“Smart, but it’s true. I’m saving my energy for tomorrow.” His round, boyish face might’ve been his greatest weapon. How could anyone not trust that face? And yet, no oneevershould. We’d all learned that the hard way.
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
I grabbed the remote and collapsed onto my bed, flipping through channels while the last of the adrenaline from my workout faded. ESPN, ESPN2, some cooking competition where they made edible shit out of dirt or some other nonsense, then a documentary about sharks that looked cool but also way too intense for my current energy level. Frustrated by the lack of options when there were too manychoices, I returned to Old Faithful, ESPN.
SportsCenterplayed as background noise while I pulled out my phone and began my usual death scroll—Instagram highlights, a few texts from my mom asking if I was eating enough vegetables (no, Mom, I’m a grown adult), and a group chat that had devolved into an argument about whether a hot dog was a sandwich (it wasn’t, and I would die on that hill).
On the TV,SportsCentertransitioned into one of their special segments, the homemade stuff they played when there was nothing competitive to air but they still needed to fill the time slot.
Dramatic music swelled.
“—the hidden cost of college athletics. Tonight, we examine career-ending injuries and the players left behind when the spotlight moves on.”
I glanced up.
It was standard ESPN stuff. They loved these segments—slow motion footage, sad music that reminded me of fundraising drives for starving puppies, and a serious narrator voice that made James Earl Jones sound like Big Bird had sucked on a helium balloon. These shows were usually about football because the sport was basically a human demolition derby with occasional touchdowns and tales of gruesome injuries were easily found.
Only mildly interested, my thumb kept scrolling through images on my phone.
Tyler had posted a photo of his dog wearing sunglasses. I double-tapped and moved on.
“—Florida State linebacker Jackson Armstrong was projected to be a first-round draft pick in 2023. Scouts called him ‘a once-in-a-generation talent’ with ‘NFL-ready instincts.’ Then, in a routine practice three weeks before the draft, everything changed.”
My scrolling slowed.
Jackson Armstrong.
TheJackson Armstrong?
I looked up at the TV.
They were showing college footage now. A guy in a garnet-and-gold jersey was destroying offensive linemen. He wore number 52.
“Damn, that guy had quick feet,” I muttered to myself.
Armstrong made everyone around him look like they were moving through syrup.
“. . . recorded 127 tackles in his senior season,” the narrator continued, “including fourteen tackles for loss and six sacks. He was a team captain, a fan favorite, and by all accounts, destined for professional greatness.”
The footage shifted to show the same player, samejersey, but now he was down. Trainers sprinted onto the field. The screen shifted to a slow-motion replay of his knee buckling in a way that made my own joints hurt.
I sat up straighter, tossing my phone aside.
“The injury—a complete tear of the ACL combined with significant meniscus damage—required immediate surgery. Complications during recovery led to additional procedures. By the time Armstrong was cleared to play again, the NFL had moved on.”
Again, the scene shifted.
It was the same guy, but different. He looked thinner, tired, and now wore street clothes instead of a uniform. He looked like someone who’d had the rug pulled out from under him and was still trying to figure out how to stand.
“I always knew football could end at any time,” Armstrong said on screen. “I didn’t think it would end like this, especially not in practice three weeks before my whole life was supposed to start.”
My professional athlete heart ached for the guy.
I knew this story.
But I didn’t just know of it; Iknewit.
