Second Impact

by David Klass

  “So, Jerry,” Dr. Klapper said, “I’m wondering if maybe you did take a hit to your head and you actually are having some troubling aftereffects.”

  “No, sir, absolutely not!” Jerry sounded surprised. I turned back from the window and saw their two faces again, head to head, concentrating. “Like I told you, I got hit a couple of games ago, but it wasn’t my head, and I didn’t black out. I can just see that when you have all the wind knocked out of you like that, and everything hurts, it might be hard to answer detailed questions about exactly what happened.”

  “Jerry, I have to tell you, I have taken care of many athletes, and many guys your age. And this game of asking theoretical questions, does this sometimes happen, does that sometimes happen, is the second-oldest game in the book. The only older tactic is where a guy says, ‘I have this friend, he’s having headaches, he flunked his history test.’ So skip the games and tell me, did you lose consciousness?”

  “I didn’t. I swear to you I didn’t,” Jerry said. “And I haven’t had any symptoms at all since then like the ones you’re describing. Matter of fact, I actually got my highest grade of the year in trigonometry the very next week. And I’ve been reading stuff and writing stuff no problem, and playing serious ball. I mean, believe me, I would know if my timing was off. Really, Dr. Klapper, I’m just trying to understand. Like you said, I’m trying to understand the way that guys talk sometimes when they’ve been hit really hard.”

  “People know when they’ve lost consciousness,” Dr. Klapper said. He looked past Jerry to me, and I wrote it down on my reporter’s pad, even though of course I knew the tape recorder would pick it up. “People know.”

  We all stood in the room in silence for a minute. I was willing Dr. Klapper to give it up, to stop. I’m not sure why, but I was. I didn’t want him to ask any more questions, and I didn’t want Jerry to have to answer.

  I turned over a page in my reporter’s notebook. I cleared my throat.

  “Um,” I said, kind of loud. “Um, Dr. Klapper?”

  They both turned toward me, those square faces, those four clear eyes.

  “I was kind of wondering,” I said, “you’ve been so kind, you’ve given us so much time, and I’m sure you must be really, really busy. But could you tell me, what made you choose to go into this particular field?”

  He looked at me, like he was trying to figure out whether I really wanted to know. I held my pen, poised over the lined page, ready to take down his words.

  “It’s just about the brain,” he said, finally, and I thought I could feel all three of us relax. “The brain is so amazing—what gets stored there, how it reacts when there’s injury, the way that things come back, even the way they don’t. You can spend your whole life studying one tiny, tiny piece of the brain and never understand how it works completely. Or else you can accept that we don’t fully understand it, but you can do this kind of medicine, work with people who are trying to repair their brains and repair their lives. And it’s like Jerry’s mother could probably tell you, there are a lot of small victories, and those small victories can give people back their lives.”

  I looked down at my notebook, writing as fast as I could.

  As we were walking back to Pauline O’Donnell’s office, Jerry asked another question. You know, in some ways he’s a much better reporter than I am, I think. He doesn’t ask predictable questions, he puts his whole self into everything he does. Maybe that’s another thing about being a real athlete.

  “Dr. Klapper, you’re an athlete. You probably watch sports to relax. So doing the work you do, seeing what you see, what do you think about the lawsuits and the people who want to make changes—maybe even banning younger kids from contact sports—wouldn’t that be going too far?”

  “I love football,” Dr. Klapper said, swinging us down the corridor at a fast pace that almost seemed like an insult to all those patients in their rooms. “Watch it every Sunday. Big Giants fan, ever since I was a kid. Besides, where do you start? Where do you stop? I showed you a worst-case motorcyle injury. Would I ban motorcycles? That’d be a great thing in the world of traumatic brain injury, I can tell you, but I wouldn’t ban them. Then I showed you a worst-case hockey injury. Hell, I could show you a slew of car accident disasters, but the answer is, you make the cars as safe as you can, you don’t ban them.” He paused. “But sure, I’d rather see younger kids playing flag football, no question. No way that tackle is good for the brain. And I can tell you, Jerry, my body took plenty of punishment, but by the time I got to med school, I needed every last brain cell I had. Glad I didn’t have a concussion or two along the way. Especially not two.”

