Paralyzed (4 page)

I was stunned. I looked out across the beautiful swimming pool, but all I saw was Nate Brown lying on that football field, not moving. My stomach churned. Sweat beaded on my forehead. This was my worst nightmare come true.

“Paralysis?” I said, barely getting the word out of my mouth. “How long is it going to last? He will get better, won't he?”

Dr. Stevens looked at me intently. “Like I said, it's too early to tell, Reggie. Often in these cases, the swelling subsides and the feeling comes back. Sometimes the person makes a full recovery. Other times, there is permanent damage to the spinal cord—”

“Permanent damage?” I said. “You mean like he wouldn't get better? Maybe not play football again?”

“Football isn't the important thing here,” Dr. Stevens said. “Right now, Nate and his family are worrying about whether he will be able to walk again.”

I felt the tears rush to my eyes even though I was fighting them back. “Oh my God.”

“Reggie,” Dr. Stevens said, “you have to keep this in perspective. What happened on Friday night was a fluke. You had nothing
to do with it. From what I remember of the play, you couldn't have seen Nate coming. So don't beat yourself up. Nate is getting the finest care possible. All we can do is hope for the best.”

I heard Dr. Stevens's words, but I wasn't listening. Not really. All I could think of was Nate Brown lying in that hospital bed, his family gathered around. His mother wishing I was dead.

The walk home from Jeff's house seemed like a long one. I had barely said a word during supper. Afterward, when Jeff asked if I wanted to take a swim, I had quietly declined.

I told him it was because I wasn't feeling well, which was sort of true. But I wasn't sick, just dejected. I had gone to Dr. Stevens hoping for a positive update on Nate Brown. Instead, I had received almost the worst news possible.

I saw the Lincoln spirit sign on the front lawn as I approached our house. It had been there ever since the start of this school year. Members of the pep squad planted them on the lawns of all the varsity football players. Mine was black with white lettering—the Lincoln colors—and it bore my number, 77. Underneath the number were the words
Reggie “Stick-'em” Scott
.

The nickname had come from my reputation as a middle linebacker. I was a hard-hitter. That was the main reason I was a starter for the Lions. There were certainly bigger, faster guys on the team, but nobody hit as hard as me. Usually, the sign stirred a feeling of pride inside me. Tonight it just made me queasy. Who wanted to be known as “Stick-'em” when a kid was lying in a hospital bed?

I grabbed the sign and roughly yanked the metal ends out of the grass. Resisting the temptation to break it over my knee, I walked around to the side of the house and dumped it by the trash cans.

I didn't say much to my parents that night, although I could tell they were concerned about me. At about 9:00
PM
, I told them I was going to bed.

“Little early, isn't it?” Dad said, looking up from his newspaper.

“I'm just tired. It's been a long day.”

“Come here a minute,” Mom said.

I walked over to the kitchen counter, where they were both sitting. Normally, I felt pretty connected to my parents. Right now I didn't think there was much they could do to help me.

“Reggie, I know you're still worried about that boy,” Mom said. “But you have to let it go. There's nothing you can do.”

“I know. I'll try.”

Mom grabbed me and hugged me, kissing my forehead.

“If you need to talk about anything, just let us know, okay?” Dad said.

I nodded. I knew that they were trying to help, but they didn't know how. I didn't know how to help myself, either.
As I headed up the stairs to bed, I hoped that tomorrow things would feel better.

I saw it the second I opened the front door the next morning to grab the newspaper. The Lincoln spirit sign that I had left by the trash cans was back in the front yard. This was weird.

I walked into the kitchen. “This is bizarre,” I said. “I put that spirit sign by the trash when I came home last night. Now it's back on the lawn this morning...”

“I put it there,” Dad said. “I noticed last night that it had been taken down, and I stuck it back up. Reggie, you've got nothing to feel bad about. You're a Lincoln varsity football player. We're proud of that, and you should be too.”

I shook my head. Tears welled up in my eyes. “I took that sign down for a reason,” I yelled.

