Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 15
The only other visitor that afternoon was Lexi Starr. She wandered in just before Billy’s shift ended at five o’clock. Billy was watching a game show on a small TV hidden under the counter. He envied a contestant who just won a trip to Hawaii, for simply picking what was behind door number one.
“Hey Billy,” said Lexi. “How’s my favorite Tarpon?”
“Good Lexi. You look great.”
“Five dollars on pump three,” said Lexi, chomping gum behind her crimson red lips. “I’d also like a pack of peppermint.”
“Sure,” said Billy while hitting the register keys.
“Sorry about you and Heather,” said Lexi. “But I’m really glad to hear about the coaching opportunity up north.”
“Oh yea, yea. Did you say spearmint?”
“Peppermint Billy. Where’s the coaching job?”
“Oh way up north. It’s a small division three college. You’ve never heard of it.”
“Try me,” said Lexi.
“Hey Morris,” boomed a voice from behind the counter. “We’re short thirty five bucks. What the hell? Can’t you add boy?”
“Sorry boss,” said Billy. “It was Mrs. Franklin. She misplaced her money somehow. She’s good for it. Trust me.”
“Thanks Billy Mo,” said Lexi with a step back. She took her gum.
“Did you pay for that gum young lady?” asked the manager. “Billy, did she pay?”
“Yea, yea,” said Billy Mo while pulling a dollar bill out of his pocket. “Right here.” He rang up the gum and paid for it.
“Thank you,” said Lexi as she exited the store. “Love you Billy.”
“Listen here Morris. I’m sick and tired of you giving away goods to the locals. I’m trying to run a business here. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“These people think we are running a charity shop!” His boss was a fifty-six year old manager in the Big Jim conglomerate. “Well we’re not Morris,” barked the man. “I’m the one trying to explain your generosity every month to my manager, and I’m sick and tired of it. It’s my ass on the line.”
“Yes sir.”
“This is your last warning Morris. If I catch you performing one more random act of kindness – you’re outta here! Understood?”
“Yes,” said Billy, quietly turning off the television. “Do you have my pay check from last week?”
“Not yet,” growled the manager. “All the company checks have been held up in corporate for some reason. Even mine.”
“Any idea when…”
“No. You’ll know when I know Billy. Don’t ask me again.”
“O.K. Larry,” said Billy Mo. He picked up a baseball hat and put it on his head. In it was an opened pack of chewing gum.
“Did you pay for that gum Morris? Because if you didn’t…”
“Yes. I did pay for the gum. Good night Larry.”
On his way home Billy stopped at Tarpon Stadium. Once a week, after the Wednesday shift, he made it a point to visit Percy Brown. The two were good friends and the groundskeeper enjoyed his company. Billy Mo knew it was probably Percy’s last year, as his wife was sick at home. After discussing the week’s events, Percy would let Billy Mo on the field. It was just after sunset and the stadium was empty.
Billy walked to midfield and slowly looked around, envisioning a capacity crowd cheering wildly. “Billy Mo! Billy Mo!” Looking into section 52 he saw his mother, sitting next to Uncle John. The two never missed a game. It was fourth and three, with the game on the line, as Billy got down into his three-point stance. Coach Hayes called his favorite play – the ‘Billy Mo 69.’ Looking over the line he saw the defensive safety drift to his left, a good sign. Number 75 was the right guard, “Tank” Maxwell, who roomed with Billy. For the past four years Tank had been steamrolling defenders in a punishing fashion. Just prior to the snap he looked to his left, where Heather was on the sideline, screaming loudly. Then, in a flash, it began. Derrick Smith took the snap and the line began to move, as if in slow motion. Billy stutter stepped to the left, and bolted to the right. Derrick tucked the ball firmly into his gut as Tank laid out a defensive tackle. He followed the backside of number 75 with the sound of grunts and moans surrounding his body, and arms bouncing helplessly off his powerful legs. Then he was free, in the secondary, running wild to the deafening cheer of the crowd. Only the safety remained, an All-American from State. He juked to his left and cut to the right, ignoring the pivot in his surgically repaired knee. Down went the defender and there was the sideline! While sprinting towards the end zone the stadium turned into a blur – touchdown! Tulsa Valley wins thanks to Billy Morris! The field was suddenly full of fans. Touchdown by Billy Mo! He spiked the ball into the ground and pointed up towards the sky, in appreciation.
