“Oh, man. Your boy looks determined now, doesn’t he?” Greg catcalls.
Yes, he does. He’s definitely wearing the face that says he’s ready to increase his team’s lead. Or he’s constipated. Or he’s listening intently to the speaker in his helmet. Or all three. That face means business. I love that face.
Satisfied with the play call, he takes his position behind the center for what appears to be a run play, so my shoulders relax further. But after taking the short snap, he fakes a hand-off to the running back, obscures the other team’s view of the ball with a sweet spin move, then when all attention is focused on the “runner,” turns back around to scout his options down-field.
Except one of the defensive linemen wasn’t fooled. He got past his man and is barreling toward Jet.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeek!” I squeal, covering my eyes.
Colin grips my forearm, his fingers digging into the skin near my wrist. “Oh, blimey!”
“Knox gets it off just in time to Tiffenauer before getting a faceful of Javier Wahl. Oh, my! Tiffenauer is still on his feet at the twenty… the ten… finally brought down at the seven yard line. It’s Chiefs first and goal. But Knox is slow to get up.”
Greg thumps his chest. “Thatta boy, scab! First down!”
“Uh-oh.” Colin intones.
“What happened?” I ask, turning my head to look at my friend while resolutely refusing to peek at the television.
He winces, sucking air through his teeth. “They’re showing the replay now, but it appears before he was knocked down, Jet hit his hand on that scary bloke’s helmet.”
Unable to resist looking for another second, I lower my hands and watch the scene unfold. Jet’s up, and he’s in the huddle, but he shakes his throwing hand intermittently, then grabs it with his other hand and presses it against his thigh.
“Rub some dirt on it, tough guy!” Greg yells.
“Shut up, Greg!”
He looks sharply over at me. “What?”
“If he’s shaking his hand and holding it, it hurts. He’s not a wuss.”
“Okay! Fine. Shit. Are you going to be like this all season? You’re no fun anymore.”
I shush him and focus on the screen. After a couple more failed attempts at the end zone with run plays, the kicking team comes out, and Schoengert knocks in the chip shot for three points. One camera sticks on Jet, creeping as close as it’s allowed to get and zooming in for a shot of Rae palpating the heel of Jet’s hand and instructing him to wiggle his thumb.
“Rae!” Colin shouts, then mutters, “Sorry,” in my concerned direction.
I nibble my thumbnail while watching Jet follow Rae’s directions with gritted teeth and a bounce of his knee. “Oh, gosh. It’s his thumb,” I say with a groan.
“Not good,” Greg concurs.
“What’s that mean?” Colin asks. “They’ll ice it, right? Wrap it, maybe? Inject it with something? But he’ll still be able to play, surely.”
I collapse against the sofa cushions behind me. “If he can’t grip the ball, he can’t play.”
Greg tosses the official NFL football he always keeps close during games (don’t ask) across the room to Colin. “Try holding it like they do without using your thumb.”
Colin complies and immediately sees the problem. “Bloody hell. That’s not on.”
I stare at the ceiling as the game goes to commercial. “This is bad.”
“I’ve seen guys miss a game and come back okay,” Greg tries to reassure me.
“And I’ve watched as much football as you have. It’s not always that simple.”
“There’s no need to get hysterical,” Deirdre pipes up, “until you know for certain what you’re dealing with. Even then, panicking is hardly going to help things.”
“The doctor has spoken,” Greg intones. “Nothing to worry about.”
“She’s a cardiologist, not a— a hand doctor,” I petulantly point out.
Meanwhile, the game returns, the announcers speaking in excited tones as they discuss Michael Wilcox warming up on the sidelines. They cut away to video of Jet walking toward the locker room during the break, his helmet dangling from his left hand, his right hand cradled protectively against his body, his head hanging.
“So, Knox is getting checked out in the locker room, and Michael Wilcox, the rookie backup, is warming up. What do you think about Dick Bauer’s decision to go with the rookie, Charlie?”
“I think it’s surprising, Dan. We’ve all been given the impression that veteran QB Rick Hess was the official second-stringer, and Wilcox was still learning the system, but apparently Coach Bauer thinks the young Heisman finalist deserves a chance.”
“I’m not sure I agree with this decision. Maybe if the score was more lopsided and it was later in the game, but there’s still a lot of game left, and the score’s close.”
“Well, I suppose Bauer could be bringing him in for a series or two to see how he handles the situation.”
“Still risky. Especially considering Tiffenauer’s subbing for Keaton Busch on short notice, which come to think of it, may have been a contributing factor in Knox’s injury. It looked like Tiffenauer wasn’t where Knox expected him to be.”
“You have a good point there. And speaking of Jet Knox, we’ll check in with Jessica on the sideline in a minute, as soon as she has word on his condition.”
The attention returns to the action on the field, but I don’t hear or see anything for the next several minutes. All I can do is worry, helpless, not knowing any more than what everyone else does. Obviously, it could be worse. In no situation is this hand injury life-threatening. But depending on the severity, it could be season-threatening. At the very least, it’s a nightmare. As is waiting for an injury update on someone you care about.
Several plays go by. Then, during a time-out, the guys in the booth pitch it to an inordinately perky sideline reporter.
“Charlie and Dan, there’s not much coming from the Chiefs’ locker room right now, but they did confirm that Knox has an injury to his throwing hand
