Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 9
Reveille played over the intercom, followed by the raspy morning voice of Coach Hayes. “Good morning team, and thank you Lord for another glorious day. We appreciate all that you have bestowed upon this talented team. Watch over us today and provide us with the strength and fortitude to withstand the heat. Amen. Now, everyone, take a shower, take a shower, everyone take a shower. Breakfast will be served in the main dining hall in thirty minutes. Beat Southern State!”
Pete and Jamal had grown accustomed to the routine. After breakfast came a long series of meetings, where coaches and players reviewed playbooks, signal calls and film of opposing teams. During this time the two doctors examined players on the disabled list with Lance. By ten o’clock in the morning the teams were out on the field, running practice drills. At noon, lunch was served followed by thirty minutes of down time. Afternoon practice commenced with the ride of Buford B. Hayes onto the field. Near the end of Friday afternoon practice, Pete stood next to Piper Hicks on the sideline, watching the first team execute a sweep play for Connor Kelly. During the drill Kelly wore a bright yellow vest, which prohibited other players from tackling him.
“What are you up to tonight?” asked Piper to Pete.
“A clean bed and air conditioning,” said Pete, looking forward to a rest back on campus. “It’s been a long, hot week.”
“How about a drink at the Gin Hole? My treat?”
Pete smiled and looked back at the trainer, wondering how old she was. She had a particular allure, or maybe it was the heat. “I better not,” said Pete. “Too much wine and song last night in the Warden’s office.”
“The Twister?”
“Yea,” said Pete. “He’s a party animal.”
“Come on you idiots,” yelled coach from high atop Ole Whitey. “We’ll keep running this play until you get it right. I don’t have any place to go tonight. Run it again ladies!”
“If you ever need someone to hang out with, give me a call,” said Piper. “O.K.?”
“Sure,” said Pete. “I didn’t know Lance let you off the island. He seems to be pretty tough on you.”
“Lance has hated me for some time,” said Piper with a serious tone. “Ever since I told him to stop patting my butt and brushing up against me. He didn’t like being put in his place.”
“Henderson, block the safety. Damn it son! If stupid could fly, you’d be a jet!”
Just then the sweep play headed towards Pete and Piper. In front of Connor Kelly was a convoy of massive offensive lineman puffing in the heat. Their bodies smashed into a wall of defenders, creating a seam for the Heisman candidate to slip through. As Connor made a cut he planted his left knee on the turf and let out a horrible yell. The star running back fell to the ground, holding his left knee. Within seconds Pete and Piper were at his side, surrounded by teammates.
“My knee,” said Connor as his helmet was taken off. “Something happened in my knee!”
Lance muscled his way into the group, shoving Pete aside. The breath of a horse sounded above the group.
“What happened?” asked the head trainer.
“Don’t know, but it hurts.”
“Give him some air,” yelled Coach Hayes. “Probably a cramp. Get up boy.”
“Did you hear a snap?” asked Lance as he rolled up the player’s kneepad to examine him.
“No, just pain on the inside,” said the star back. “I can’t straighten my knee out.”
Lance Tucker began to ply a series of maneuvers on the running back’s knee. Kelly’s massive quadriceps made the on field exam difficult.
“Are you sure you didn’t hear a pop Connor? Be honest. It’s important for me to know.” The trainer knew any pop felt by the player could signify an anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL tear. The ACL was the main ligament or checkrein holding the lower thigh to the upper shin.
“No pop. Just pain. Let doc examine it. Please.”
“Get up Connor,” said the coach. “The whole state’s counting on it. Help him up Tuck.”
“I can’t coach! Oh, it hurts!”
Lance looked over towards Pete with resignation. He shook his head in disgust. “Take a feel Wagner, I think it’s his ACL. It’s torn.”
“No, no!” yelled Connor with tears in his eyes. “Not my ACL!”
Pete jumped over in front of the fallen player. He carefully took hold of his knee with one hand above and below the joint. “Relax Connor, just let it hang. It’s important to try and let your hamstrings relax.”
“I’m trying doc. Not my ACL! The season’s over!”