“Touchdown!” shouted Percy.
As Billy stepped over the back of the end zone line, reality returned, as did the pain in his right knee. Looking back he heard Percy clapping on the other end of the field, while waving his hands in celebration. Billy Mo was a bit short of breath.
“Touchdown Billy Mo Morris!”
“Thanks Percy!” he yelled. “See you next week!”
Billy’s drive home was lonely. He was living in a new apartment, on the south side of town. The single car garage was still full of unpacked boxes from Heather’s apartment. In the foyer rested an old weight bench and some framed photographs on the floor.
“Barnyard, where are you old boy? Here boy!”
From around the corner lumbered an old, partially blind yellow Labrador retriever named Barnyard. He adopted the animal just three days ago from an elderly neighbor of Heather’s, who was being admitted to an assisted living facility. He promised the old timer to take good care of his Barnyard.
“How’s my boy?” said Billy, noticing a pile of poop on the kitchen floor. “Let’s get you outside old boy. How’s my Barnyard? Good boy.”
After letting the dog out and cleaning his waste, he prepared dinner – tuna fish on crackers and tap water. The ex-Tulsa Valley star was watching his weight, now about thirty pounds above his norm. He planned on starting a running program in the morning.
After dinner, Billy Mo took some ice out of the freezer and placed it into a small baggie. He limped over to a single chair facing a television and clicked on the remote, only to realize the cable had not yet been hooked up. He elevated his right leg, noticing the surgical scars on his knee. The swelling was greater than normal and protruded above the kneecap in horseshoe fashion. Gently, he placed the ice on the arthritic knee, and leaned back. Old Barnyard was at his side, fast asleep. While leaning back he stared upwards at the ceiling. A cockroach darted along the right upper wall. Barnyard was dreaming and farting at the same time, letting off some nasty gas. After ten minutes of silent retrospect, Billy Morris began to cry.
What happened to his dream he thought? He recalled touring the college campus as a high school senior with his mother, on a beautiful autumn day. They immediately fell in love with Tulsa Valley and made the decision to accept a full athletic scholarship on the ride home, prompting Billy to cancel future recruiting trips. Maybe he should have at least visited Southern State? No he thought, everything was always clearer in retrospect. His athletic career was great, but the ending tragic and the aftermath catastrophic. Suddenly mom was gone and now Heather. That’s what hurt the most – Heather.
Unfortunately there was no coaching job up north. He invented it in part to protect Heather’s bright future. She was due for a promotion and her name was often mentioned on the short list for an assistant athletic director position. She was one semester away from a master’s degree in sports management. Their lives were headed in opposite directions and their relationship was starting to fail, the spontaneous passion somehow lost. He had to set her free, no matter how painful.
His reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door. Old Barnyard was deaf and didn’t flinch, his stomach full of food. Billy carefully took the ice off his knee and hobbled over the canine. Another rap. Looking through a glass pane adjacent to the front door, he saw a lone male on the steps. A stranger. Billy opened the door.
“Billy Morris?” asked the man. “Are you Billy Morris?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Hi. I’m Hal Green, from the Collegiate Sporting News. Heather Jackson told me so much about you. She gave me your address. I tried to call but the phone was disconnected.”
“Right,” said Billy. “I’ve heard her mention your name.”
“Mr. Morris, as you may know I’ve been spending some time here in Tulsa, following the team.”
“Yea, I’ve heard. This may be their year.”
“I’d like to do an article on former Tulsa Valley players and their lives after football.”
“In my case, that may not be much of an article Mr. Green. I’m sorry to inform you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I heard so much about you Mr. Morris. If possible, I would love to sit down with you and talk.”
“About what?”
“Your days at Tulsa Valley,” said Green. “Memories of the team and coaching staff. Discuss the highlights of your career. What it meant to put on that blue Tarpon uniform? What helped Tulsa Valley rise to the top of the football pyramid? What made you one of the strongest running backs in the league? I’m sure you have some amazing stories.”
