Dinged, page 12
“I’m glad you know that,” she says. “We’d do anything for you. But that doesn’t mean . . . that doesn’t mean you have to do everything for us.”
I feel my heart thump a little in my chest. “What do you mean, Mom?”
She takes a napkin and wipes the smear away, and just like that she’s perfect again. “I mean, there are going to be some tough times ahead, for all of us. And you’re going to have some decisions to make, and they’re not going to be easy. But they’re your decisions. If you want to talk about anything, or want my opinion on anything, I’m always here for you. I hope you know that.”
I stare down into my shake, because I don’t want her to see me almost cry. I haven’t said anything to her about how I’m feeling about football, how confused about it I am, but it turns out I don’t have to. She gets it. She gets everything.
That’s how moms work, I guess.
“Thanks,” I manage to croak out. “I might.”
“Okay, honey.”
Her phone buzzes, and we both jump a little, jolted back to the immediate situation. She looks down and reads a text.
“They’re ready,” she says.
26
Dr. Lucci gets right to the point.
“Your husband is showing symptoms of what is called early-onset dementia,” she tells my mom, as if my dad isn’t sitting right there. “It’s very uncommon at his age, but I know Samuel played professional football, and there is certainly a growing amount of evidence that the trauma caused by repeated blows to the head can be an underlying cause.”
So there it is. My dad is sick. Football causes brain damage.
My dad is sick because he played football.
The room is silent for a few seconds as the doctor lets us absorb that news. I have a zillion things going through my head. That my dad is going to be different for the rest of his life. That his strange behavior is going to continue, and probably get worse. That his sickness is almost definitely a result of playing this game that he and I both love so much. This game that I’m so good at, that could open up the world for me.
Like my mom said—I have some tough decisions to make.
I see her grab my dad’s hand.
“From what I understand,” the doctor continues, “Samuel has been aware of his condition for some time but has done his best to conceal it from his family.”
My mom gives a tiny shake of her head. “I knew,” she says. “I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I knew.”
“I knew, too,” I say, barely louder than a whisper.
My dad turns to me. There are tears in his eyes. “This is on me. I refused to talk about it. I thought if I ignored it, I could make it go away, make it not real. It took me a long time to admit it to Mom, but I knew she knew. I knew I would have to deal with it. I just didn’t think it would be this soon. But you, Caleb . . . I was . . . I couldn’t. I’m sorry, son.”
I get out of my chair and hug my dad. “It’s okay, Dad. Seriously. I get it. It’s okay.”
He hugs me back. “You’re the football player in the family now, son, and it’s a much safer game now. You make me so proud every time you go out onto that field. I see what I used to be, and that makes all this a little easier to take.”
I try to push all the doubts about football out of my mind, just for the moment. “I’m glad, Dad,” I tell him. “I’m glad.”
My dad is still holding on to me, so I don’t move. Nobody talks for a minute, then Dr. Lucci says, “I don’t want to sugarcoat it, because this is not a situation with a miracle cure. There’s a lot of great research happening, and some promising developments, but they’re still a ways off. In the meantime, we’ve got all sorts of exercises and activities to help Samuel. There’s a lot we can do to make sure he stays healthy and positive, and with his family’s support and love, I have no doubt he’ll do really well.”
I can feel my dad’s incredibly strong hands—the hands that made him Sammy “Dinger” Springer, all-pro NFL wide receiver—as they squeeze me tight.
“We’re going to fix this, Dad,” I say into his chest. “We’re going to help you get better.”
Nobody says it out loud, but we all know the truth.
With this disease, there’s no such thing as getting better.
27
Three hours later I’m in the school gym, trying to smile my way through a giant pep rally.
The whole team is sitting in folding chairs on some type of stage they set up for the occasion. Coach Toffler is introducing the players, one at a time. It takes forever because there are more than forty of us. It’s like a graduation, except we’re not graduating from anything.
The subs go first, then the starters. First the defense, then the offense.
When Coach introduces the offensive line, Ron Johnson gets the students riled up by flapping his arms up and down like some sort of hyperactive eagle. Kenny, who’s recovered from his concussion and back in the starting lineup, slaps hands with me before he goes up onto the stage. “Dude, they’re gonna roar for you,” he says. They announce the wide receivers, then the running backs.
And just like that, I’m the last guy sitting there.
“And last but certainly not least,” Coach Toffler says, his voice starting to rise in volume, “our quarterback, number 12, the man who is going to help us take home the trophy, a once-in-a-generation talent, freshman Caleb Springer.”
I get up out of my chair and walk onto the stage. The whole gym is hooting and hollering. Coach shakes my hand, then whispers, “Say a few words. They’d love to hear from you.”
I glance back at Ron, who nods at me. He’s our captain, and the largest human being in our school, but even he knows that when the time comes, no one wants to hear from the center. They want to hear from the QB.
Me.
Coach hands me the microphone. “Wow,” I say, my voice echoing off the walls. “This is really cool. I’ve never been to one of these before.”
Someone yells, “That’s because you’ve never been in high school before!” and everyone laughs.
I laugh, too. “That’s true. I don’t really have much to say, except I’m really excited for the game tomorrow night, and I hope everyone comes out to watch!”
