I think I fell asleep again, because when I reopen my eyes, I see the face of a man wearing a white coat.
"Hello, Mr. Boardman. I'm Dr. Donnell. I've been taking care of you since your admission to our facility. You're suffering from a severe concussion."
He pauses, as if hesitating to give me the rest of his diagnosis.
"Sort of already knew that, Doc. Am I paralyzed? What the fuck’s up with my hand?"
"Oh no! Not at all, and short term weakness is a symptom that should subside soon enough. But..."
He falls silent, frowning. I can see he's struggling with a dilemma.
"What is it?" I croak.
The doctor looks over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone.
"Doc?" I insist. "Whatever it is, I want to know."
He turns his attention back to me, then nods.
"Your blood tests revealed traces of performance-enhancing substances."
"You're kidding?"
He shakes his head, looking grave.
"That's impossible..."
Suddenly, I think back to the ‘supplements’ and ‘vitamin shakes’ that the trainer my father hired gave me. I’d taken them without question, since he’d been having me do the same thing going all the way back to my freshman year of high school.
"He told me it was vitamins!"
The doctor grimaces, not knowing who ‘he’ is. "Those weren’t vitamins."
Silence fills the room while I try to put my thoughts in order.
"For how long?" I finally ask.
"Hard to say… anabolics aren’t the sort of thing that you can track like, say, tobacco usage. But based off of a few markers I noticed, perhaps for years. You’re lucky that the NCAA didn’t test you recently, honestly. You say you weren’t aware?”
“No!” I grunt. “I… this is insane!"
The implications of his announcement are enormous. Was I ever actually good at football, or were my performances solely due payoffs from my father, combined with substances that were injected without my knowledge?
Everything I thought I knew about myself is crumbling. And I know who's responsible.
"As I was saying," the doctor continues, "your concussion is severe. I don't recommend returning to sports for at least a good two months, to see if there will be any lasting effects. I’m sorry, but you’re missing the bowl againstSoutheastern."
He pauses. His voice is lower when he adds, "I can tell your coaches that your recovery is just a matter of time, or..."
I frown, sensing his hesitancy. He must know something’s hinky with this situation. "Or?"
"Well, I can tell them that the damage is permanent and that you won't play again."
"Ever again?"
He nods, and his expression is even more serious than if he'd just announced a death.
Never playing football again. The idea struggles to make its way into my head. Giving up football would be like abandoning a part of myself.