“Oh, have I got the stories,” said Billy, a smile now appearing on his face.
“I’m sure you do Mr. Morris. I’m sure you do. May I come in?”
“Sure,” said Billy. “Sorry about the mess. I just moved in. It’s nothing permanent. I’m only living here just until a few pieces of the puzzle fall into place.” He escorted the reporter into his home.
“Thank you Mr. Morris.”
“You’re welcome. Please, call me Billy Mo.”
Chapter Sixteen
AN OPEN TIBIA
“I’ll kill him, so help me God,” screamed Eugene. He was being slid off a gurney onto the operating room table. Holding his bandaged and bloodied right leg was Pete Wagner. It was Wednesday night at the Tulsa Mercy Hospital. “He did it on purpose!”
“Take it easy young man,” said the anesthesiologist at the head of the table. “Your pressure is through the roof.” The elderly gas passer attached a syringe to the punter’s intravenous line and pushed in some medication. “Just relax now, you’ll be asleep soon.”
“Wagner, take care of me,” cried Eugene with tears in his eyes. “Oh my leg, it hurts so bad.”
“I will Eugene,” said Pete. Despite the temporary splint on his leg, the surgeon felt the crunch of the patient’s shattered tibia.
“Please take care of me Pete.”
“I promise I will. You’re in good hands.”
“Did my mom make it into town yet?”
“No not yet Eugene,” said Pete. “At least since I last checked. She should be here by the end of the case.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” asked Eugene while looking down at his mangled limb. There was fear in his eyes.
“I’ve seen worse,” said Pete. “We’ll get you back for next season Eugene. I promise.”
“Goodnight young man,” said the anesthesiologist as he delivered a concoction of thick, white liquid into Eugene’s vein. “This is what we call Milk of Amnesia. Sweet dreams.” Within twenty seconds the patient was asleep.
“Nasty fracture,” said the scrub nurse helping to remove the splint.
As Pete unveiled the football player’s lower extremity a collective gasp rang out. Eugene Blatt had suffered an open tibia, or shin bone fracture. The sharp edges of the fractured bone pierced his skin, resulting in a three-centimeter laceration. Blood was oozing from the wound, which was surrounded by some Tarpon Stadium turf. A portion of the jagged tibia was protruding outside the skin envelope. The surgeon held the unstable limb with two hands, as the circulating nurse began to apply antiseptic solution.
“Who is he mad at?” asked the anesthesiologist.
“One of the defensive players,” said Pete. “It was a non-contact practice. Apparently he kicked the ball and was leveled by the other player. He wasn’t expecting to be hit.”
“Ouch. Was it intentional?”
“According to Eugene, yes,” said Pete. “There’s been some bad blood between the two players lately.” The surgeon instructed an orderly on how to hold the leg to complete the prep. “Don’t let go, or it will rip out of the skin even further. O.K.?”
“Yes,” replied the gloved orderly.
“He got some antibiotics?”
“Yes,” said the anesthesiologist. “Two grams of Ancef.”
“Have some culture swabs ready,” said Pete to the scrub nurse as he headed outside the room. “Are all the rods here?”
“Yes doctor,” said a single representative from a surgical implant company. “Ready to go.”
“Good,” said Pete as he headed out of the room. “Give the leg a good scrub and paint.”
Just outside the door Jamal arrived on the scene.
“What the hell happened?”
“Tyrone hit him with a cheap shot,” said Pete while shaking his head. “The poor kid was completely vulnerable after punting the ball. They heard the bone snap all the way across the field.”
“The Twister needs to be put in his place,” said Jamal. “I blame the coaches. He’s outta control.”
“I agree,” said Pete. “This can turn into a limb threatening injury.”
“I saw the x-rays,” said Jamal. “It’s in a couple pieces. What’s the plan?”
“Fortunately his knee and ankle were spared. I’m going to just rod it.”
“Agree,” said Jamal. “Let’s do it. Where’s Dr. Harper?”
“He’s on his way and told me to get started.”
