saw the contradiction as clear as daylight. Without the zeal accompanying obsession, who knows if I would’ve succeeded in football? Someone else could have been the first college sophomore in history to declare for the NFL draft.

Yet, on the flip side, there wouldn’t have been a soul-crushing dozen arrests, five incarcerations, and over seven trips to rehab.

To sum it up, it’s a complicated story, but one I wanted to share to set the record straight. If you want to learn more, here’s the link to Marinovich: https://www.marinovichbook.com.

I can guarantee it will surprise you.