But then I’m getting blasted from behind this time, what will be flagged in a few seconds as an illegal block in the back, their left guard’s helmet making a direct hit to the back of my right shoulder.
The bad one.
I somehow manage not to scream, even though I feel as if the joint just got split wide open.
I fall face down on the field and stay there, not wanting anybody to see just how much pain I’m in.
When I finally manage to roll myself over, Clete Raymond and Dr. Sherman are kneeling next to me. When I realize how much my right arm is trembling, I force myself to sit up and get my helmet off, holding on to it with what little strength I have in my right hand.
I’m scared to death that he might see something that will tell Clete Raymond to get me out of there, before I hurt myself further and—worse—hurt the team.
“You hit your head again?” the doc asks.
“No.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“It doesn’t,” I lie. “Just got the wind knocked out of me when I landed.”
They help me to my feet finally, the doc apparently satisfied that my right arm isn’t about to fall off. The crowd cheers. Vince is out here on the field and he’s the one I lean on as I walk off. When we get to the bench, he takes a seat next to me.
“Before you say anything,” I tell him, “I’m not coming out of this game.”
“Furthest thing from my mind,” he says.
“Keep it even further away than that.”
For some reason, maybe the telepathy we’ve always had, I turn around to see Taylor standing in front of her seat, staring hard at me from up there.
Then I say, “Check it out,” to Vince, and raise my right arm and wave at her. Just that simple motion makes me feel as if I got hammered behind my shoulder all over again, but there’s no reason for them to know that.
“How’d that feel?” Vince asks.
“On a scale of a hundred?” I ask. “I’d say 109.”
ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN
THE PAIN DOESN’T get any better as the game plays out, but it doesn’t get any worse, either. Maybe because I can’t imagine how it could at this point, the area behind the shoulder throbbing constantly.
And I don’t care.
I don’t miss a single play, no matter how hard I get blocked or hit the ground or hit somebody else, not hesitating to lower my right shoulder when I have to.
It all keeps coming back to me with each play I’m in on, what it feels like,reallyfeels like, to be competing again. At any level. Hit and get hit. Knowing how much the guys you’re playing with want it, and knowing the other guys want it just as much as you do.
When I was the quarterback, the game was in my hands every time my team had the ball. Every play was like pass-fail. This is different. Sometimes I won’t be anywhere near the play. Sometimes I have to be satisfied helping out the rest of the defense by just knocking the blocker in front of me to the side, or right out of the play.
The Stallions go ahead, 28–27. I get my first sack and then get another two plays later. Before long, we’re ahead, 35–30. But they get the ball back with under two minutes to play. It’s theirquarterback who gets the chance to do what I did so many times in high school and college:
Take his team down the field to win the game.
Jamal Henks completes a pass to the sideline. Then another. Then one over the middle. He’s getting too much time now, everybody rushing him feeling as tired as I do.
Get off,I keep telling myself.
Get off for just one more damn minute.
The Renegades finally end up on our one-yard line after one more pretty great scramble from Henks, three seconds left. They call their last timeout. Kind of thing every kid dreams about, all the way back. One play to win the championship.
