Page 1 of 40-Yard Line

CHAPTER ONE

“Butch Cavet is really struggling today, Mike. He’s had two interceptions for large returns, and he’s been sacked three times. I know that his offensive line needs to step up and make some blocks for him, but I’m just not seeing the same Butch you and I know so well.”

“Man, I couldn’t agree more. You know, give him credit for coming back to New Orleans after being injured to help the team out earlier this year, but once their new starting quarterback was healthy, management should have released him. It makes you wonder what’s happening here and why they keep him on the payroll.”

“I know there are folks at home that think that’s harsh, Mike, but I agree. Forty-two might not seem old to most of us, but for a quarterback, it’s retirement age, and Butch Cavet’s body has taken quite a beating.”

“For sure, Tom. For sure.”

“Ohhhhhh! That hit was vicious, and folks, Butch is not getting up. Oh my, he is not getting up, and he is not moving. This does not look good. Oh my, oh my. Folks, let’s take a break while the medical teams get out there. We’ll be back soon.”

“Sorry, old man,” smirked the defensive lineman from the other team.

“Get the fuck off of him!” yelled the trainer. “Butch, Butch? Look at me, buddy. Oh, shit. Butch, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“H-how many?”

“That’s right, man, how many fingers?”

Butch couldn’t answer. It just wasn’t physically possible to do it. The world was spinning so fast he was about to puke inside his helmet. He spit out his mouthpiece and tried to roll to his side.

“Don’t move, Butch.” The trainer turned to the sidelines. “I need the doctor and a cart!”

“Fuck, Butch, that was a hard one, buddy,” said his center, Trevon Marks. “I’m sorry, man, they came in behind me, and I didn’t see them. I should have had that one. Stay down, man, stay down.”

“We got the flag, Butch,” said his receiver. “Roughing the passer. It’s okay, man. We’ll win this one for you.”

Butch wanted to say something, but every time he opened his mouth, his stomach began to hurl its contents. He felt hands on his body, lifting him gently and then the familiar feeling of the backboard. It should be familiar. He’d been carted off the field seven times in his career. Seven. Most of those were suspected or confirmed concussions, but two were broken bones that he could still feel to this day.

People said football was entertainment. Bullshit! It was a bloodsport with men willing to literally die on the field all for a fucking six-point touchdown.

“Stay with me, Butch,” said the doctor. “This one is bad, buddy. Stay with me. Don’t go to sleep, man. Not yet.”

“He’s bleeding,” said one of his teammates. “Why is he bleeding?”

“I don’t know yet. Get to the sidelines!” yelled the doctor.

The entire team was kneeling in solidarity and prayer, watching, not for the first time, as their teammate was carefully carted off the field. It would be hours before anyone would know his prognosis, and that would be the worst part. Commentators and supposed football experts would proclaim his demise, predict his retirement, and review every possible outcome to the scenario. Everything would be the worst possible outcomes, no one talking about what an amazing guy Butch is or what he could still offer the sport. Nothing but gloom and doom. Unfortunately, that was reality.

In their hearts, they already knew this would be the last time Butch would step onto the field as a player. It was too much. Too many concussions. Too many broken bones. Too many missed opportunities. Just too much.

“I need the scans done immediately,” yelled the team doctor. They whisked him into the training room with x-ray machines, CAT scans, even minor surgery stations where they could stitch someone up or fix a broken bone temporarily.

“I’m alright,” he whispered.

“You’re not alright, Butch. The league isn’t gonna let you play again, son. This is concussion number five.”

“Four,” he said. “Four that were verified.”

“Fine. Four. Four concussions, Butch. You’re not going to be able to function if you keep this up. You’re going to end up with permanent neural damage and possibly physical damage as well. You can’t keep this up.”

Butch didn’t say anything. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. No one would understand how he felt. No one except someone who had been through it with him.

It was hours later, after scans, x-rays, and an ambulance ride to the hospital, before multiple doctors walked into his room to give him the grave news. At least, that’s what the looks on their faces told him.

“Well, I can see by your face it isn’t good news,” he said. He was trying to hold his head still against the pillow. One wrong move, and he’d lose the contents of his stomach. Again.

“Butch, this is Dr. Strange. He’s one of the world’s foremost experts on concussions and their long-term effects on athletes. He’s looked at everything, son, and he agrees with me. You can’t continue.”

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