Pete attempted a Lachman maneuver to check the integrity of the ACL, but the running back’s leg was in spasm. “C’mon Connor, let it relax, like it’s dead. It’s important. Just let it hang, for one or two seconds. Pretend like you’re back home at Nay Aug Park, jumping into the water hole. That’s it, let it hang.”
With a quick flick of his wrists he repeated the maneuver to check the integrity of the anterior cruciate ligament. His diversion worked, and he felt a sharp endpoint. The star’s ACL was intact. He looked up into the eyes of Connor Kelly with a smile on his face.
“It’s all right Connor. I felt your ACL. It’s intact.”
“Praise Jesus!” yelled the coach.
“Are you sure?” chimed in Lance. “I couldn’t feel it.”
“He had to relax Lance. Trust me, I felt it.”
“Then what’s wrong with his knee?”
Pete performed a few additional maneuvers on Kelly’s knee. Passively he was unable to bring him into full extension.
“I would call it a medial collateral ligament sprain and possible bucket handle meniscus,” said Pete. “He needs an MRI, but by clinical exam, I’m confident the ACL is intact. He has a sharp endpoint.”
“Are you sure?” asked the player.
“Yes Connor. I’m sure.”
“What the hell is he talking about Tuck?” barked the coach. “For Christ’s sake, call Doc Harper!”
“Our preliminary diagnosis is an MCL sprain with a possible cartilage tear,” said Tucker while getting up. “Will need an MRI tonight. Piper, get him on the cart and into sickbay. Get some ice on that knee Piper!”
“What does that translate into Tuck? In English,” said coach.
“Four to six weeks.”
“Damn,” said the old ball coach. “Damn.”
Word spread fast of the fallen hero’s plight. Practice was cancelled and the team was dismissed from camp to “go home and pray for a miracle.” An MRI that evening confirmed Pete Wagner’s clinical assessment to be accurate. The running back sustained an MCL sprain with a displaced inside cartilage tear. Fortunately, his ACL remained intact. His parents flew down to Tulsa upon hearing the grim news.
“It’s like the handle on a bucket,” said Doctor Harper to Connor and his parents, gathered together Saturday morning in an exam room at the HPC. The surgeon drew an image of the cartilage tear on a white grease board. “The torn cartilage flips forward like a bucket handle and gets stuck in front of the joint. That’s why you can’t straighten your leg out Connor. And that’s why it’s called a bucket handle tear.” Pete and Jamal stood behind the head surgeon as he spoke.
“Can it be fixed?” asked his father. “Does it ever flip back into place?”
“It can flip back into place, but it’s still torn,” said Harper. “It needs surgery. The question is, should we fix the tear, or trim it out?”
“You’re the expert,” said Mrs. Kelly while holding her hand to her son’s shoulder, in a soothing motion. “What is your recommendation?”
“A knee’s meniscus, or cartilage, has no blood supply Mrs. Kelly. It’s an avascular structure. So the majority of cartilage tears cannot be fixed. That’s why so many are simply trimmed out.”
“What about Connor’s tear? Can it be fixed?” asked Mr. Kelly.
“His tear, like many bucket handle tears, is near the periphery of the cartilage, where it may be possible to fix it. There is a blood supply on the outermost edge of the cartilage.”
“Wouldn’t that be best?” asked Connor’s father. “Fixing it that is?”
“Yes,” said Harper. “Except for two caveats.”
“Which are…?”
“One, if we do repair the cartilage, it has about a seventy percent chance of healing. About thirty percent of isolated meniscus injuries will tear again over time.”
“And if it doesn’t heal?” asked Connor’s mother. “What happens?”
“Connor will continue to have pain and swelling. A second surgery would be necessary to remove the tear.”
“What’s the second point Doc?”
“The time table of recovery,” said Dr. Harper with a look of concern. “They are vastly different.”
“This is his senior year doc. A lot is riding on it,” said Mr. Kelly. “What kind of time table are we talking about?”
“If we trim the cartilage out, he should be back at full speed in about four weeks.”