Within minutes the two fellows were gowned and gloved, standing on opposite sides of the mangled limb. Pete started the procedure by irrigating the wound with six liters of jet saline lavage. Next he took a scalpel to the jagged skin edges, carefully removing some nonviable skin from the open fracture site. Some dirt was ground into the excised skin. The wound itself was in the mid shin bone area. He dabbed two Q-tip swabs into the wound and handed them off to the scrub nurse.
“Send them for aerobic and anerobic cultures,” said Pete.
“Yes doctor.”
Next he made a longitudinal incision directly below the patient’s kneecap, to expose the patella tendon.
“Do you split the tendon?” asked Jamal.
“Yea, it’s easier,” said Pete. “Otherwise you struggle. How about you?”
“Always,” said Jamal as he held some skin retractors.
Pete took a fresh scalpel blade and made a longitudinal split down the mid fibers of the patella tendon, exposing the bone beneath.
“Awl,” he said to the scrub nurse. She handed him a cone shaped instrument with a razor sharp tip. Pete placed the awl onto the proximal tibia and slowly began to rotate the device back and forth. His controlled motion opened up Eugene’s upper tibial canal, exposing the soft inner portion of the bone. The entry hole was above the fracture site.
“Guide wire,” said Pete.
The nurse handed him a three foot long, thin metal wire, with a small ball tip. The wire itself was firm, yet flexible. Pete instructed an x-ray technician to center a fluoroscopic beam at the fracture site. Without prompting, Jamal applied traction to the leg, lining up the fracture on a large x-ray screen. Pete Wagner placed the guide wire down the entry hole in the patient’s upper tibia, and snaked it across the jagged fracture site.
“Looks like you boys have been working together for years,” said the anesthesiologist, staring at the x-ray screen.
“Good alignment,” said the rod company representative. “What size reamer do you want?
“Let’s start with an eight millimeter,” said Pete.
The scrub nurse handed Pete a long cannulated metal reamer attached to a power drill, with an eight millimeter boring tip. He placed it over the wire and pushed the bore tip into the upper tibia. Upon triggering the drill, the reamer followed the wire down the inner canal of Eugene’s bone, across the fracture site. While doing so, it gave off the characteristic audible chatter of metal hitting bone. Once the bore reached the guide wire’s ball tip above the ankle joint, Pete withdraw the reamer back outside the upper tibia. He repeated the process, sequentially increasing the reamer size by increments of one millimeter, up to a size thirteen.
“Tight fit,” said Jamal.
“I like it,” said Pete. “We reamed to thirteen so let’s go with a twelve millimeter nail.” The two surgeons then estimated the rod’s length off some guide wire measurements.
“Twelve by two hundred and twenty millimeters,” said Pete.
“Right. Got it,” responded the rod salesman as he held up a box containing the sterilized rod.
Pete visually confirmed the size and length of the rod, as did the scrub nurse. Only then did the representative carefully open the box and let the scrub nurse remove the rod. She quickly attached it to a driving handle. Pete took the cannulated rod and placed it over the guide wire. While Jamal continued to hold the fracture in good alignment, the scrub nurse handed Pete a large metal mallet. The mallet’s head was worn and dented from previous rod engagements.
“Everyone’s eyes are covered?” asked Pete.
“Yes.”
“Like my old attending in Philadelphia used to say, spare the rod and spoil the child.” With a mighty blow Pete began to hammer the rod’s driver, sending the implant to its final resting place, deep inside Eugene’s bony canal. With each strike of the mallet, blood sprayed up from the surgical field.
“Bang, bang, bang!” sounded the repetitive metal hits. With each smash the rod drove deeper into the bone’s soft, medullary canal.
“Just passed the fracture site,” said Jamal as he peered into the wound. “It’s a nice tight fit.”
“Bang, bang, bang!”
“Did you guys get a building permit for this?” shouted the anesthesiologist over the clamor. “Looks like fun. I always wanted to be an orthopedic surgeon.”
“It’s a risk everyone takes in life,” said Pete as he bottomed out the rod. “Becoming an orthopedic surgeon that is.”
