kicked at a locker and stubbed his toe. He forgot he wasn’t wearing shoes.
I knew what he meant. The game didn’t have the usual intensity. I hadn’t thought about it much because I was having fun. Maybe it was boring to watch, too. The stands had emptied out a bit. I saw that Dad was still there and waved to him, but Brian and Allan were gone.
Early in the second half I scooped up a loose ball and bounded toward the end zone while the Oxen tried to catch up to me. One of them did, a guard who was nearly as big as me. He hurled all his weight at me and hit me like a barrel. I fell into the end zone, scoring my first ever touchdown, but I stumbled and banged my forehead on the post part of the goalpost. It was padded and I was wearing a helmet, but my head bounced back and there was an audible thud.
Colors pulsed and spun around in blackness, and my entire body felt like a computer in shutdown mode, one window after another closing, the screen fading to black, and then silence and nothingness.
“Hey. Hey. Are you okay?” The Oxen guard was kneeling over me, waving his fingers at me. Then Coach was there. I smiled and held up my hand, meaning to make a touchdown signal, but I couldn’t. You need both hands for that. You need to be standing up, too, and I wasn’t. I laughed at that—and wondered why Coach wasn’t laughing with me.
He turned to talk to someone, his voice really far away. I slowly got up and walked back toward the bench, wobbling and feeling sick to my stomach. Coach caught up with me and helped me off the field. I sat down on the bench and tried to take off my helmet, then realized it was already gone. I’d lost it somehow.
“Nice score,” said Randy. “Feels great, doesn’t it?”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Hey, shouldn’t you be out there?”
He showed me his crutches and the cast on his leg.
“Oh, yeah.” I couldn’t remember what had happened to him, though. I watched the game for a few seconds, but I didn’t feel like it mattered, really. They were kids in socks bouncing around on a field of marshmallows. It made me smile.
Then Coach was bugging me again, telling me to get up. I realized that it was our defense out there, and that he must want me to play. First I had to find my helmet. I stood up so fast I felt like a bird taking flight, like my feet were letting go beneath me, which they were.
I woke up at the hospital, inside a big whirring machine. I realized that I was crying, but I wasn’t sure why. Dad was walking by. No, skating by. He wasn’t bobbing up and down; he was sliding off to the left. I grabbed at his wrist to stop him. No, he’d been standing still the whole time. I was the one moving. They were bringing me out of the machine.
“Who won?” I asked him. He shook his head.
“Please find out,” I said. “It’s important.” But Dad didn’t seem to think it was urgent at all. He reached out and patted my shoulder.
“You hit yourself in the noggin,” he said.
“No I didn’t. I ran into a pole.” Dad didn’t even know what had happened.
“That’s what I meant,” he said.
“Find out who won,” I said again.
He reached for his phone. “Who do I call?”
I tried to remember Tom’s number and couldn’t. I tried to concentrate—the first number was a 5, I was sure of that, but then what? Before I could think of it, the doctor cameback in with pictures of my brain. He pulled up a chair next to me and asked me how much I remembered. I explained it as best I could, and he nodded.
“You have a concussion,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”
“It’s when you get the senses knocked out of you.” I’d seen guys on TV with concussions, and the dazed look in their eyes—it was scary stuff.
“Exactly,” he said. He explained that in my case I’d bruised my skull and my brain along with it. Hearing it put that way made me want to throw up.
“It could be worse,” said the doctor. “The CAT scan looks clean. Your pupils look
I knew what he meant. The game didn’t have the usual intensity. I hadn’t thought about it much because I was having fun. Maybe it was boring to watch, too. The stands had emptied out a bit. I saw that Dad was still there and waved to him, but Brian and Allan were gone.
Early in the second half I scooped up a loose ball and bounded toward the end zone while the Oxen tried to catch up to me. One of them did, a guard who was nearly as big as me. He hurled all his weight at me and hit me like a barrel. I fell into the end zone, scoring my first ever touchdown, but I stumbled and banged my forehead on the post part of the goalpost. It was padded and I was wearing a helmet, but my head bounced back and there was an audible thud.
Colors pulsed and spun around in blackness, and my entire body felt like a computer in shutdown mode, one window after another closing, the screen fading to black, and then silence and nothingness.
“Hey. Hey. Are you okay?” The Oxen guard was kneeling over me, waving his fingers at me. Then Coach was there. I smiled and held up my hand, meaning to make a touchdown signal, but I couldn’t. You need both hands for that. You need to be standing up, too, and I wasn’t. I laughed at that—and wondered why Coach wasn’t laughing with me.
He turned to talk to someone, his voice really far away. I slowly got up and walked back toward the bench, wobbling and feeling sick to my stomach. Coach caught up with me and helped me off the field. I sat down on the bench and tried to take off my helmet, then realized it was already gone. I’d lost it somehow.
“Nice score,” said Randy. “Feels great, doesn’t it?”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Hey, shouldn’t you be out there?”
He showed me his crutches and the cast on his leg.
“Oh, yeah.” I couldn’t remember what had happened to him, though. I watched the game for a few seconds, but I didn’t feel like it mattered, really. They were kids in socks bouncing around on a field of marshmallows. It made me smile.
Then Coach was bugging me again, telling me to get up. I realized that it was our defense out there, and that he must want me to play. First I had to find my helmet. I stood up so fast I felt like a bird taking flight, like my feet were letting go beneath me, which they were.
I woke up at the hospital, inside a big whirring machine. I realized that I was crying, but I wasn’t sure why. Dad was walking by. No, skating by. He wasn’t bobbing up and down; he was sliding off to the left. I grabbed at his wrist to stop him. No, he’d been standing still the whole time. I was the one moving. They were bringing me out of the machine.
“Who won?” I asked him. He shook his head.
“Please find out,” I said. “It’s important.” But Dad didn’t seem to think it was urgent at all. He reached out and patted my shoulder.
“You hit yourself in the noggin,” he said.
“No I didn’t. I ran into a pole.” Dad didn’t even know what had happened.
“That’s what I meant,” he said.
“Find out who won,” I said again.
He reached for his phone. “Who do I call?”
I tried to remember Tom’s number and couldn’t. I tried to concentrate—the first number was a 5, I was sure of that, but then what? Before I could think of it, the doctor cameback in with pictures of my brain. He pulled up a chair next to me and asked me how much I remembered. I explained it as best I could, and he nodded.
“You have a concussion,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”
“It’s when you get the senses knocked out of you.” I’d seen guys on TV with concussions, and the dazed look in their eyes—it was scary stuff.
“Exactly,” he said. He explained that in my case I’d bruised my skull and my brain along with it. Hearing it put that way made me want to throw up.
“It could be worse,” said the doctor. “The CAT scan looks clean. Your pupils look
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