Concussion

I lie on my back on the field, watching the blue sky spin, ears buzzing, helmet cracked, skull throbbing.  Voices come from the mouths on the faces of the heads above me. 

The offensive coach asks me, “Are you okay?”

The defensive coach asks, “Is he okay?”

The head coach says, “No, he’s not okay.”

Someone says “911.”

My helmet slides up and off.  The head coach says, “His eyes are sunken.  That’s a concussion, right?”

The quarterback coach says, “Keep him awake.  I heard somewhere you’re supposed to keep them awake.”

Guys in black shirts strap me onto a red board and put a brace around my neck.  I’m seeing stars.  Or bugs.  Or stars.  I close my eyes and someone says, “Open your eyes, stay with me a little while.”  I open my eyes and see gauze with stars.

A doctor looks in my eyes and says, “Yes, he’s had a concussion.  A mild one.”  I feel a cold pack and see lights dim.  Voices muffle.  My mother’s voice whimpers, “Oh, no.  I knew we shouldn’t have let him play football.”  My father’s voice says, “Bullshit.”  The doctor asks me my name.  I get it right, but then he asks me what day it is.  No idea.  He says “mild concussion” a few more times, convincing himself.  He says, “Keep an eye on him, let him rest, give him fluids, put a cold pack on his head, Tylenol, give him Tylenol, not aspirin.  Call me tomorrow.  He’ll be fine.”

Dad asks the doctor, “When can he play football again?”

The doctor says, “Well, he’s at an increased risk of more concussions, and well, you follow the news, you know there are long term effects on brain health.”

Dad says, “So, he should take this season off, and play next year?”

The doctor says, “I didn’t say that.”

Mom says, “He’s through with football as far as I’m concerned.”

Dad says, “Okay, lets compromise.  Let him take a year off from football, then he can try it again, in two years, in fifth grade.”