  We stopped in front of the office where we had started. I put my notebook and pen in my left hand and stuck out my right. “Dr. Klapper, thank you so much.”

  “So if you had a son?” Jerry asked. “If he wanted to play football, you’d let him play, wouldn’t you? I mean, follow all the safety rules, learn to tackle properly—but you’d let him play, right? You wouldn’t stop him?”

  “I do have a son,” Dr. Klapper said. He reached around under his white coat, pulled a wallet out of his back pocket, and opened it to look for a photo, but before he could find it, Pauline O’Donnell popped out of her office, holding a framed photo of a very blond toddler clutching one of those Thomas the Tank Engine toys.

  “Thanks, Pauline,” Dr. Klapper said. We all looked at the photo.

  “Jerry, I don’t know how to answer you,” he said. “I honestly don’t know. I hope he will play sports. I think he’d miss out on half the fun in life if he didn’t. But I’ll tell you, if he comes to me in middle school and says he wants to play tackle, I don’t know what I’ll say. Because I’ll think about … He’s learning to talk right now, he knows new words pretty much every day. It’s kind of amazing to see. So I think a lot about what’s going on in his brain, about how everything is getting stored there, everything he’ll use his whole life through. If he told me he wanted to do boxing, or tackle football, something like that which made it sure he would take hits to the head, I just don’t know.”

  From: JerryQB@kendallhs.edu

  To: Cjenson@kendallhs.edu

  Subject: Strong stuff

  * * *

  Hey Carla,

  I read your blog that will never be posted, and it’s a real shame because I think it’s some of your strongest writing. Thanks again for inviting me along. The trip took me out of all the madness and hoopla here—a break I kind of needed. Visiting the clinic didn’t make me nervous about playing football tomorrow—I’ve always known the risks. But going to New York and seeing what we saw helped put everything in perspective. People have a lot more serious problems than high school football games. It’s ten p.m. now on the eve of the battle and I’m about to turn in, and I have a feeling I’m going to sleep well.

  I wanted to give you some good news. After we got home, I talked to Danny, who had just gotten off the phone with Coach Shea. Danny still insists that he’s ready to play tomorrow, but Coach has decided to rest him no matter what happens. The docs have cleared him, and he wants to run, but Coach made it clear to him tonight that he won’t be in for even one snap. I told you that we take care of our own.

  So, anyway, it’s nice to not have to worry about any of that and just look forward to a good, hard football game.

  I’m sitting at my desk now, and I know that somewhere out there Joshua Ricks is getting ready for bed also. I wonder what he’s doing and thinking and feeling. I’ve watched tapes on him all week, and I know the different weapons he has in his arsenal. I’m quick enough, but I’ve never been real fast. I wish I could do what he does, tuck the ball in and burst upfield like a running back, but the football gods didn’t give me that. I’m a pocket passer. They gave me a strong right arm and the ability to see the field.

  That’s taken me a long way so far. Tomorrow we’ll see if it’s enough to take our team to the championship final.

  Thanks again for taking me along tod
ay. I’m going to sleep now. See you at school tomorrow and then at the big game.

  THE GRAND CRUSADE

  Posted by user JERRY on November 30 at 11:07 p.m.

  Nervous energy is a strange thing. I slept well on Thursday night—a deep, eight-hour dreamless sleep, but when I woke up, I immediately knew I was in trouble. I usually lie in bed for a while on game day, mulling things over, but this morning it felt like someone had plugged my central nervous system into the wall socket near my bed. I couldn’t lie still. Almost the second my eyes opened, I popped out of bed and peered out the window into the first light. I knew the forecast—cold and clear—but I checked to see if there was any snow. Ricks is an elusive runner, and a slippery field would slow him down. But there was no snow, no hail, no sleet. Our defense would have to find a way to trip up the dual-threat-meister of Jamesville without help from the skies.