Dad looked hurt. “Reggie, I...”

“Forget it,” I said, running out to the lawn and yanking the sign out once again. “I'm getting rid of this stupid thing for good.”

I pulled the sign out of the metal holder. Then I held it up in front of me and ripped it in half. I grabbed the pieces, ran around the side of the house and stuffed them deep into the trashcan. The sign wasn't going up again.

I was still angry a few minutes later when Dad confronted me. “What's this all about, Reggie?” he said.

Tears were now streaming down my cheeks, and I let it all out. I told Dad about my talk with Dr. Stevens and about how Nate Brown might never walk again. About how I didn't want to be known as “Stick-'em” anymore.

“I can understand how you must be feeling,” he said quietly. “That's really awful news about Nate. But we still don't know how this is going to turn out. Try to be
positive. Remember that no matter what anybody says, this really had nothing to do with you.”

Somewhere, in the most logical part of my brain, I knew Dad was right. Nate had hit me, not the other way around. It was Nate who had used sloppy, dangerous tackling technique, not me. Maybe if I kept telling myself that over and over, it would start to feel like the truth.

Football practice went a little better over the next couple of days, although I still didn't feel anything like my usual self out on the field. Unlike Monday, we didn't do much hitting with our first-string offense. Coach Clark didn't like risking injury so close to the next game. It was mostly drills and chalk talk as the coaching staff tried to get us ready to face Franklin. The Demons had won their first game of the year 53–0 over
Peabody the previous week. This was a huge game for us. We all knew it.

Just before Thursday's practice, Coach Clark called us all in to midfield. “Take a knee,” he said. “I've got some news. First of all, Nate Brown is still in hospital. The doctors say it's too early to tell what his long-term prospects are. For now, he's not walking. I know that's not what anybody wants to hear, but I thought you boys deserved to know the truth.”

For most of the players, this was the first news they'd had about Nate Brown. I could sense it was hitting a few of the kids pretty hard.

“Nate is in room three-one-six at Gower General,” Coach Clark continued. “He's not allowed visitors yet, but I'm sure the family would appreciate cards or letters. The second piece of news is this: Our game against Milbury has been rescheduled. Instead of a bye in the final week of the regular season, we will now play them,
but the game will be at their field. That's all. Now let's get to work.”

We divided into offense and defense and began running through drills. It was the day before a game, so Coach Molloy was keeping things pretty light.

“Reggie, can I have a word with you, please?” Coach Molloy said as the first drill began. As I walked over to join him on the sidelines, I noticed him motion to Coach Clark as well.

The three of us sat on the bench while the rest of the team continued to practice. Nobody seemed to notice that I had been pulled away for this meeting.

“Reggie,” Coach Clark began, “you haven't had much spark this week, kid, either in your play or your attitude at practice. Is everything okay?”

I couldn't believe that Coach was asking me this after what had happened the week before. Of course everything wasn't okay. A kid was paralyzed.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. I was lying. “I mean, yes, sir.”

“I don't think you're being straight with us, Reggie,” Coach Molloy said. “I've been coaching you for years now. I don't remember a week when you looked like this.”

“Looked like what?” I snapped back. “What's wrong with the way I've been playing?”

I immediately regretted my tone. But it was too late to take it back. I was just so sick of people constantly asking me what was wrong.

“Well, you haven't been yourself,” said Coach Clark. “For one thing, you haven't been hitting anything like the ‘Stick-'em' of old.” Suddenly, I loathed that nickname more than anything in the world.

“I think it's got something to do with the Brown kid,” Coach Molloy said. “Am I right, Reggie? Is that still in your head?”

I nodded. Was it that obvious?

“I can't help thinking about him, Coach,” I said. “I can't help thinking that
if I had just done something different. If I had just—”

“Reggie, I'm going to tell you this for the last time,” Coach Clark said, his voice growing stern. “You had absolutely nothing to do with that boy getting injured.”

