Alumni Football Blog #3: The Hit

“Hey Chris…you ok, dude?”

For a split second that seemed like 30 minutes, it was completely quiet and I could not breathe. It’s not like I didn’t WANT to breathe; it?s just seemed that my body forgot how to breathe. And there was an awareness of pain.

Vomit-inspiring pain. And the most timid squeak I have ever uttered.

“yes….ok….I think”

The 15 seconds immediately before the pain were pretty cool though. I had just come off my stance on the right side of the Wildcat Defense, circumventing the tight end and heading straight for the rear number of the QB who was looking opposite me for an open receiver.

I think I grinned. I also recall having the same glee I felt when I was chasing down Quarterbacks in 5th & 6th grade. Then, a fleeting awareness of movement, out of the very corner of my left eye. A blur. A ghost? Nope. A pulling guard.

Cartoon stars. An odd compression and popping, much like stretching a rubber band past its breaking point. Warm, spreading pain.

Then split-second, 30 minute silence.

“Hey Chris…you ok, dude?”

“yes….ok….i think”

I struggled to my knees, aware that I could not feel my right arm, and then managed to get upright; purple spots in 8-packs from the lights of Wildcat Stadium filling my field of vision. The odd feeling like my right arm was still touching the floor, knuckle dragging.

Out of some odd reflex, I tried shrugging my right shoulder. It rolled, then popped in three places, deep inside the joint. More warm, spreading pain. And the immediate feeling of wanting to barf.

I jog to the sideline, and try to stretch. Now the arm won’t come up above shoulder height. Try to bend down, get into 3-point stance and fire off. Arm won?t come up quick enough. Uh-oh. Coach says get some water. I do. Then run right back onto the field.

More pops. More barfy. More plays. Hard plays. Many more hard hits between friends. Words exchanged, players shoved and facemasks grabbed.

Coaches say we gotta be careful with each other, we’re all on the same team. We gotta make the game. I say to myself “I gotta finish practice…make the game.”

By the time practice ends, I can feel the fingers on my right hand and my right shoulder. But nothing in-between.

Uh-oh. And I have to deal with a 5-speed to shift on the way home.

Every shift of the gear makes something inside my arm feel like a couple of legos about to pop apart. By the time I get home, even the goosebumps hurt.

Heating pad, ibuprofens, long hot shower and a fitful night’s sleep. A quick shift in the bed to turn off the alarm and the arm reminds me of all my 44 years of life. And a hit. Lift arm. Pop. Ow. This goes on pretty much throughout the next days.

Nearly a week later, one missed practice (sorry fellas) and very many ibuprofens, there are still a few pops going on inside my shoulder and it?s puffy and weak, but there are no more barfy feelings.

With just about 2 weeks to go before the game, the team has come a long way, and I hope that I have as well. I’m pushing myself in ways I never had before, and I sense the team is doing the same.

We gotta finish practice, we gotta make the game.

My co-workers see me struggling to write on the board, take me aside and they ask, “Hey Chris, you ok?”

All I can say, “Yes….ok….I think.”

To read alumni football blog #1 click here.

To read alumni football blog #2click here.