Page 2 of 40-Yard Line

“But it’s my decision,” said Butch firmly.

“The league could deny your right to play,” said Dr. Strange. “I’m not sure you fully understand the severity of this, Mr. Cavet. Let me explain what this could look like for you. The first concussion generally appears with dizziness and blurry vision, insomnia, loss of concentration and memory, psychological issues such as depression, anxiety, and irritability. You’ve already experienced all of that.

“The intensity of these symptoms depends on the number of brain injuries sustained and the severity of the head trauma. There's no definite number of how many head injuries a person can sustain before permanent damage occurs, but you are definitely at the precipice. Given the number of concussions you’ve had, I would suspect that you’re experiencing brain dysfunction, vision and vestibular system dysfunction, autonomic nervous system dysfunction, and hormone dysfunction.

“The next things that will occur are not pretty. They could place you in a nursing home or other type of care facility. You have already begun a buildup of abnormal proteins that damages brain tissue. Symptoms include memory loss, mood problems, and suicidal thoughts. According to your coaches and teammates, your moods have been erratic at best.”

“So much for being great teammates,” he scoffed. “My moods have been erratic because my coverage has been fucking awful, and we’ve been getting our asses kicked. Anyone would be moody with that shit happening.”

“Butch, this isn’t funny. We’ve all heard the stories of the guys who have killed themselves because of this kind of damage. Heroes of the game. Guys that everyone thought were made of steel. But they weren’t!” yelled the team doctor.

“Then what? What are you saying? I’m done. I’m no longer a player. I can’t play football. Is that what you’re saying? If that’s fucking true, what am I supposed to do? What?”

“I think you need some time to think about this, Butch. You’re off the roster on injured reserve for the next three weeks.”

“Three weeks!”

“Three weeks, Butch. That or retire now. We’ll reexamine in three weeks and repeat the scans, but it’s unlikely anything will change. Football is a great sport, Butch, but it’s not worth your life.”

The two doctors left his room, closing the door behind them. He stared at the ceiling, then slowly closed his eyes. At some point, he fell asleep, only waking when he heard a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

“Hey, asshole,” smiled his teammates.

“Hey. You guys here to give me my gold watch,” he frowned.

“Brother, we just want to be sure you’re okay, that’s all,” said Petey Rossi. His longtime friend, although that was a stretch, and offensive tackle had been there for him the last ten years on and off as he played with New Orleans. There was a brief break in there where he played in Colorado, but he always wanted to come home. Behind him, Butch caught sight of the young QB that would be taking his place.

“Kurt,” he said briskly.

“Hey, Butch,” he said quietly. “Sorry about all this, man. Really, I am. I know you have to take it easy for a few weeks, but we’ve got Nashville next week. I could sure use some guidance on how to handle their defense.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I should be out of here in a few days but come by any time.” The young man nodded, smiling at him. It wasn’t his fault. He was doing a job. Just like Butch had done his job when selected to take over for the retiring QB two decades ago.

“Butch, you’ve got a lot to offer the game,” said Petey. “It doesn’t have to be on the field. Imagine what you could do as a coach or mentor for new QBs. Or as an analyst. You could even be a scout for a team. You would be able to identify young talent on both sides of the ball. The game needs you.”

“Yeah. Right. Just not throwing the ball.”

“Man, you’ve got a lot to learn, Butch. I’ve been playing more than a decade now, and even I know it all comes to an end sooner or later. Your life isn’t worth it.”

He followed the advice of the doctors for a whole week. One whole week and still, all he could think about was getting back on the field. While the others wore full-on pads, tackling and hitting, he was working out on the sidelines. He wanted to show them he was good to go.

Unfortunately, his body wasn’t ready to go anywhere. He could feel it. Something was different. With his head down, he went into the training room and had one of the trainers draw him an ice bath. It was miserable at first, but the benefits for his aching body were worth it.

“Butch, maybe you need to seriously think about retirement,” said the coach. He was chest-deep in the ice bath, staring at the man who’d had enough faith in him to bring him back from the dead pile.

“I’m not quitting. You and I both know that I can recover from this.”

“Butch, I’m not sure that you can,” said Osterhausen. “Doc says this could be career-ending, and that doesn’t even include all the concussions you’ve had before. The league and the team owners are putting pressure on me.”

“The damn concussions aren’t my problem!” he said, slamming his hand into the side of the tub. “My problem is that I don’t have an offensive line that protects my ass.”

“Careful, Butch. Those boys work hard and have protected you for a lot of years. You need to face the facts that you’re slower than you used to be, you don’t release the ball as quickly, and you’re not seeing the open receivers as well. It’s natural. We all slow down eventually.”

Butch said nothing, turning his head away from the one man he thought would have his back.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said the coach. “We have to talk about this, Butch. I’m getting pressure from the front office and from the league.”

---