The N.F.L. isn’t a street gang. We’re mercenaries willing to work for the highest bidder and willing to get along with whomever we need to in order to keep working. I know why I haven’t heard from any of my former teammates. But it’s not as if I’m looking for them, either. What would we talk about? What do we have in common now? Not much. Once you’re out of the circle, you’re out. So besides my family and a couple of my high school buddies, I don’t have many friends.

“Early retirement” sounds wonderful. It certainly did that cold night in Pittsburgh. I was going to use my time to conquer the world.

Boy, was I wrong. Now I find myself in music chat rooms arguing the validity of Frank Zappa versus the Mars Volta. (If the others only knew Walkingpnumonia was the screen name for a former All-Pro football player and not some Oberlin College student trying to find his place in the world.) I wrote a book. I set sail on the picturesque and calming waters of Bodymore, Murdaland. And when I’m in dire straits, I do what any 8-year-old does; I kick a soccer ball against the garage hoping somebody feels sorry and says, “Hey, want to play?”

With millions of Americans out of work or doing work for which they are overqualified, I consider myself lucky. But starting from scratch can be unsettling. If you’re not prepared for it, retirement can become a form of self-imposed exile from the fulfillment and the exhilaration of knowing you did a good job.

Many people retire around 65. I will turn 37 this summer, yet like all former N.F.L. players, I face greater health risks, both physical and psychological, that compound my fears.

I don’t know why I’m surprised by any of this. I’ve been preparing for retirement since the Denver Broncos drafted me in the first round in 1997. I was part of the inaugural rookie symposium the N.F.L. conducts to help college players make the transition to professional football. Three days of meetings pretty much consisted of the same two messages: use a condom and save your money.