Concussion
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.”
EMT’s in black shirts strap me onto a red board and put a white 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.
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 declares, “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 the boy, let him rest, give him fluids, put a cold pack on his head. Give him Tylenol, not aspirin. Call me tomorrow. He’ll be fine.” The same thing he’d say for a cold or flu.
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 seventh grade.”
