Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 21
Waiting in the airport proper was Jamal and Kobe Jamal, prompting a few of the players to say hello. Pete and Dr. Harper stopped to speak to the former fellow.
“How’s he doing?” asked Harper. “He looks healthy. What a good looking boy.”
“He’s doing great Dr. Harper,” said Jamal. “Thank you. He gave us a scare, but I think we’re out of the woods. He’s happy to have daddy home.”
“Listen Jamal,” said Harper. “It was a pleasure having you at Tulsa. You’re a talented young man, but family comes first. You made the right decision.”
“Thank you Dr. Harper. Thanks for understanding my situation.”
“It was my pleasure to help out. Vern Foster has a sideline pass with your name on it for tomorrow’s game. I’d love to have you down with the team.”
“Thank you Dr. Harper! I’ll be there. Thank you very much.”
Harper shook his hand and walked away, leaving Pete alone with his former roommate.
“Well you certainly came out smelling like roses,” said Pete, tickling K.J.’s tummy. “How’s everything going?”
“Good, good,” said Jamal. “You know, like Tiana and I are just crazy over each other.”
“Yea, that I can believe,” said Pete with a cocked eyebrow. “The crazy part that is.”
“Hey, what’s going on with Heather? She stormed past me like a cyclone, with daggers in her eyes. I went to say hello but she stared me down. I thought I heard her growl.”
“Nothing good at the moment,” mumbled Pete. “She must have found out about Chloe being back on campus.”
“Chloe! She’s back in town?”
“Yes sir. She appeared at my door last night with a month’s worth of clothes. I couldn’t say no.” Pete’s cell phone chirped, prompting him to view a text message. “Yep. That’s exactly what happened. Chloe just told me they spoke this morning. Oh my god, Heather and I just had dinner together last night.”
“Yikes,” said Jamal. “I’m glad I’m out of the decision.”
“What decision?”
“Who’s the odd girl out?” said Jamal, now bobbing his child up and down. “The stunning blonde or the gorgeous brunette? Tough choice.”
“Yea,” said Pete. “Hey, I better catch up with the team Jamal. Thanks for coming out. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the game.”
Over the next twenty-four hours Pete tried his best to contact Heather, to no avail. She deftly avoided him both physically and on social media. Before Pete knew it, the big game was on.
The Rose Bowl Stadium in Pasadena was everything Pete expected – 93,000 fans packed into a storied venue, on a beautiful southern California night. He had watched hundreds of games in the stadium back east, always dreaming of being there. Now he was on the thirty-yard line and in the national spotlight. Looking up to the stadium rim, he tried to make out Heather, somewhere in the school’s V.I.P. box with Vern Foster, but he could not. He thought of his parents, sitting on their couch at home in Scranton, looking for their son.
The Tarps won the coin toss and elected to kick the ball away. It was on the third play of scrimmage that the Twister, Tyrone Tubbs, failed to get up, his body prone and motionless on the turf.
“Let the trainers check him out first,” said Harper to Pete. Standing beside them was Jamal, in jeans and a collared shirt, with a large sideline pass ticket around his neck. “If Lance needs us, he’ll signal.”
Lance and Piper jogged out to the fallen lineman, and within thirty seconds gave the signal to the sidelines. The prompt request for medical backup was a bad omen. Out onto the field trotted Harper and Pete. The Twister remained motionless during their approach.
The first thing Pete noticed was the presence of spontaneous respirations. Tyrone Tubbs was breathing on his own, although his respiratory pattern was shallow. However it was obvious the lineman was unconscious, his eyes peacefully closed.
“Tyrone!” yelled Harper. “Squeeze my hand!” He put his index and long finger in the lineman’s palm. “Squeeze it Tyrone!” There was no response.
“He’s out cold,” said Lance.
“Agree,” said Harper. “He’s breathing on his own, so leave the helmet on. Piper, stabilize his neck.”
“Right,” said Piper as she positioned her body directly over the defensive star’s head. She put one hand on each side of his helmet, not allowing any motion to the right or left.
