A life inside the NFL is a curious thing. During the season, your days are regimented, tightly scheduled. Get up at this hour. Eat at that hour. Practice during these hours. Show up here for the bus, there for the plane, and you better not be late. A life is easily constructed around these rules, and one knows what one’s responsibilities are. There is a comfort in routine, a sense of easy familiarity. The paycheck comes in on this day, the game is on that day, and at all times, you know where you belong.

The offseason is a bit tougher, as now your schedule covers weeks instead of days, but there are still plenty of checkpoints. This date marks the start of spring conditioning. That date marks OTAs. Minicamps here, final break there, fall camp and we’re back into the season. The structure remains, ticking regularly as clockwork.

And then, one day, you’re done.

You take an exit physical, you go home, wherever that might be, and the days stretch before you. The structure of your life for what has most likely stretched for at least a decade is now gone, vanished as if it never existed at all. No one tells you what to do now. No one helps you figure out a new routine.

And why would they? They’re too busy making sure whoever replaced you knows the routine you just left. Believe it or not, the NFL actually has what it calls a “Transition Assistance Program,” but that’s only for players who know it’s there (I received no mention of it when I finished playing), and it appears to be more like a single seminar than actual, meaningful one-to-one conversation over a period of months or years.

This is where athletes break.

An intense drive to be the best, no matter the cost, now unsure what to strive for. A willingness to ignore risks, both physical and mental, now adrift in a vast ocean of temptation. You couldn’t get drunk every day of the week before, because that would’ve affected your play on the field, but now? What’s to stop you, especially with the pain in your joints? There’s no coach to warn you about stepping out of line, that your focus is slipping. There’s no locker room filled with teammates you can bullshit with about the small problems before they turn into big problems. It’s just you and probably your partner, who’s trying to adjust to the change as well.

Sadly, many former players and their loved ones don’t adjust. In fact, many will end up divorced, the transition too difficult to adjust to, a life of love now reduced to screaming about medical bills, lack of sustainable income, and who contributes what to the household. You can’t spend money like you used to, because the paychecks aren’t coming in anymore, but do you recognize that in time? Friends and family think you’ve made enough to fund anything they want to do — you’re the big-shot athlete, after all. Can you doff that persona and tell them ‘no,’ that your money needs to last? Kids get caught in the crossfire, their lives affected as well; a nasty mess all around. And through it all, the league and the unions shrug and wash their hands. “Not our problem,” they say. “We’re concerned about current players,” they say. “Find yourself a support system.” “Pay your way to our seminar.”

But why, if the powers that be know that every player is going to transition out of the league at some point; if they know that the odds are against those players, and that almost all of them will end up a tragedy instead of a triumph; why, then, haven’t these multibillion-dollar leagues created and promoted universal support systems to help all players transition from their old lives to their new ones? Why is there no required series of steps upon exiting the game?

Half of the players in the NFL won’t even qualify for pension benefits in the first place, so there’s no safety net waiting for them when they get older. How is it possible, given everything we know, that there is there no sense of corporate responsibility towards those who literally sacrifice their bodies and minds to bring in record-breaking revenue, even if they only play for a year or two?

After all, the players are the product on the field. They provide the incentive for fans to watch. So why are they kicked to the curb the instant they’re deemed no longer physically useful? When a player enters the league, there is session after session about the responsibilities as a professional athlete. The responsibilities to the fans. To the media. To the team, and the owners. When you are part of an NFL team, there exists an entire network of assistance, from sports psychologists to team nutritionists, all designed to maximize your value within the structure of football. People to tell you everything you need to do, until you’re no longer useful to them — and then they’re gone.