  I tried to focus my mind, but my thoughts were whirling like a pinwheel in a winter wind gust, springing forward to the coming battle with Joshua Ricks, and hopscotching wildly back over the high and low points of my past year of shame and glory.

  I started to panic a bit as I pounded through the cold and empty streets to Danny’s house. You can’t quarterback a quality football game if you’re not locked in. I even found myself whispering a prayer. I’m not super religious, and I never pray for victory—I just don’t see why it would be fair for a supreme being to favor one team over another. But as I jogged through our sleeping town, I thanked God for giving me the opportunity to play in a great game like this, and I also asked him to please help me stop feeling so wired. I’ll win or lose it on my own, but I need to be able to think clearly. Just tell the bees to stop swarming and buzzing between my ears, and I’ll do the rest.

  I guess I was also concerned about all of you who are reading this now—my schoolmates, friends, and fans. You gave me a second chance to lead your team, and I’ll never forget that. I wanted desperately to give Jamesville and Joshua Ricks my best Tiger bite, and I was afraid the pressure was getting to me.

  Danny was waiting outside his house for me, all suited up in gloves and a red fleece cap that made him look like a tall and skinny Santa. “Hey, early riser, how do you feel?” I asked him.

  “Ready to rumble,” Danny said, even though we both knew that he wasn’t going to be playing that day. He looked sad and a little angry, but I have to admit that on some level I was glad that Coach Shea was playing it very safe. “What about you?” Danny wanted to know. “How’s the bazooka?”

  “Loaded and ready to fire,” I replied, and it must be Carla’s influence but I couldn’t help noticing all our references to war and military hardware. Let’s face it: a football game is a battle, and preparing for one is like getting ready for combat. “But I am a little more hepped up than usual,” I confessed to Danny.

  He studied my face for a moment and then grinned and swatted me on the shoulder. “I’d be worried if you weren’t, amigo,” he told me. “This is serious stuff, today. Let’s go!”

  Danny took off and ran like a demon. I tapped into my store of nervous energy to try to keep up and managed to stay with him through the fields and past the factory to the pine forest. We ran side by side through the stunted pitch pines, not saying a word. The movement and the cold air helped clear my head a bit, but not as much as I’d hoped.

  I found myself wondering if Ricks could have stayed with us on our long run. I know he could have smoked me over a short distance. I remembered his face from the newspaper photos. It said in the article that he plays center field on the Jamesville baseball team and is one of the best high school prospects in Jersey. And in the winter, he runs indoor track and has set records as a sprinter and long jumper. If that isn’t enough, Ricks has his own band in Jamesville—where the hell is that in New Jersey, anyway?—and apparently he is a hell of a lead singer. Now, I’m not usually intimidated by opponents. I’ve played against great runners and wonderful defensemen, but I’d never encountered a team with a star who might be far better than me at my own position.

  Halfway home, Danny turned on his extra jets and started pulling away. I flew into full sprint and stayed on his heels for a hundred yards or so, and then I fell back, gasping: “Hey, Roadrunner, have some mercy. I need to save something in the gas tank for Jamesville.” He didn’t slow down, so I did—I wanted to make sure I didn’t run myself out. By the time we reached his house, he’d opened up a two-block lead. Danny’d made a point—to me and to himself. He ran like his old self—the way nobody else ran—and by not using him against Jamesville, Coach was giving up an awful lot.

  School was a blur today, even walking through the halls was surreal. Faces swung sideways to stare at me and quickly past me, eyes studied me and darted away. When a pitcher is throwing a no-hitter his teammates aren’t supposed to talk to him for fear they may spook him. Well, at a school like Kendall, when there’s a humongous football game looming, nobody wants to risk jinxing the quarterback. I walked in a strange bubble of silence as kids looked away and didn’t smile back or speak; sometimes they even knocked into each other to clear a path for me, not wanting to jostle my right arm.