“Do you want a med transport?” asked an official. A crowd was starting to form around the player.
“No, not yet,” said Harper. “Give us a minute.” Harper reached under the player’s shirt and shoulder strap. He put his knuckles on his sternum and began to twist his clenched fist back and forth. “How about a little sternal rub,” said Harper. “Time to wake up Tyrone. Open your eyes! We got a game going on here.”
There was no response.
“What in Jesus is going on!” barked Coach Hayes after arriving on the scene. “Holy Moses! The Twister is dead!”
“Hit him with the smelling salts,” said Harper to Lance.
Out of his waist pouch the head trainer pulled out a small, white vial of ammonia inhalant. He cracked open the outer plastic shell to active the ammonium carbonate, and placed the vial under Tyrone’s nose, allowing him to breathe in the fumes. The ammonia gas immediately released an inhalation reflex in the player’s body, elevating his heart rate and blood pressure. The maneuver triggered some brain activity and rebooted Tyrone’s sympathetic nervous system, bringing him back to consciousness. With a wince, he recoiled, trying to avoid the noxious stimulus.
“Tyrone!” said Harper. “You’re O.K. Tyrone. Take it easy. Look around. Get your bearings.”
The lineman tried to focus his eyes, which were in rapid nystagmus. Piper continued to hold his head straight.
“Squeeze my hand Tyrone.” He did. “Move your feet up and down.” He did. Harper then reached behind his helmet to palpate his neck. He ran his fingers down his bony midline cervical spine, appreciating no anatomic step-off. “Does your neck hurt anywhere Tyrone?”
“No,” replied the player.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Very good,” said Harper. “Let’s sit him up.”
The combined effort of the medical team brought the massive player’s body to a seated position, prompting a roar from the crowd.
“You’re O.K. Tyrone,” said Harper. “Take some slow deep breaths, all right?”
“Yea doc,” said Tyrone. “What happened?”
“Take off his helmet,” said Harper to the trainer.
After a few more minutes they carefully got Tyrone to his feet, his legs wobbly. Two fellow linemen hoisted his arms around their shoulders, and assisted their wounded teammate to the sideline. He was carefully placed on a cart and taken to the locker room, for a more detailed neurologic evaluation. It was obvious to the medical team that The Twister had sustained a grade three concussion, with complete loss of consciousness. His night in the national spotlight was over.
“A what?” shouted Coach Hayes in disbelief. “Did you say concussion?” He was screaming into Harper’s face. “We’re down at halftime and your telling me my star defensive end isn’t cleared to play – because of a concussion?”
“I’m all right doc,” said Tyrone. “Just a slight headache. Give me an aspirin.”
“No Tyrone,” said Harper firmly. “You’re done for the night.”
“A concussion!” howled Hayes. “That’s a made up word – just like hydration!” The blood vessels in his eyes were about to burst. “Hydration didn’t exist when I played football. Hell, when we got thirsty guess what? We drank some goddamn water! Right outta the hose. It was warm, like piss. Times were simple back then! There weren’t a hundred trainers walking around saying ‘your urine is too dark – you need to drink more fluids – you have to stay hydrated.’ That’s bullshit!” He paused to catch his breath. “When we took a shot to the head, you just walked it off. It was called getting your bell rung, and it was part of the game. I got hit so hard once in a game against State, I saw Abraham on the other side of the Jordan River, calling my name!” The coach was continuing to blister Harper, just a few inches separating their faces. “Life was easy until you sports medicine nut jobs showed up.” He paused again, his face angry red. “Now, tell me again Doctor Harper. Did you say the word concussion?”
“Yes coach, I did,” responded Harper flatly, realizing he had broken one of the cardinal rules of Tulsa Valley football. “Tyrone had a grade three concussion. The highest grade for a closed head injury.”
The coach went into a tirade, spewing superlatives in a poetic fashion, while waving his arms up and down. He paced the locker room while shouting, imploring Harper to clear the lineman for the second half. A berth to the national title game was on the line, and it would be blood on the physician’s hand if he failed to comply. The team physician held his ground.
