Dinged, page 11
I start walking into the locker room. I feel somebody next to me, and turn to see Ron, walking and shaking his head.
“Man, your dad is so HARDCORE,” he says. “And hey—sorry I missed that block that got you popped. I guess when you think about it, this whole damn thing is my fault!” He smacks my shoulder pads and starts laughing. “See you in there, my brother!”
As I walk into the locker room, a feeling hits me. A feeling I’ve never had before.
I can’t wait for the season to be over.
WALTHORNENEWS.COM
WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE
A HIGH SCHOOL SPORTS BLOG ABOUT
THE WALTHORNE WILDCATS
BY ALFIE JENKS
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 14
High School Concussion Report Provokes Questions, Concerns
As the football season winds down, with the undefeated Walthorne Wildcats getting ready to play in the state championship game this Friday night, a new report that highlights the growing number of concussions in high school football is throwing a bit of cold water on what should be a glorious time for the sport, especially here in Walthorne.
According to the New York Times, a study by The Pediatrics Review, a well-known pediatric medicine magazine, has determined that while overall concussions have gone down—because the number of participants in high school football has also gone down—the percentage of active players getting concussions has increased significantly over the last ten years.
The authors of the study have called for stricter state laws that govern when athletes can return to play after a concussion. They also called on pediatricians to help educate families. “The medical community should ensure that young athletes and their families are aware of the concussion risk associated with their sports of interest,” the authors wrote. “Further, pediatricians working with youth sports organizations should advocate the use of safety measures to help prevent serious injury, especially brain injuries.”
Head Coach William Toffler of Walthorne High applauded the release of the report. “This is exactly in line with what we are doing, in terms of increased vigilance around these kinds of injuries,” he said in a prepared statement. “Everything we do in our program, from practice protocols to updated equipment, is designed to protect our student-athletes, and we are committed and dedicated to safety above all else.”
23
We’re hanging out at Nina’s favorite smoothie place. I’m not a big smoothie guy, so I’m sipping on an iced tea and trying to do homework. Nina’s working on song lyrics, but she won’t show them to me. She never shows them to me until they’re done.
We don’t talk much, but it’s cool. We’re at that place in our relationship where we can just be chill around each other and still be glad we’re together.
The championship game is in three days and I’m at the point where I just want to focus on the game. I don’t really want to talk to anybody outside of my team, my family, or Nina. There’s the game, and nothing else exists. That’s pretty much how everyone else feels, too, including whoever owns this smoothie shop. Whenever I get tired of staring at my laptop, I can look up at the giant sign in the window that says GO ’CATS! BEAT DEAVER! The whole town is in it together. As my dad says, It’s more than just a football game. It’s life itself.
After a while, Nina stops typing and says, “Desert Island?”
I smile. “Sure. Any excuse to stop doing biology.”
Desert Island is a game we play sometimes, where we talk about the things we would want if we lived on a faraway island somewhere. It’s a silly way to pass the time, but it’s also nice to think about escaping to a place where no one could find us. If only for a little while.
“Your one food,” she says.
“That’s easy. Scrambled eggs and toast.”
“That’s two foods.”
“Fine, forget the toast. How about you?”
“Duh. Smoothies.”
“I think technically that’s, like, five foods.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Fruit and milk and yogurt and a bunch of other stuff.”
She punches me, lightly.
I ask her, “Your one song?”
“ ‘Taxman,’ by the Beatles,” she says instantly. “You?”
“ ‘The Only Place,’ by Nina Rojas.”
“Cut it out.”
“I’m serious.”
I’ve never seen Nina blush until this moment. And boy, does she blush. But it’s a happy blush.
“That reminds me,” she says. “I can’t remember if I told you, but I might have to miss your game. At least part of it.”
My mood suddenly shifts. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”
“Brian got a text last night from that coffee bar in Trafford. You know, the one I told you about?”
“You didn’t tell me about any coffee bar in Trafford.”
“I didn’t? Dang, I meant to. It’s this really cool place, and some awesome people played there before they were famous, like Tracy Chapman and Michelle Shocked and artists like that.”
“I don’t know who those people are.”
Nina rolls her eyes impatiently. “It doesn’t matter. It’s kind of a massive honor to land a gig there, especially at our age, but Brian’s brother knows the cousin of one of the guys who runs it, and I guess they asked if we wanted to open the show on Friday night.”
“Open?”
“Yeah, you know, play before the featured band, like just to get the crowd warmed up and stuff.”
“Who’s the other band? Are they famous?”
“I have no idea. What’s with all the questions? Isn’t this awesome?”
“Oh yeah, totally.” But the truth is, I’m not really thinking about how awesome it is. I’m thinking that Nina might miss me win the state championship.
She knows exactly what I’m thinking, of course.
“I’m sorry, Caleb. I know it’s sucky timing.”
