I was sitting on the bed of a trainer’s Gator.
I looked around, blinking.
My shoulder pads were off. Helmet, too.
I saw that the one defense was on the field, lined up against the bottom feeders. Offense-Defense period, which was held a full hour after Special Teams.
Only now did I look down and notice that my right foot was kicked out in front of me, an ice bag secured to it by an ACE bandage.
—Hey, I said to a trainer walking by.
—Need anything? he asked, stopping.
I tried to rotate my right foot. Pain ribboned through my body. I didn’t know what to say, and the trainer shrugged and continued walking. The whistle was blown for a water break, and players jogged to the sideline.
—Reshawn! I called out.
—How you feeling? he asked, catching his breath.
—What happened? —To what?
—To my fucking ankle!
A group of players standing near us laughed.
—I don’t understand, Reshawn said.
I closed my eyes and took a breath, trying to remember, trying to will away the injury. I opened my eyes again. My mind was blank, ankle still swaddled.
—The last thing I know, I said, was we were doing onside. I was going for the kick.
Reshawn nodded.
—Right. That freshman Barron hit you. J1 stepped on your ankle while you were down.
—I’ve been out since then? Reshawn shook his head, distressed.
—No. You, you stood. The trainers helped you to the sideline. I came over here and we had a whole—you really can’t remember?
—What? Remember what?
—We had a whole conversation. You’ve been sitting here for an hour.
The whistle was blown, break ending. Reshawn had to run back onto the field.
I sat on the Gator for the remainder of practice, trying to recover my memory, rotating my ankle, standing and trying to put weight on it, wincing and having to sit back down. I stopped another trainer, who said I’d be out for a week.
After Zeller gave his end-of-practice speech, I got a ride back to the Hay. But I didn’t flee the building, as I had the rest of the week; I hobbled to the metal bench at the top of the tunnel, the bench players used to tie on their cleats, and ignored the smirks and snark of passing teammates. I was waiting for Gerry Veblen.
Veblen was the A/V man in charge of taping our practices. I followed him up to his office on the second floor and sat in the swivel chair next to his as he cued up film of the play that had injured me. The film started, the kick popping up into the air. There I was, number 42, sprinting to recover the ball. All the bottom feeders on the kick return were angling toward where the ball was going to land—save for Barron, who cut across the grain of his teammates and headed straight for me. I was looking up at the ball while Barron’s head was lowered, aiming for my helmet, smashing it against mine. He upended me so that my feet were momentarily above the level of my head before I crashed to the ground.
When Reshawn said J1 had stepped on me, I’d assumed that had been as purposeful as Barron’s hit. But now I saw I was just on the ground at the wrong moment. J1 tried to sidestep me, but he couldn’t avoid cleating my ankle. After the play was whistled dead, J1 was the one who gestured wildly to the sideline for trainers to come.
Hightower ran up to me, too, taking a concerned knee next to me, then he stood and rushed over to Barron and got in his face, pointing toward the far end of the field, clearly telling Barron to run punishment laps around the practice fields. I took some comfort in seeing how angry Hightower was, but then I saw Barron, as he started running to the far end of the field, get slapped on the ass by several bottom feeders. They were congratulating him on what he’d done.
EIGHT
—Can’t you wrap it twice?
—“Tape,” Mom.
—Wrapping tape! I don’t know. Can’t you do it extra?
—I can barely walk.
—Are they kicking this kid off the team?
—It’s football, Dad. People get hurt.
—Our plane tickets are nonrefundable.
—You told me.
—We’re going to lose—
—Five hundred—
—Five hundred dollars.
—So go anyway. You have the hotel room booked.
—And do what? Watch the game while you’re sitting at home!
—Just go. You’ll sit with the parents you’ve been wanting to meet.
—What’s the prognosis again?
—One. Week. Mom, will you write it down for him?
—Don’t talk like I’m—
—I’ll be back in time for the Virginia game. I’ll—I’ll be playing the rest of the season.
—Maybe I should give Coach Zeller a call.
—Don’t bother him, Dad. He can’t sprinkle magic dust onto my foot and make it better.
—Will the McCoys be there?
—Senior, probably. I don’t know how Ali’s feeling.
—That poor woman. Do you remember Reneé from church? She had MS. She was in those mass petitions for years. She must have died.
—She moved to Greeley, Linda.
—Still. That poor woman.
—See? Go to South Bend. Annoy the McCoys.
—I don’t annoy anybody.
—You can go to a service in the chapel. Light a candle at the grotto.
—They should let you come to Indiana. What if your ankle’s feeling better by Saturday?
—That’s not how it works, Dad.
—I told you not to get the nonrefundable ones, Carey.
—They were three hundred dollars cheaper!
—Good. Settled. Enjoy South Bend.
—Oh, let’s not pity ourselves, sweetheart. This is a blip. Think of all the other games you’ll play.
—I know. Look, I need to start this homework.
I hung up before they could say anything else. I was alone in the dorm room, sitting in bed, staring at the ankle that had been sprained three hours earlier. The bones were already swaddled in swelled flesh, the skin tinting blue. But maybe Dad was right.