“It’s too dangerous coach,” said Harper. “He could have a second impact and the results would be catastrophic. He’s done for the night. My medical decision is non-negotiable.” The embattled physician waited for a response, but there was none. Harper looked at Lance. “Take his helmet away Lance – and hide it.” The trainer stepped forward and took away Tyrone’s helmet, preventing any possible return to the playing field.
Coach Hayes stormed away.
As the team ran onto the field for the second half Pete was directed to stay in the locker room with Tyrone. Along with Piper, he would perform a neurologic exam on him every fifteen minutes, making sure he was alert and oriented to person, place and time. The Twister sat himself on the locker room floor, his back to the wall and his uniform still on. He refused to take it off until the end of the game.
“I’ve got a headache,” said Tyrone. “How about an aspirin?”
“You can only have a Tylenol,” said Pete. He handed the player a single acetaminophen tablet and a drink of water.
“Thanks,” said Tyrone. “I’ve always liked you Swagner. I don’t know why, but I do. You just seem like a nice guy.”
“Thanks,” said Pete. Deep down inside he knew there was some goodness in the Twister. He just had to find it. “It’s hard to believe the season is almost over. It sure went by fast.”
“Yea, way too fast,” said Tyrone. He put a bag of ice on his head. “I’m going to miss the place. Tulsa Valley has been good to me.”
“How so?”
“They made me who I am,” said Tyrone. “I came here a tall, skinny kid with talent, but now I’m a top ten pick in the draft.”
“You weren’t built like a brick house in high school?”
“Not even close,” said Tyrone. “In high school I would down one milk shake after another, eat steaks, and devour protein drinks. Yet, I could never bulk up.” He paused, looking at the floor. “It was Doc Harper’s GameChanger that got me to the top. I owe it all to him, and the training staff.”
“I’m sure you put a lot of time into it Tyrone. A lot of sweat in the weight room.”
“I did. But it was the summer camp. Every year I would come out of that hellhole stronger and stronger… which is hard to believe, especially over the past two years.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, I kind of slacked off my junior and senior year. I mean I drank beer down there every night, yet came out looking like an ironman. Maybe it’s genetic, from Grandpa Bubba.”
“Interesting,” said Pete. The roar of the crowd suddenly shook the walls of the locker room.
“We just scored,” said Piper while staring at her phone. “Six yard run by Connor.”
Over the next forty minutes the trio sat together alone, in the south end locker room of the Rose Bowl. The Twister would occasionally doze off, a sequela from his head injury, only to be awoken by Pete. The sports fellow monitored the athlete for any signs of an intra-cranial bleed. Thankfully, there were none.
“We won!” shouted Piper. “By seven.” The Tulsa Valley fight song could be heard in the distance.
“Hurrah,” said Pete while staring at the sedate lineman. “And they did it without Mister Twister.”
One by one the victors rolled into the locker room. They gathered around Coach Hayes who hoisted the game ball in the air, before giving it to Connor Kelly. He called the team’s performance “gritty and tough,” the way Tulsa Valley football should always be played. He voiced pride in the way the team handled themselves, especially in light of Tyrone’s injury. Lastly, he praised Coach Avery for putting together a defensive scheme that shut down the high-powered offense of Western Southern.
“One more game!” shouted the coach. “Back in the bayou! Let’s take care of business next week, like we know how!” He paused for effect and slowly smiled. “Then, if we win that game, it’s payback time boys – for the national championship!” The team shouted, some players raising their helmets. “Payback time against a team whose name I won’t even mention, because it would ruin our night. A team that’s so vile, it pains me to even think they are from my beloved state. So congratulations men, we beat a tough opponent who played well. Everyone enjoy the victory tonight. But let’s go back home tomorrow, to the state of Louisiana, and take care of some unfinished business.”
A tremendous roar erupted from the team, their collective blood still boiling from battle. “Tarps, Tarps, Tarps…” went the chant.
Later that evening Pete said goodbye to Jamal. It was nearly midnight, as the medical team headed towards the final bus.
