Lying in a hospital bed, something was wrong again.
My eyes decided to open, but blinking did not make the hospital room disappear, nor did it awaken me from the dream I hoped to be in. Something was definitely wrong again.
The situation seemed clear, but the conclusion remained cloudy. Switching from calm to panic mode seemed inevitable when seeing my shirt cut in half, clothes dirtied, and arms unable to move. Then, my brain started to work again, and I slowly remembered.
"Football crazy" would be the two words tagged to my town of Harrison. From the cashier at downtown Food City, to the alumni of the Harrison Football Booster Club, everyone's attention centered on its high school football athletes. Just one question remained after the birth of every boy: would he be good enough to play Harrison football?
Speed was my ally. God blessed me not with girth, but rather a pair of legs that moved quicker than anyone else. I took it as His way of answering the question I had been born into.
"He's too small. He's not big enough. He's not durable."
That kind of talk could lower any high school senior's self-esteem, but the critics from the newspapers fueled me more Ever since third grade--induction to Midget League Football--my mission consisted of proving the doubters wrong, using the gift of speed as it had been intended. Being undersized and more at risk to get hurt never crossed my mind because without football, and a chance to win the state championship, my life would not have been worth living. Even with continued success below the varsity level, the verdict was still out on if I could repeat my performances. That is how it is in Harrison.
Senior year meant the last chance to go to, and win the New York State Championship. It meant the last time to strap up the pads for a high school football season. This meant the last opportunity for me to silence my critics. Prove yourself Greg. Break tackles Greg. Run Greg, run--and fast.
My head coach, Coach Troilo, knew me since kindergarten gym class, and we developed a bond that any father and son would be proud of. I believed him when he told me, "Hassel, you just might be the fastest player in the section. We'll give them Jay's power up the middle and your speed on the outside. Thunder and lightning baby, thunder and lightning." He did not care what others thought, and he knew it was going to be my year.
His championship blueprint had been made, and the local newspapers agreed as they ranked us second in our section of New York. Their preseason prediction held strong with win after win being tallied, but many a naysayer lacked confidence in the team, and me. "Can Harrison win a state championship if their running back is 165 pounds? The twelve game season might prove to be grueling." No amount of touchdowns could earn me respect. Did people want me to quit? Did they want me to get hurt? Only three more wins to obtain that championship.
Saturday night under the lights meant the opportunity to win the section championship and represent our division of New York. Anxiously waiting, my teammates sat in the locker room hours before the game. Houses were emptying, and the town of Harrison became quiet. They were all at the game, awaiting their beloved Huskies as they prepared back at the school. Only one person remained in town.
I sat in the last pew of my local church. Dark and ever eerie, it was just me and God. I sat and prayed for a lot of things: for the health of my family and me, everyone I loved, those who had passed on, all that were sick, and the ability to continue to do what I had done the entire football season. My legs could not fail me, and they would not.
Just as advertised, the field was a thing of beauty. New state-of-the-art Astroturf, a capacity crowd, and plenty of pride on the line had set the stage perfectly. Slated to be a tight game, this one turned into a lopsided affair. The critics smiled as 'thunder and lightning' was nowhere to be heard or seen in the first half. Never once had I been hit so hard or felt so much pain in my entire life. Obscenities and spit flew in my direction as I walked out of the locker room to start the second half. My eye-black faded, body ached, and I read the scored which showed us losing 20-6.
Embarrassment swept through my entire body. Ashamed to walk back out onto that field after the wretched first half performance, things needed to change. I knew that I did not want to walk off that field at the end of the game with the same feeling. With a tug at my shoe laces and a look into the sky, it was time to excel.
20-13. Our defense gave us offense, and the enemy tired down. Seeing that they did not have the stamina to play another half, their fatigue gave me new life. Tosses and sweeps to the outside could not be stopped. They could not catch me and they would not catch me, all 165 pounds strong.
Fourth quarter. Our outside, speed oriented offensive game plan became obvious to the opposition.
"Coach, run me up the middle. They won't expect it. What does someone like me have any business going up the middle?"
You see, Coach Troilo had been commanding the Harrison sidelines for twenty years, and he knew me for twelve years. Our respect for one another and the trust between us was something built up for quite some time. He knew I was not trying to hog the headlines; I just knew what we needed to do to win, and he knew it too.