“Then why does it feel that way?” I blurted out. “Why can't I get the picture of him lying there out of my head? Why can't I concentrate on plays? It's all I think about in school and at home—all the time.”

The coaches looked at each other. Coach Clark spoke first.

“Son, I've been watching you very closely in practice,” he said. “I think it's best if you don't play tomorrow. Your head's just not there yet, Reggie. And I don't want
you
getting hurt.”

“But, Coach...,” I began.

“I've made my decision,” he said. “Just hit the showers now, take the weekend off football.”

“You're kicking me off the team! Coach, that's not fair.”

“No, Reggie,” Coach Clark said firmly. “We're certainly not kicking you off the team. You're an important part of Lincoln football. But you can't play safely or effectively the way you are right now.

“We've spoken with your parents. We all agree. We want you to see a sports psychologist. Dr. Stevens knows a good one. He thinks it will help.”

A sports psychologist? What, was I crazy now too? My parents and the coaches had been talking about me behind my back and making decisions for me. Everything was spinning out of control.

“Come see me Monday,” Coach Clark said gently. “We'll talk again then.”

I walked off the field, stunned. Although I hadn't exactly been pumped to play tomorrow night, the thought of not playing was even worse. If I had felt alone with my problems before, that feeling was now magnified a thousand times.

I slowly peeled off my pads in the locker room and changed into my sweatpants and
flip-flops. Now, as well as wondering if Nate Brown would ever play football again, I was wondering about my own future in the game too.

I noticed the Bronco in the school parking lot as I started to walk home from practice. That was strange. What was Dad doing here?

He honked the horn and motioned me over to the suv. I opened the passenger door and jumped in.

“Coach told me I'd be able to find you here,” he said. “Thought you'd want to talk to somebody.”

“Seems like you've already done plenty of talking,” I replied. “Seems like you and the coaches already have everything decided for me.”

Dad turned off the ignition and took his hands off the steering wheel. “Reggie, we're only doing what's best for you.”

“What's best for me?” I interrupted, growing angrier by the second. “So what's best for me is missing a big football game
in my senior season? And going to see a shrink? Is that best for me too?”

“We think so,” Dad said softly. “Let's face it, Reg, you haven't been yourself this week. That's understandable. Something like this is traumatic. Sometimes people need help to work through it.”

“I don't need any help!” I screamed. “And I don't need a ride, either. I'm walking home.”

I slammed the car door as I got out. Dad didn't try to stop me. But he pulled up alongside me, rolled down the passenger-side window and said, “Cool off some on your way home. We'll talk later.”

“Whatever,” I said, without looking at him. Deep down I knew I wasn't mad at my father. But I felt like I had to take my anger and frustration out on somebody.

I walked home slowly, with everything swirling in my head. If this hadn't been the worst day of my life, it had come awfully close.

I kept quiet during dinner that night, barely listening as Mom and Dad discussed everything except high school football. As I munched on Mom's meatloaf, I felt guilty about how I had spoken to Dad at the school, but I didn't want to bring it up. I was just hoping for a nice quiet evening and a good sleep. Maybe that would help make things clearer.

No such luck. “I'll clear the dishes,” Mom said. “And you two talk.”

The way she said it, I knew Dad wanted to have a serious discussion. Normally all three of us cleared the dishes, cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher. Mom was obviously trying to make sure Dad and I patched things up.

“Reggie, I'm sorry you feel we ganged up on you,” Dad began.

My anger had subsided a bit, but I still wasn't happy about having to sit out against Franklin. Playing the Demons was supposed to be one of the highlights of my senior season. But even I had to admit that part of me didn't feel much like playing football.

“You guys are just trying to help me. I know,” I said wearily. “But how can I miss the Franklin game? It's one of the biggest of the year.”

“I agree with Coach,” Dad said solemnly. “You're not ready to play football. He said you've been avoiding contact in practice, and that your head just hasn't been in the game this week. We've noticed that you're not really yourself around home, either.”