“Take care old friend,” said Pete. “I’m sorry I couldn’t spend some time with you on the sidelines.”
“No problem,” said Jamal. “It was a once in a lifetime experience to be there, with the number one ranked team in the nation. Tell Doc Harper thanks again.”
“I will,” said Pete. “By the way, I saw Lexi after the game. She was shook up about your mother taking so ill.”
Jamal just stared downward.
“She couldn’t believe you gave up your fellowship to come back home and care for her. She actually had tears in her eyes.”
“Remember Pete, it’s family first,” said Jamal. “That’s what Dr. Harper said. Right?”
“Right Jamal,” said Pete. He took a step away.
“Oh Pete, I almost forgot,” said Jamal.
“What?”
“I meant to tell you something.”
“Yea?”
“I’ve got a friend who works in the L.A.P.D.”
“Always a good friend to have,” said Pete, wondering why it mattered. “In the police department that is.”
“Well, I asked them to check up on Hal Green from Van Nuys. You know, after you told me he’s been banned from talking to any more players.”
“And?” said Pete, looking towards the bus. Lance had thrown the last set of medical bags into the cargo bin, and the driver was securing the luggage door.
“Well, they told me there is no Hal Green from Van Nuys,” said Jamal. “Then ran a Cal-Op check on his name, which has to do with someone’s driver’s license and registration, and he doesn’t exist.”
“What?” asked Pete. “Maybe his name is Harold or something else.”
“They ran a make on every Green in Van Nuys, there’s no Hal or Harold.”
“What about Henry?”
“There are three, all over the age of seventy.”
Pete just stared forward, the bus horn startling him.
“’Hinges of hell’, that’s not a Cali term,” said Jamal. “He’s not from La-La land Pete. Keep your eye on him.”
“Beep, beep!” went the bus driver.
“Thanks Jamal, keep in touch.”
As the bus slowly pulled away from the empty stadium, Pete just stared out the window. Something strange was going on, and he was slowly becoming a big part of it.
Chapter Twenty Three
THE FIRESTORM
The Tarpons easily won their next game, running roughshod over an undermanned opponent. They finished the season undefeated and as predicted, received a bid to play against Southern State in the national title game on January 8th. It was the Monday after their recent win, when all hell broke loose in Tulsa, Louisiana.
A man named Jay Sepelastone lit the fireball. He was an above average sports reporter working for a below average newspaper, called the Scranton Daily News. Sepelastone was an avid fan of Keystone State football, having covered the team for the past twenty years. He was also a long-standing dental patient of Dr. Falcone, the president of the local Keystone State booster club. The article, which appeared in the Daily News morning edition, was titled “Local Great Set for Title Game.” The headline was benign, but the content malignant. The first few paragraphs were complementary of the hometown hero, on the precipice of a Heisman Trophy and national championship. It relived his glory days on the fields of Scranton, followed by a verbal commitment to Keystone State, only to be reneged upon by signing with Tulsa Valley. A brief recap detailed his illustrious career at Tulsa Valley. The article however began to veer off course mid way through, when Sepelastone compared the physical statistics of Connor Kelly on a year-by-year basis. He graphed the running back’s height and weight from his freshman year in high school, all the way through his senior year in college. Each year, and especially his college years, noted a remarkable rise in weight and muscle mass. A photo of the star over the past eight years was also set sequentially in the article, producing a stark visual contrast between a skinny high school junior, and rock solid collegiate senior. Sepelastone briefly mentioned the GameChanger, a nationally recognized program developed at Tulsa Valley, along with Kelly’s well-known commitment to the weight room. Yet it was the final third of the release that generated the firestorm. There, in two brief paragraphs, mention was made of an anonymous source linking elevated testosterone levels to the star running back. The list of possible causes was brief, leaving the reader to draw their own conclusion. The word ‘steroid’ was never mentioned in the article. Within an hour, the writer’s cell phone and email box were bombarded with messages – many being death threats. He was immediately placed on administrative leave by the newspaper’s managing editor.
