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Mduduzi and I both leaned closer to Jin, who’d pulled up an article published two minutes ago by the Coalition of American Doctors.
Statistical Rankings of Professional Helmets.
We huddled against each other to scan the article. Football helmets didn’t receive real ratings, just a pass/fail in accordance to whether they met the national safety standard. Virginia Tech created a five-star rating system some years ago, but even that wasn’t fail-proof.
The article used the statistical data gleaned from the past dozen years to rank helmets worn by amateur, college and pro football players. Including some of the helmets that were currently knocking around the field in front of us. Including some popular helmets that didn’t hold up too well.
“Ouch.” Jin sounded positively gleeful. “That’s gonna hurt.”
I barely paid attention. I was too busy Googling “Abe Krasner helmet” on my phone, but unfortunately all I could find out was where to buy signed mini-helmets. Which wasn’t very useful. I already had one of Abe’s signed mini-helmets. His mom had given it to me three Hanukkahs ago and said it was from Abe.
I found the info. Thank God. He had one of the safer ones.
Carlos’s phone rang, and he lifted it to his ear. Tanya’s voice could faintly be heard on the other side of the line, especially if I concentrated very hard. “Are you reading this?”
“Yup.”
“It doesn’t list any of Loft’s helmets.”
At first that surprised me, since Loft was one of the nation’s top athletic gear companies. They’d swooped up a lot of the endorsements and partnerships in the past few years, and I was used to seeing their patches on the Leopard practice jerseys. Right before I moved out here, the big news in the sports world had been the deal struck for Loft Athletics to sponsor the Leopards’ new training facility.
But on second thought, I wasn’t too surprised, because Loft hadn’t been around for that many years, so it was possible there wasn’t that much data the doctors could gather. And the article did mention it was an inconclusive list.
Still. Interesting.
When the game drew to a close—a win by the Leopards, which would usually have garnered more attention—we all rushed the open locker room with the rest of the press.
Apparently Coach Paglio anticipated the rush, because the setup was a little different than usual. The players must have had their quickest shower-and-dress in history, because they were mostly clothed and stood alongside Coach Paglio and owner Greg Philip, who’d gathered in a power-clump in the center. Paglio cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone prepared for him. “We understand there’s been some news released that many of you want to ask about, but we’d appreciate if the questions stayed on the game. To make it easier, we’ve brought everyone out.”
The Leopards star players stood behind him: Ryan Carter and Malcolm Lindsey of course, and running back Mike O’Connor—and Abe, firm and straight and loyal.
My stomach immediately tied itself in knots at the sight of him. How do you act with a formerly estranged friend that you’ve been in love with for years whom you almost kissed?
But I failed at even making eye contact, because he never once looked in my direction. The butterflies in my stomach slowly folded their wings, and I resolutely pressed my lips together and my anticipation down. Fine. We’d play it professional.
For a moment after Paglio’s announcement we all stared blankly, and then blatantly ignored him. “Coach Paglio,” Eddie Bruges called out, and then everyone started speaking. I fought through the crowd to Paglio’s side. Instead of standing in an orderly crowd, everyone pushed up against the coach and players and demanded answers to their questions, multiple conversations flying at once. I saw the media director looking alarmed on the side as she tried to restore order.
My phone buzzed. Tanya had texted. Ask about why Loft’s not on the list.
I looked around for the guys, but I’d lost them as we tried to get closer. But I was smaller and shorter than most of the press, and I’d managed to squeeze through to the front of the crowd. I took a deep breath. Here goes. “Coach Paglio! Do you have any idea why Loft Athletics weren’t included in the tests?”
With impressive speed, Couch Paglio’s countenance soured. “No idea.”
Another young woman squeezed up beside me. “Why doesn’t the team regulate the helmets the players wear?”
Paglio didn’t bother looking at her. “Not NFL policy.”
I nodded slowly. “NFL policy dictates the color of the players’ socks. But helmets, which actually affect their safety, have no regulation. Why is that?”
He finally glanced at us, his lips tight. “We believe in our players’ right to decide which helmets they want to use.”
“Even though some brands and technology are much more effective at preventing concussions and injuries?”
Paglio thumped his paper down. “My players’ safety is my priority—” His eyes dropped to my badge. “Ms. Rosenfeld. And you can quote me on that.”
Yeah, if we wanted the boringest quote in the history of quotes. “Is it true that players can’t always obtain the brand of helmet they want to test out? And so they won’t get new ones, since they won’t buy a helmet they haven’t tested in practice?”
“No comment. Next question.”