I shake my head, determined not to let my disappointment show. “No, it’s cool, it’s a great opportunity for you. You’re gonna kill it. And one day soon, someone’s going to open for you guys.”
We’re both silent for a few seconds, then Nina says, “I hope I didn’t just bum you out.”
“Yeah, no, you didn’t. I’m just kind of, you know, I just want the game to freakin’ get here at this point.”
“Try to enjoy it, Caleb. You’re gonna kill it, too!”
I laugh. “So it’s official: We’re both gonna kill it on Friday night.”
“Yup.”
We both take sips of our drinks.
“Your one movie?” Nina asks.
“Goodfellas.”
“Mine too!”
We look at each other and smile. Then we open our laptops and get back to work.
The desert island will have to wait.
24
The funny thing is, we’ve played ten games, but my body hurts less this week than it has all season.
That’s because Coach has decided that we’re not going to do any real hitting or running in practice. It’s like all of a sudden he realized we’re actual human beings, and he doesn’t want anyone getting hurt before the big game. Or maybe the article about concussions that Alfie wrote got him spooked. Whatever the reason, during practice we mostly just walk through plays, watch film of Deaver’s games, talk about our game plan, and listen to the coaches give us motivational speeches about how this game will be one of the most important moments in our lives, and if we win, we will be state champions, and no one will be able to take that away from us for as long as we live.
All I know is, we don’t have to run suicide sprints. We’ve been dealing with those nightmares every day since August 1.
So with my body feeling good, falling asleep is easy. Which is why I’m snoring away when I feel a tug on my shoulder.
I open one eye and can barely make out my mom standing there. “Ma?” I say. “What time is it?”
“Twelve thirty.”
I force myself up on one elbow. “Like, twelve thirty at night? What—what’s happening?”
Before she can speak, though, I know what she’s going to say. I’m still three-quarters asleep, but I know.
“It’s your dad.”
“What about him?”
I see her move, and suddenly the light in my bedroom is on. It’s blinding. I can see my mom is already dressed.
“We need to go.”
As I’m getting dressed, my mom tells me what happened. She and my dad were watching TV before bed, just like always. Then my dad jumps up and says he needs to drive down to the dealership to get some papers he left there. Before my mom can stop him, he’s out the door and in the car. She waits fifteen minutes, a half an hour, forty-five minutes . . . Finally, after an hour, she starts calling his cell phone. No answer. She tries again. No answer. She drives down to the dealership and there’s no sign that he went into his office at all. She drives home in a panic and calls the police.
I interrupt to ask, “And I’m just sleeping this whole time? Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I didn’t want to,” she says, “until I knew what was happening.”
Finally, just after midnight, the police call and say they found him, and can she come back down to the dealership.
So that’s where we’re heading now.
In the car, neither one of us speaks for the first five minutes. Then my mom turns off the radio, which means she wants to say something.
I wait.
After a few more seconds, she takes a big breath, then says, “I’ve been begging him to see a doctor.”
I stare at her. “You have?”
Her hands grip the wheel tightly. “Yeah. For the last couple of months, since it became clear what was going on. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to worry you.”
“And he said no?”
She glances over at me. “Have you met your father?”
I don’t answer.
She puts the radio back on—classic soft rock, which she loves. Usually, she sings along. Tonight, she doesn’t.
We see the lights of the dealership up ahead. The red and blue lights of police cars spin and flash, too. It feels like we’re driving onto a movie set. But we’re not.
As we get out of the car, a woman in a suit walks up to us. “Ms. Springer?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Abosa. Please come this way.” The detective spots me. “This your son?”
“Our son, Caleb, yes.”
“Ah, the QB. Nice to meet you, Caleb. Sorry to get you out here so late, especially during championship week.”
Man, even the cops are all about it. “It’s no problem,” I say. “Are you taking us to my dad?”
“I am.”
We head around the side of the building, where all the cars for sale are in a giant lot. A small crowd is gathered by the SUVs. I assume they’re all police. They’re looking up at something, shining their flashlights, and it takes me a few seconds to figure out what it is. Then I see it.
Or, I should say, then I see him.
My dad.
I have no idea what he could possibly be doing until I realize he has a pillow and blanket with him.
He decided to spend the night sleeping on the roof of a brand-new car.
“One of our patrolmen spotted him about a half hour ago,” Detective Abosa tells my mom. “We’ve been trying to get your husband down, but he doesn’t seem interested. We thought you might have better luck.”
My mom starts to run toward him. “Sam? Sammy?”
My dad lifts his head, stretches, gives my mom a big smile. “Honey! What are you doing here?” His voice is weird and distant, like he’s talking in his sleep.
My mom hesitates for a second, then says, “Well, I could ask you the same question.”
“I’m getting some rest,” my dad says. “Or I was until these people woke me up.”
“Okay,” my mom says. “But why are you sleeping here?”