  Someone should make a rule that if you’re playing a postseason football game you don’t have to sit through Spanish, chem, and trig. The bell finally rang, and I was first out the door.

  A bus took us from Kendall High to Princeton University, where our semifinal game against Jamesville would be played. It was nearly an hour’s drive, and our team was mostly silent, everybody getting pumped up in his own way. Hey, Carla, here’s a good over-the-top war reference for you. We’ve been studying D-day in Ms. Fraser’s history class, and I couldn’t help wondering if this was a little bit like how it felt when American and British boats set off for Normandy in the darkness and suddenly, to all the soldiers on board the flotilla of boats, the life-or-death battle to come became shockingly real—the black waters of the Channel on an overcast night, a tight-faced commanding officer at the front of the boat, and your comrades and brothers-in-arms sitting around you, praying or waiting in silence as the French cliffs appear and the battle inches ever closer. What was the message that Eisenhower sent to his troops that fateful night? “You are about to embark on that grand crusade toward which we have striven these many months.” We had started practicing for the football season in August, and now it was basically December and here we were, on this silent bus, rolling toward a fierce foe.

  Coach sat at the front of our bus, alone, fingering his St. Christopher medal. He didn’t say anything to us—he was saving his pep talk for the pregame meeting. I sat next to Danny and gazed out the window at the changing landscape. As we wended our way through forest, farmland, and small towns, I tried desperately to quiet my nerves.

  There may be some positions on a football field where you don’t need calmness and split-second decision making. I’ve never played linebacker or rushed a passer, so I don’t know how much actual thinking goes on from play to play. Maybe they can get by on instinct and anger. But I can tell you that a quarterback has to be razor sharp from the coin flip to the final whistle. There are a million decisions to be made with every snap, and the tiniest error in time management or ball protection can be the difference in a game, and in this case an entire season.

  Something told me Ricks didn’t have trouble making decisions. He was a natural athlete—or maybe just a natural. Maybe he didn’t have to work hard at being the star of a rock band, either. I realize now that I kept building him up in my mind as the day wore on and the game drew closer.

  I was running out of time to get myself under control. After thirty minutes, I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing at all—a zero inside a black egg, growing smaller till it was a silent dot in time and space. And then Danny said: “Hey, Jer, check it out, Princeton!” and I opened my eyes.

  The Princeton campus was beautiful but a little unreal—Gothic buildings, perfectly kept. Okay, here’s an admission: as I’ve been blogging about this se
ason, I’ve followed Carla’s lead and not written much about my own college application process and how many coaches and recruiters have called. I’d rather keep that private and use my blog to tell the story of our team. But I guess I should mention here that at the last possible moment, at Carla’s suggestion, I’d dropped in an application to Princeton. I’ll never get in—my grades won’t be high enough—but when I’d found out the location of this game, I’d let their coaching staff know I’d be playing in their house. I hoped I wouldn’t lay an egg in front of whoever they sent to scout me.

  The Princeton football stadium holds nearly thirty thousand people, and while I don’t believe in luck, I did take it as a good sign that we saw a Tiger logo when we pulled into the parking lot. Princeton’s mascot is the tiger—same as ours.

  I was actually shaking during our pregame meeting. I held my hands together so no one would see. We went over a few key plays, and Coach Shea gave a great pep talk about how he had won the state high school championship forty-one years ago and what it meant to him. “Don’t overplay it,” he cautioned us. “Don’t let the moment get to you and try to do too much. You each have a job to do on the field, and by now you know what that is. Just do your job to the very best of your ability—win the one-on-one battles and make a few brave choices when the spotlight sweeps your way—and no one can ask for more. I certainly can’t. It’s been an honor to coach you guys, and win or lose I’ll never forget this season. But I think you have a destiny beyond this game. So let’s show some pride and win this one for Kendall!”