On fourth down, their tailback — a kid named Kenny Rodriguez — took the handoff, and somehow I just knew what was gonna happen. That’s the beautiful part of football, those moments that unfold like a dream, a little slower and brighter than real life. You’re reacting, but it doesn’t really feel that way. It feels like you’re predicting, or somehow even controlling the action.
Kenny launched himself off the ground, trying to dive for the touchdown, and I did the same thing at exactly the same time. People said it was an amazing hit, two human missiles colliding in midair. I remember the crack of our helmets, the oof of air leaving my body as I slammed into the turf. Then just a hum, like a refrigerator in a quiet house.
EVERYBODY ASSUMED that Kenny got the worst of it. I was just dazed; he was the one who got knocked out, the one who left the field on a stretcher with a collar around his neck. But he was back in the lineup the following week, even scored a touchdown. He shook it off, the way you’re supposed to.
I wasn’t so lucky. For months afterward, I had stabbing headaches and blurry vision; I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I missed a lot of school, but staying home was its own kind of hell, because there was nothing I could do to pass the time that didn’t make me feel worse. I couldn’t read or look at a computer screen, couldn’t watch TV, couldn’t play video games or make out with Megan, couldn’t even listen to music. A lot of the time, I didn’t even feel like eating.
I’d torn my ACL freshman year and had spent the whole spring recuperating, so I understood what it meant to be patient, to give my body the time it needed to heal. But when you hurt your knee, you know exactly what’s wrong and so does everybody else. You get the surgery, you get the crutches and the brace, you do the PT. You get a lot of sympathy from your buddies and attention from girls. When you hurt your brain, you don’t really know what’s going on, and nobody else does, either. One day you feel pretty decent, the next you’re a wreck. Some headaches come and go; others stick around and get comfortable.
“It’s a software problem,” Dr. Koh explained. “There’s a glitch in your operating system.”
IT WASN’T until springtime that I finally began to feel a little better. The headaches got less frequent and less intense, and my short-term memory started to improve. I had fewer blackouts in class, and found that I could read for fifteen or twenty minutes at a stretch, do a handful of math problems, even play Call of Duty without feeling like I was going to throw up every time something exploded.
I started hitting the weight room after school, trying to make up for lost time. It was such a relief to be back in the flow, pumping iron with my boys, swapping insults, laughing at stupid shit. It was all good — the soreness in my arms and chest, the occasional dizzy spells, the sweaty clothes in my gym bag, the familiar BO funk of the locker room. Even the return of my athlete’s foot felt like cause for celebration.
I knew my mom didn’t want me to play anymore, but I wasn’t too worried about that. She’d tried to make me quit after my knee operation, and I figured I’d win this battle the way I won that one, by wanting it so bad she wouldn’t have the heart to say no. And I honestly didn’t think I was asking for all that much. I already knew I wasn’t gonna play in college — I’m too small to be a linebacker at that level, and too slow for defensive back — so all I had left was one more season. Ten games, maybe a couple more if we were lucky and made it into the playoffs.
“You’re not serious,” she said, when I handed her the permission slip for my senior season.
“I’m better now.”
“You still get headaches.”
“Just little ones.”
“You’re not yourself, Clay. I can tell.”
“I’m fine.”
“Let’s see what the doctor says.”
Dr. Koh didn’t come right out and say I couldn’t play. That’s not how they do it. He just said we needed to weigh the risks and benefits and make an informed decision based on the available scientific evidence, blah, blah, blah. According to Dr. Koh, there were a lot of risks: cognitive impairment, academic problems, chronic fatigue, serious depression, paranoia, early dementia, stuff you don’t even want to think about. He showed us an article about ex-NFL players living with post-concussion syndrome, guys who couldn’t get out of bed in the morning, couldn’t spell their names or remember the way home from the grocery store; guys who jumped out of moving vehicles or tried to fix their teeth with Krazy Glue. One guy killed himself by drinking antifreeze.
These were athletes in the prime of their lives, he told us. But they had the brains of old men.
“It’s okay if you hate me for a while,” my mother told me on the way home. “I’m pretty sure I can live with that.”
I TOOK the permission slip to my father, wondering if there was anything he could do. We were sitting on his front stoop, watching my stepmother and the twins blow soap bubbles in the driveway.
“I’m not your legal guardian,” he reminded me. “I couldn’t sign this if I wanted to.”
“I just thought maybe you could talk to Mom.”
“I already did.” He folded the slip and handed it back to me. “I think she made the right call.”
That wasn’t what I was expecting. My dad loves football just as much as I do, maybe even more. It’s our thing, the glue that held us together through the divorce and all the weirdness that came after, when he moved out of town and started a whole new family without me. In all the years I played, he never missed a single game, not even the one that took place twelve hours after the twins were born. My stepmother still hasn’t forgiven him for that.
“I’m sorry, Clay.”
He put his arm around my shoulder and left it there. I knew he still loved me, but I couldn’t help wondering what we were gonna talk about for the rest of our lives.
WHEN MEGAN finally breaks up with me, she does it by text, on a Sunday afternoon in early October: i tried really hard but im tired of being the only one in this relationship xxoo m. She’s mad because I skipped last night’s victory celebration at Amanda Gill’s, which turned out to be the best party of the season so far. Something must’ve been in the punch: there were stupid fights and scandalous hookups; on the dance floor, girls were flashing their boobs like it was spring break. This morning, a bunch of bras were hanging from the apple tree in Amanda’s front yard. I saw a picture of it on Facebook.
Megan’s not the only one who missed me. My football buddies — Rick, Keyshawn, and Larry — kept calling my cell, telling me to get my ass over there. Dude, it’s unbelievable! It’s gonna turn into an orgy any minute! They actually came to my house around midnight, waking my mom with the doorbell. She wasn’t as mad about it as I thought she’d be. She just came down to the bottom of the stairs, squinted at the guys for a few seconds, then went back up to bed.
“Come on, bro,” Larry told me. He’s the left inside linebacker, my former partner in crime. “You gotta come to this party.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“We miss you,” Keyshawn told me. He’s a wide receiver, one of our captains. “It’s not as much fun without you.”
I didn’t know what to say. These guys have been my posse since we started playing Pop Warner in middle school. We still hang together when we can, but it’s not like it used to be.