My dad hesitates, like he’s deciding if that’s the dumbest question in the world or the smartest question in the world. Either way, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks at me and says, “Caleb.”
It’s hard for me to look at him, because the lights are so bright, and also, because it just is.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Big game coming up.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Sammy?” My mom’s tone is different this time. More urgent. “Sammy, please. Come down from there. We need to go home.”
My dad lies back down. “I’m tired. I need to go to sleep.”
The detective walks over to my mom. “We could get a doctor or a therapist or someone down here if you think it might help—”
But my mom shakes her head. “SAM!” she shouts, so loud that the other cops stop chatting. “Come down now! Caleb needs to get some rest, too! It’s championship week! So come on down! NOW! Otherwise Caleb WON’T BE ABLE TO PLAY!”
Well, that does the trick.
My dad stretches and yawns, then leaps down off the car. Watching him do it so gracefully reminds me what a great athlete he still is.
He’s got the pillow in his hand. My mom takes it from him. I recognize it—it’s from our guest room. The blanket is, too. He must have taken them when he left the house earlier.
My dad still doesn’t look fully awake, but I recognize the confused look on his face, because I’ve been seeing it more and more often over the past few months. Detective Abosa whispers something to my mom and hands her a card. My mom puts the card in her jacket pocket, then grabs my dad’s hand.
“Let’s go home,” my mom says, softly. “Whaddya say, honey? You want to go home?”
My dad doesn’t answer for a few seconds as he watches the various cops start to pack up their stuff. Finally, he answers my mom, but this time his voice is different. Wide awake. Normal.
“I thought I was home,” he says.
PART III
Sun
25
When my mom announces at breakfast the next morning that she made an appointment with Dr. Lucci, who she says comes recommended by everyone, my dad doesn’t even look up from his grapefruit.
“Have fun. I’m not going.”
My mom looks exhausted but determined. “We talked about this. You agreed. And Caleb is coming with us.”
“Last night was some weird sleepwalking thing,” my dad says. “Or maybe it was my pain meds. My back has been killing me lately.” That’s another fun part of being an ex-NFL player—he’s got aches and pains all over his body—back, legs, shoulders, ankles. He used to take a lot of pain medication, before my mom helped him give them up.
“You’re back on the meds?” my mom asks. “Let me see them. Get them for me.”
My dad stares straight ahead.
“I didn’t think so. Appointment is tomorrow at ten thirty.”
“I said I’m not going.”
My mom gets up and pours herself some more coffee. She paces around the kitchen. I pretend to busy myself with homework.
Finally, she says, “You’re going to that doctor’s appointment or I’m done. I mean it.”
It’s like all the air goes out of the room. My mom stands at the kitchen sink, not taking her eyes off my dad. I look across at him, and I can see his jaw muscle pumping, almost beating, like a heart, but his mouth isn’t open. His neck is getting red, which happens when he gets worked up. I try to prepare myself for the yell I think is coming—even though when he really gets going, nothing can prepare you for that.
A few more moments of dead silence.
Then he does say something. But it’s not a yell. In fact, it’s so soft, you can barely hear it.
And it’s only one word.
“Fine.”
Dr. Lucci is a neurologist. A brain doctor. Her office is really fancy—she must be good at her job. We meet her, say hello, and then she takes my dad away for some tests. My mom and I sit in the office for a few minutes, not doing much of anything, then she says, “Want to go get ice cream?”
I laugh a little. “It’s eleven in the morning.”
“That’s okay. I bet they’re open.”
Well, you don’t have to ask me twice. Fifteen minutes later we’re sitting at Dusty’s and I’m holding a coffee shake. My mom orders a child-sized chocolate dip cone, her favorite.
I slurp a sip. “Don’t tell Coach,” I say. “Or Dad.”
“I won’t,” Mom says with a laugh.
We’re quiet for about a minute, then my mom says, “You’re it, you know.”
I’m not sure what she means, but I don’t say anything. I figure she’ll explain. And she does.
“You’re what’s keeping him going. You and football and watching you become what you are. It gives him so much joy.” She pauses for a few seconds, then adds, “It’s one of the only things that gives him joy.”
I keep sipping my shake.
“But it also gives me joy,” she adds. “And makes me so proud. I worry, yes, but I love watching you play and shine and be the best, and making Dad happy. I love it. And it’s possible that I love it a little too much, if you know what I mean.”
My mom sits back in her chair. A lot of things are running through my head—the pressure of playing, the danger of playing, the thrill of playing, the possibility of not playing. But the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, “I do know what you mean.”
She gives me a tired smile. “You know how much we love you, right, Caleb?”
“Of course I do, Mom.”
“You know we’d do anything for you, right?”
“Yeah.”
She’s got a tiny smear of chocolate above her lip, and it reminds me that my mom never has a hair, or anything else, out of place. She’s the most put-together person I’ve ever seen, at least on the outside. Inside might be a different story.