“All right – and, if you repair it? How long will he be out?”
“If we repair the cartilage, the recovery period is about three months. Assuming it heals. If not, a second surgery is required.”
“Trim it out!” said Connor without hesitation. “The season will be over in three months. Trim it out!”
“Connor, Connor, please,” said his mother. “Let’s listen to what the doctor says.”
“Calm down son,” said his father. “We have to do what’s best for you in the long run.”
“That’s right. You have your whole life ahead of you Connor,” said mom.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kelly, I really can’t tell you whether or not the cartilage can be repaired by MRI standards. It will have to be a decision made at the time of surgery, when I’m looking directly at the cartilage.”
“Trim it out!” yelled Connor. “I’ve been waiting for this season forever.”
“Connor,” said Mrs. Kelly sternly. “We’ll talk it over tonight, among ourselves.”
“The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning,” said Dr. Harper. “Do you have any other questions Mr. and Mrs. Kelly? We’ll take excellent care of your son.”
“No,” said Mr. Kelly. “We know he is in good hands. Connor has always spoken highly of you over the years.”
“Connor,” said the surgeon with a direct look at him. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Is Pete going to be in the room?” asked the running back.
“Of course,” said Harper while extending his hand back towards Wagner. “Mr. and Mrs. Kelly, I’d like you to meet Dr. Wagner and Dr. Lewis, my two sports medicine fellows for the year. Dr. Wagner is from Scranton.”
“Pete Wagner? Is your dad the Pete Wagner over in the mayor’s office?”
Yes, that’s him,” replied Pete. “He said he knows you.”
“Sure, sure. Come to think of it, I do remember him mentioning you becoming a sports medicine doctor. I didn’t know you were down here.”
“What a small world,” said Mrs. Kelly.
“Well I feel better already,” said Mr. Kelly with a smile. “I don’t know why, but I do.”
“So do I,” said Connor. “He got the diagnosis right on the field. The head trainer told me I tore my ACL.”
“Well, thankfully you didn’t tear your ACL,” said Harper. “Otherwise the season would be over. Right? I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
The Sunday morning surgery went off without a hitch. Although near the blood supply, the cartilage tear was deemed non-repairable. Removing the bucket handle tear took twenty minutes. No other internal damage was identified within the running back’s knee.
“I couldn’t have done the case any better,” said Dr. Harper to Connor in the recovery room. “Everything went perfectly.”
“Thanks doc,” said a groggy Connor Kelly. “Thanks for not fixing it.”
“It’s all up to you now,” said Dr. Harper. “The ball is in your court. Just do what the trainers say. We’ll have you ready by the third or fourth game.”
“Great, thanks,” said Connor with a smile. “Pete and Jamal, thanks so much, I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome Connor.”
Dr. Harper spoke with the parents in the surgical waiting area. They asked if Connor could come home for a few days to rehab, prior to the first game. Mom felt some home cooking would do him well. Harper recommended no air travel for three days. He did agree to Connor going home afterwards, for some TLC.
“Dr. Wagner, thank you again,” said Connor’s father to the sport’s fellow. “I spoke to your dad over the phone last night. It was reassuring to have you in the operating room.”
“You’re welcome,” said Pete. “Everything went perfectly. He’s going to do well.”
That night Pete spoke to his dad back home. Their conversation centered upon the Badlands and Connor Kelly’s injury. Pete asked his father not to discuss details of the call with anyone. While talking on the cellphone the young surgeon stared into a mirror on the wall. He slowly leaned forward towards his reflection, to examine his face. Were those pimples? He hadn’t had an acne outbreak since senior year in high school. Maybe it was the stress he thought? Or it must be the heat? It was surely the heat. Stay hydrated he thought. Just stay hydrated. Push the fluids.
Chapter Ten
MR. TUBBS’ NEIGHBORHOOD
“I don’t try to put the quarterback in the hospital,” pontificated Tubbs from his perch, a large black leather chair in the warden’s office. “I try to put him in the cemetery!”