More cheers. I see a hand go up in front of me—it’s Alfie Jenks, wanting to ask a question. I glance over at the coach, and he shrugs. Sure, why not?
I nod. “Hey, Alfie, what’s up?”
She holds her phone up, and I realize she’s recording my answer. “A report just came out about concussions in high school and college football. Did you see my blog post about it?”
“Uh . . . I think I heard something about it.”
I see Coach Toffler out of the corner of my eye, shaking his head. He starts walking toward me.
Alfie follows up: “There have been a bunch of articles, like in the New York Times and stuff, about concussions and other head injuries in the NFL and college, but now they’re starting to look at high school football, too.”
“I don’t know anything about that—”
“What about your dad?” Alfie asks. “Wasn’t he an NF—”
But that’s when Coach Toffler reaches me, and he grabs the microphone out of my hand. “Alfie, Alfie!” he says, cutting her off. “What is this, ESPN? You going for a Pulitzer Prize or something? Come on, now. This is a celebration, not an inquisition!” Then he leans into me and whispers, “Go ahead over there and stand with your teammates.”
I walk over, with Alfie’s questions ringing in my ears. Ron leans in and says, “What is up with HER? That was BULL!”
After another few minutes, the pep rally is over. We’re getting off the makeshift stage when I feel someone’s hand on my back, and I turn to see Nina. She looks upset.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
For a second I think she’s going to take me on about it, but she obviously realizes this isn’t the time. “I saw that blog post by Alfie, but I didn’t think she would bring it up the day before the game. That doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, trying to laugh it off. “People need stuff to talk about, write about. It’s stupid. I’m good. Seriously!” I see Alfie talking to someone a few feet away and yell, “Hey, Alfie! What was that about? Suddenly you’re like trying to be all 60 Minutes or something? I need to focus on the game!”
“I’m sorry, Caleb,” she yells back. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just wanted to know if you’d heard about that report.”
“No, and I don’t want to know about it!” I turn back to Nina, desperate to change the subject. “You guys ready for your gig tomorrow night?”
But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she says, “At some point, you probably should check it out.”
“Check out what?”
“The report, Caleb,” Nina says, gently.
I can feel my skin getting hot with irritation, and I lash out. “What happened to not bringing it up the day before the game? And what’s it going to tell me anyway, that football is dangerous? Wow. What a fascinating piece of information.”
There’s a look of concerned surprise on Nina’s face. “Whoa. You reminded me of your dad just then.” My eyes immediately fill up with tears. Nina notices right away, of course, and her face goes from concern to alarm. “Caleb? Caleb, what is it? What’s going on?”
I haven’t told her. I haven’t told her about my dad sleeping on top of a car, and going to the doctor. And I can’t tell her what it feels like right now, to have all the air go out of my lungs, like I can’t breathe, after she said I reminded her of my dad. I can’t tell her exactly what that means, and how scary it is. I can’t tell her any of that.
And then, suddenly, I can. In fact, I have to.
I pull her into a corner, away from everyone and everything. “My dad . . .” I’m struggling to find the words. “My dad . . . We took him to see a doctor. And . . . And, uh . . . it was . . . His brain is . . . He’s . . . uh . . .”
But I don’t have to finish the sentence. Nina knows. In fact, she probably knew before me.
She pulls me into a tight hug. “Oh, Caleb, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
“Yeah,” I say, my head buried in her shoulder. “It’s . . . It sucks. It really sucks.”
“I know. I know.” She pulls back to look me in the eye. “But you guys are an incredible family, and you’ll figure this out together.”
“Thanks. Yeah, I know we will. It’s just that . . . Well, there’s a lot to figure out, actually . . . and Alfie bringing up that report doesn’t help.”
“Forget all that. Seriously, Caleb, don’t think about any of that right now.”
I let out a long breath and wipe my eyes, trying to get it together. Can’t let anyone see the starting quarterback bawling the day before the championship game.
“Do you want me to come over later, and we can hang out?” Nina asks. “Or maybe we can go get pizza?”
I let out a little laugh. “Ha! Can you imagine? Skipping pregame dinner? My dad would just love that.”
“Oh right,” she says. “The intense pregame meal. A family tradition.”
I sigh. “If I had to take a wild guess, I’d say tonight’s meal is going to be even more intense than usual.”
I’m waiting for Nina to ask me how I could still consider playing in a football game right after my dad got diagnosed with dementia, but instead, she puts her hand on my shoulder. “I could come to dinner, if you want—you know, if your parents would be cool with it.”
I blink a few times. “You would do that for me?”
“Of course. Maybe it will help distract you, take some of the pressure off. Maybe it will help you have a great game tomorrow night.”
For a few seconds, I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. I feel so grateful that this incredible person likes me.
I take her hand off my shoulder and put it in my hand and squeeze hard.
She squeezes it back. “And then after you win the championship,” she says, “you will read that report.”
28
Usually we go to Stokeley’s the night before games, but because of what’s going on with my dad, we decide to eat at home. My mom ends up cooking an amazing chicken potpie (light on the peas), and my dad gets into the act by making his famous magic bars for dessert. (I’ll only eat two—the rest are for after the game.)