Only 1:30 left in the game. I remember it all so clearly. We lined up, determined to tie the game. The play was designed for me, up the middle. The linebackers shifted the wrong way. The laces of the football hit my stomach, my head lowered, and I saw my body cross the goal line--
The hospital bed was cold, and the room had that distinct, almost 'sick' smell. I moved my arms and fingers methodically from my sides and worked them up to my chest, and then neck. I kept thinking, "Do not feel Styrofoam, do not feel Styrofoam."
I felt Styrofoam, and I realized that my neck and head were pounding with pain.
"He's awake."
The nurse seemed reluctant to mutter those words. My mother walked in the room behind my father, filled with tears. She loved my 'fame' around town as a football player, but she would have traded that feeling away if it meant me not getting hurt. Post-game dinner with the family would always have her replaying the game, and all the moments where she cringed and closed her eyes. She grabbed my hand, grateful to see me awake and aware. What the hell was I doing in the hospital?
"We thought this one was the worst of them all, but there don't seem to be any breaks in the neck or spine."
Those words from the doctor made it known to me what had happened. The neck brace, the football clothe, the pain; I had received another concussion.
It is a funny thing because you can remember so vividly what happened right before you black out, and from that time on, nothing but darkness. It was no personal fault of my own, but rather my brain's.
"Did they stop the game for me again?" I implored my mother.
"They had to, you weren't moving. No one knew what was the matter," responded my mother.
Positive attention is one thing, but negative is another. All eyes are on you when the ambulance comes onto the field and brings you to the hospital. I wish I had just woken up. Why did I have to get knocked out again? God works in mysterious ways.
It had nothing to do with my size, and surely nothing to do with my toughness, but looked like the 'little' running back could not hack it. I then remembered about my concussion-occurring, game-tying touchdown run.
"What happened? Did we win?"
My parents did not smile. I sat in the hospital with a concussion, and a loss in the biggest game of my entire life. Dejected, and searching for answers, the same doctor came in that I always end up seeing in this situation. You would think that I remembered his name by that point.
"Mr. Hassel, I've got some good and bad news for you. The Huskies pulled one out today because of your play. In fact, you were named MVP of the game."
It was not my last game after all. I might as well have been six-foot, 225 pounds because I had succeeded on the greatest level. Two more games until we take took the championship home.
"Let's get me out of this neck brace then. Concussion: see how I feel and take it day-to-day. Take Tylenol every six hours. No neck or spine damage right? That should be it then."
I knew the routine by now, since it had been my third concussion in my handful of years of playing.
"That's right," the doctor said. "But Greg, I cannot allow you to play anymore."
My heart broke into a million pieces. Hell had frozen over. Pigs were flying outside the hospital windows.
After three concussions, brain damage factors into the equation. We need to take a cat scan, but seeing that you were out cold for some quite time, as well as the previous times, there is sure to be enough damage to make a fourth concussion prove life-threatening. I cried. The worn eye-black beneath my eyes ran down my face. I jumped into a gown and rode the stretcher down to get a cat scan.
"What kind of music would you like to be played while we undergo this procedure?"
I wanted the doctor to play my high school's touchdown song. I wanted to hear the crowd. I wanted to continue on the trek towards a championship. I wanted to prove everyone wrong, but I knew my time had come up. I knew the critics were smirking. I knew an undersized running back's dreams had finally been cut short.
Is there a God up there? Does he listen to the critics and the doubters?
I was moved into the machine, and could only think one thing…
"Shit."
I sat in my bed most of the nights that followed, unable to sleep, wondering "why me?" Now, I look back at my senior year, and smile. I believe it was God's little way of telling me that I had bigger, and less-injury prone things ahead of me. His gift of speed told me something after all. From cleats and turf, to spikes and track, I am now waking up everyday not with pains to my neck or spine, but rather just my entire lower body. Track fitted my speed needs beautifully, and also ruled out any question of head injuries. Heading down to the Alumni Stadium locker room at Boston College brings a smile to my face because I might not be getting on TV for the Eagles on the gridiron, but I get to leave my legacy in a different way, on a different sport. No amount of pain to my legs upsets me these days because I am truly blessed and know that without three fatal blows to my head, I would have never been looked at by Division I schools, and would have never considered running around in circles for four years.
God listens after all.
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