We’re standing huddledon the sideline, as I give my offense a quick, motivational speech. I’m not sure how well it’s going to work, but it’s my job as quarterback to spur my team to victory.
“This game is far from over!” I say with adrenaline running through my veins. “Their defense is getting tired. Let’s run the play just like we have a hundred times in practice. Let’s get some points on the board.”
“Hawks!” we chant in unison.
We get ready to run a play that we’ve practiced during preseason many times. For once today, my offensive line is protecting me well, giving me plenty of time to find an open man.
As I scan the field, I smile to myself when I notice that one of our best wide receivers, Mark Gibson, is downfield and being held by only one man five inches shorter than him.
Perfect.
The other team has made a huge mistake on man to man coverage. There’s no way that dude can hold my receiver. I can toss the ball up high and long, and it’s a sure bet that Gibson will catch it.
This is it.
This is my opportunity to turn this game around and I feel it in every fiber of my being.
I step back and throw the ball with precision to Gibson and wait as the ball glides through the air in what feels almost like slow motion. The packed crowd of hometown spectators cheer in anticipation of the catch and the suspense of the moment is palpable. But what I don’t see and didn’t predict is one of the opposing team’s big ass tight-ends running clear across the field in front of my open guy.
It’s Wally Mansfield, the bane of my existence. The two of us are from neighboring towns in Texas and products of the same NFL rookie class. He was the highest ranked tight-end in the draft, and we’ve played against each other many times during our college careers. He is abnormally big, athletic, and fast. No one can bring him down. I mean, it takes like three or four men to accomplish it. If we were on the same team, he’d be my new best friend, but he’s not. He never is. Even though we play unique positions, we’ve been pitted against each other since we were young enough to care about football and nothing has changed now.
Wally stretches his freakishly long arms into the air and intercepts the ball as if I threw it specifically to him, and starts running toward the end zone like an Olympic track star. This dude is a beast. Known around the league for his enormous size and speed, he effortlessly whizzes by my linemen and is headed straight for the red zone to make a touchdown. I see pitchforks in my future.
I feel it before I ever see a thing.
A defensive lineman on the opposing team tackles me from behind and I awkwardly tumble to the turf on one side of my body, face first.
Then I hear a crack.
And then a searing pain wracks every fiber of my being.
“Fuck!!!”
I can hear faint boos from the crowd as the other team runs into the end zone and performs a highly orchestrated touchdown dance. They don’t realize yet that it won’t count. The asshat who tackled me late is going to be fouled for roughing the passer. Sure enough, it doesn’t take long for the spectators to become eerily silent as they see yellow penalty flags thrown on the field and me writhing in pain on the ground.
I see several sets of cleats running towards me.
“Hold on, Jett,” one trainer bends down to say. “We’re getting the cart.”
“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “Help me up.”
“We don’t want to make the injury worse. We’re getting the cart.”
“No!” I demand again. “Help me up.”
Getting carted off the field is not the highlight I want plastered on every sports channel in the nation. It will be a better look if I make my own way off to the locker room with some help.
“You sure, man?” One of my teammates asks. His eyes full of sympathy.
I nod my head yes preferring not to talk anymore in fear that I’ll fucking cry.
The crowd lightly claps as two of the trainers gingerly help me up and off the field. I can walk fine because it’s my shoulder that’s messed up. I pray that it’s not what I think it is. A broken collarbone is the kiss of death for a quarterback because the recovery time is so long.
While team physicians numb me with painkillers and proceed with x-rays, the team’s quarterback coach, Trent Bantom, sits with me. He’s an ex-NFL quarterback and one of the few people in this organization who I believe has never judged me. I respect him a lot.
“This doesn’t look good, does it?” I ask him.
His eyes drop. “It’s probably your collarbone.”