A few minutes before dinner, Nina comes over. My mom welcomes her with a bright smile, which is no surprise, since that’s the way she is with everyone.
But my dad looks confused. “Wait, I thought we were having our pregame meal. I mean, not at Stokeley’s, but everything else the same.”
“We are, Dad.”
“But we don’t usually have company for that.”
“I asked Nina to come. It’s good; it will help me relax.”
My dad doesn’t get the concept of relaxing before a game, but he lets it go. Instead, he looks at Nina and says, “I hope you don’t mind plenty of football talk. Caleb and I have a lot to cover in terms of strategy for the game.”
“I don’t mind,” Nina answers, looking him straight in the eye. “As long as it doesn’t make Caleb too nervous.”
My dad laughs, but not the way you laugh when you think something is funny. “Don’t you worry about that! A few nerves is natural. It’s a good thing.”
The potpie is delicious, and my mom does a pretty good job of steering the conversation, asking Nina about her band (“It’s going great; I have a gig tomorrow night actually”), if she plays any sports (“Not since fifth grade”), and what’s her favorite subject in school (“Depends on the teacher”). My dad eats quietly, minding his own business, trying to stay patient, until finally he can’t take it anymore.
“Caleb and I need to talk about the game.”
“Oh, sorry,” Nina says.
“No, it’s fine, Nina,” my dad says. “And I hope to hear your band play someday. Caleb says you’re terrific.” Amazingly enough, he seems to like her. But then it’s on to business. “So, I looked at some of that game film you sent me, Cae. Their outside linebackers seem vulnerable. I would think some option plays and some quick screens are going to be a big part of the offensive scheme tomorrow night, am I right?”
“I’m not sure, Dad. We’ve been working on some slants in practice.”
My dad shakes his head. “Slants? SLANTS? That plays right into their two inside backers, who are the best athletes on that team! No, no, that’s all wrong. That’s wrong. I’m going to call the coach.”
I sigh, because I really don’t feel like going down this road, especially with Nina here to see it.
“Don’t call the coach, Dad.”
“Why not?”
“Just please don’t.”
“He loves talking to me.”
“He loves talking to you when you’re nice, because you’re a former NFL star. But he doesn’t want parents chirping in his ear about what to do. No coach wants that, Dad, remember?”
My dad sighs gruffly. “Maybe I should coach this team. The only reason you guys are where you are is because you’re the quarterback. He should thank his lucky stars that I didn’t send you to prep school. I had schools begging me, calling me every day. They wanted to give you a free ride—”
“We’ve been over this, Dad. I wanted to go to school with my friends—”
My dad slams his hand down on the table. “IT’S NOT ALWAYS ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT THOUGH, IS IT?!”
The volume of his voice blows through the house like a windstorm. Nina literally jumps. The dishes rattle. My mom bows her head as if to pray, but I know she isn’t praying. She’s just hiding without getting up.
Nobody moves while my dad’s breathing returns to normal. Then he says, “My point, Caleb, is that their inside linebackers are much more athletic than their outside linebackers, and so you need to work the corners of the field—”
“I don’t think we should talk about football anymore.”
My dad stops. He has a look of total confusion on his face, maybe because of who spoke.
It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my mom.
It was Nina.
My dad gazes across at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I don’t think we should talk about football anymore,” Nina says again. “It just seems to stress everyone out, and I think the important thing to do now is relax.” Her voice gets a little sturdier with every word.
My mom grabs my dad’s arm. “She’s right, honey. Let’s find something else to talk about. The game plan is set. Caleb knows exactly what he needs to do to win the game.”
But my dad is fixated on Nina. “I—You’re saying I’m not relaxed? You’re saying I’m stressing out my son? I guess I’ve stressed him out to the point where he’s the number one quarterback in the state as a freshman. How could I possibly do such a thing? How could I possibly behave so terribly?”
“You seem like an amazing dad, Mr. Springer,” Nina says. “But you raised your voice, and you slammed the table so hard that I dropped my fork.”
My dad blinks a few times. “I do not believe I raised my voice, or that I slammed the table.”
“Nina,” I say, and she looks at me, and our eyes meet, but I have nothing else to add.
Nina places her napkin on the table. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. I should go. Caleb, thank you for inviting me. Mr. and Ms. Springer, thank you for having me.”
She gets up, and I watch her, and I suddenly panic that she’s leaving for good, forever, and so before she makes it out of the dining room, I say, “Wait!”
She turns back and waits.
“Why don’t you sit back down, hon?” says my mom, but Nina just stands there. Before I can say anything, my dad chimes in.
“It’s just as well. You don’t need the distraction of a girlfriend right now.”
I turn to my dad. “Are you serious? We’re freshmen in high school!”
My dad smirks out a laugh. “Listen, Caleb, you’re going to break every high school record in this state, and then you’re going to win a national championship in college, and then you’re going to be a perennial all-pro and win Super Bowls and make a fortune. You’re going to have the media breathing down your neck for the rest of your life, watching your every move. You need total focus, and you can’t be making any mistakes, especially now, just as it’s all beginning.”