Laughter broke out among the Thursday night gathering, which included about fifteen players and Pete Wagner. Since his arrival in the Badlands four years ago, the defensive star commandeered the spacious Warden’s office, a previous area of the main holding block off limit to players. No one questioned his decision.
“Swagner, get me another brew.”
“Sure Tyrone,” said Pete. Tubbs tagged the sports fellow with the name ‘Swagner,’ due to his good looks. For some reason Mr. Tubbs took a liking to Pete.
“You must have all the pretty nurses fainting around you Swagner. Tell us about some of them, in detail.”
“Nah,” said Pete. “It’s not as exciting as you think. Really.”
“What about the silly one who took your ring? Didn’t she know you were going to be a rich doctor?”
“I’ve told you that story already,” said Pete, “It’s over with.”
“I hear he’s snaking on Billy Mo’s chick,” said a large offensive lineman supine on the floor. It was the first time the lineman spoke in over an hour, his belly full of beer. A long, thick beard offset his balding head. His name was Francis Bartley and he went by the nickname ‘Beef.’
“Oh, now she is fine Swagner,” said Tubbs with a flash of his trademark smile. “But Billy Mo is damaged goods.”
“Not going to happen Twister,” said Pete as he opened a refrigerator. “I mean, me and her that is.”
Tyrone Tubbs was dubbed ‘The Twister’ by his high school football coach. The moniker referred to a quick spin move he was known for, which dispatched the offensive guard in front on him, and threatened the career of the quarterback nearby. At six and a half feet tall, he was a physical specimen, a man among boys. As a high school senior he was the most sought after defensive recruit in the nation. College coaches took up residence in his hometown for months, just to have the slightest edge in the recruiting process. But in the end it was Tulsa Valley he picked, just a few hours away from home.
“You’re out of beer,” said Pete.
“What!” yelled the Twister. “Who’s in charge of restocking the god damn fridge?”
“Eugene,” said the lineman. “Quite frankly, he’s been remiss.”
“I don’t know what that means, but get Eugene down here now!” shouted Tyrone. “Eugene!” His voice echoed through the hallway. “Eugene!”
Within a few minutes Eugene Blatt arrived at the office. The back up punter had a scowl on his face.
“Yes, your majesty?” asked Eugene. “Are you out of toilet paper again?”
“Eugene, my beer supply is low. Can you please take a hike down to the dock and bring back another case?”
“Tonight? It’s freaking past midnight and it’s like a monsoon out there!”
“Yea, tonight. I’m thirsty. Make it quick. And get me some ice, my hand still hurts from gangsta slapping your head.”
“No way,” said Eugene. “I’m not going out there tonight. “It’s raining like crazy.”
“Now,” said Tubbs. “Don’t make me get up boy.”
“Nah,” said Eugene with a turn away. “I’m going back to bed. I’ll do it tomorrow in the daylight.”
Suddenly, Beef Bartley arose, shoving Eugene from behind, his body tossed forward. He ended up within ten feet of the Twister.
“Watch it Beef,” said Tubbs to the lineman. “The boy knows karate.”
“I’m not going out tonight. That’s final,” barked Eugene. “I’m going back to bed!”
Pete noticed a tear in Eugene’s eye. Since his recent fight with Mr. Tubbs, the abuse towards him increased exponentially. His lower lip trembled. He wore white tattered socks, with a big toe exposed through a hole. The punter turned around to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said Beef. “Get the beer for Tyrone. That’s an order!”
“Kiss my ass,” said Eugene.
A few other players in the room laughed at the bravado.
“What did you say Blatt?” asked the lineman.
“I said, kiss my ass Beef. You’re Tyrone’s little puppet, so get the king his booze.”
The lineman took a step towards Eugene, his body dwarfing that of the kicker. “Get out there right now Blatt, or you’ll regret it.”
“Ohhh,” said the crowd.
Eugene went to kick the lineman, but his foot missed. He made a quick move towards the door but was cut off by the enforcer, who grabbed his head between his massive biceps and forearm. He began to slowly squeeze Eugene’s head, causing his face to turn red. The corkscrew motion lifted his legs off the ground.
