Page 127 of Colliding with Ten

IN THE PROTOCOL

LENNOX

Kyler Leighton and I had a history unrelated to football. The media called it a rivalry. It wasn’t. Vivienne Hollister, or Viv as I called her because we were friends before she knew Kyler, had been with him for two years before she left. Afterward, we dated. Kyler had treated her like property, so he decided I’d stolen her and couldn’t accept that she’d chosen herself over him. He blamed me instead of looking in the mirror.

Dick.

After we broke up, Viv and I stayed friends. You don’t lose someone like her because the romance didn’t work.

Last year, when our teams met, the scuffle near the sidelines happened on Kyler’s word. I was sure of it. A year later, nothing had cooled. On the first play from scrimmage, their defensive end beat my right tackle and gave me an extra push as I went down after throwing the ball. The referee didn’t flag it. It was legal but dirty. The message was clear, and I knew this was going to be that kind of night.

“Welcome to Buffalo, pretty boy. Let’s see how pretty you still look in the fourth quarter.”

I’d heard worse. I’d heard better, too. At least be creative if you’re going to talk. I ignored it and called the play. The best response to trash talk was a first down or touchdown. Talking back gave them energy, but scoring took it away.

“These guys are out for blood, Lennox. This isn’t football.”

I looked around the huddle. Everyone was tense.

“I hear you, but we didn’t fly up here to survive. We’re here to bury them. I want lights out. I want them to wonder why they bothered showing up.”

Then, the play happened. I ran, crossing the first-down marker, and slid. The whistle blew, calling the play dead. I never saw fifty-two.

The impact came from the left. My head snapped right. The turf came up fast, and the last thing I registered was the taste of rubber from my mouthpiece and a white flash that erased everything.

When I came back, the first thing I heard was the whistles. I opened my eyes to a gray sky and faces above me. I tried to get up, but they stopped me. Someone held my head still. The turf was cold against my neck, my ears ringing. I was scared as I got my bearings. Why were they holding my head? I tried moving my fingers. They moved. Then my toes; I could feel them in my cleats. I let out a breath of relief.

“Lennox. Can you hear me? What day is it?”

Why were they shouting?

“Sunday.” My voice sounded muffled underwater.

“Good. Who are you playing?”

“Buffalo.” My words were slow. My tongue, too big for my mouth.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

My mind replayed it. “Did I get hit?”

“You did. We’re going to get you up, but I need you to move slowly. Can you squeeze my fingers?”

I squeezed with both hands. One of the trainers nodded.

They got me to sit up first. Somewhere behind me, more whistles from a referee and someone shouting about ejections. They pulled me to my feet. My legs worked, but the stadium tilted. The medical staff flanked me, one on each side, walking me toward the sideline. I hated it, wanting to walk on my own, but my body had the good sense to override my pride. I gave a weak wave to the crowd as they clapped.

They put me on the cart, which drove me into the tunnel. The noise faded. They walked me from the tunnel to the treatment room and put me on a table. The overhead light was blinding.

“Can you dim that?” I asked.

Someone adjusted the lights, and it was better. The medical staff went through their checks. They shone penlights in my eyes and told me to touch my nose and move my fingers. I flinched at the lights again. The room, filled with tables and equipment, blurred around me. A dull, pressure-like headache built behind my right eye. Nausea came when I turned my head too fast. But the lost time between the hit and waking on the turf worried me most.

The injury I was afraid of was a concussion. Bones and ligaments could heal and be reconstructed, but your brain was who you were. Every play I’d memorized, all the conversation I’d had, everything I valued in myself was there.

Some players treated concussions like a badge of honor. I’d read too many studies on CTE to be nonchalant. Lately, talk had focused on the correlation between football and ALS, another debilitating disease. A retired player who couldn’t remember his children’s names wasn’t a future I wanted. My mind separated me from other quarterbacks with a strong arm. Without it, I was just a guy who could throw really far, and there were thousands of those.

“Any nausea?” the trainer asked.