"Snap!" Submission #23

8^th grade football continued…

The coaches gave us Monday off. We practiced on Tuesday. I was still fired up about the game last week and was ready to run through a brick wall in practice if called upon to do so.

After some stretching and running, the coaches divided us into two groups. Offensive backs and

defensive backs were in one group, linemen and linebackers in the other group. One by one, the backs were given the ball and had to run through a line of tacklers who were all positioned between two cones. If you could put a move on them and get past them while staying between the cones, you’d go to the next tackler. If you were tackled… you’d get up and make your way to the next tackler.

I was ready… all 90 pounds of me. If I got tackled, I wanted them to know that they had just taken down a tornado! I thought I was so tough.

Mike Gibbons was the first of eight tacklers waiting to tear my head off. He was a pretty big guy who had at least 40 or 50 pounds on me, but I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t even attempt to put a move on him, I just ran at full tilt and buried my helmet in his chest. He grunted at the unexpected challenge but quickly recovered as he tried to take me down. My legs kept churning as I refused to be tackled.

Soon, the coaches got caught up in the epic David versus Goliath battle unfolding before their eyes. They started yelling encouragement to the underdog in this fight and that fired me up all the more. Suddenly, Mike did what he probably should have done in the first place. With my helmet in his mid-section, he wrapped his large arms around my waist and with his chest on my back, simply fell on top of me. Under the burden of his mass, I felt a snap and immediately experienced a sharp pain in my left wrist.

I slowly got up, holding my wrist, examining it for any visible damage. It looked okay but it certainly didn’t feel okay.

The coaches were still amped up. “Do it again, Munson! Let’s see if these other fat linemen can tackle you!”

How could I say “No” to that? Rather than telling them that I was hurt, I proceeded to go at half speed through the remaining seven tacklers who had no trouble taking me down as I offered little or no resistance. The coaches lost interest in me and started focusing on some of the others.

After being tackled the final time, I reluctantly walked over to Coach Jim Janovick and informed him that I had injured my left wrist. He grabbed my wrist and turned it. My knees buckled in pain as I grimaced, yet remained silent.

“You may have bruised it.” He diagnosed. “Go sit on the sidelines. You’ll be fine.” Easy for him to say!

I sat on the sidelines for most of the rest of practice. Wrist throbbing. Toward the end, I was summoned to take some snaps from center. In addition to being the starting safety on defense, I also filled the insignificant roll of being the third string quarterback.

I rattled off the cadence and the center slammed the ball into my hands. My left wrist was forcibly bent backwards and I yelled out in pain as the ball fell harmlessly to the turf below.

Coach Janovick sighed heavily and scanned the remaining talent pool in search of someone who could take my place behind center. He looked back at me as though he were ready to say something to me… and then sighed again.

“Try it again, Munson. But this time, hold onto the ball. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?” Janovick blurted out with obvious frustration and impatience.

“No!” I thought but didn’t say out loud.

Second verse, same as the first. Cadence… hike… pain… a mostly inaudible murmur of semi-silent agony… ball on the ground.

“That’s it! We’re done! Hit the showers!” Coach yelled with obvious frustration.

I stood there… motionless, waiting for him to explain in detail, my ineptness. Yet another heavy sigh and finally, “Go shower Munson. We’ll get back at it tomorrow.”

My heart was truly heavy. I disappointed my coach. With so much negativity in my life, this was my outlet… my escape from the reality of my tortured home-life. I needed to not be injured. I needed this pain to subside.

For some reason that I presently do not recall, I found myself at my sister’s apartment that evening. She had taken up residence in the apartment above Jack’s bar after she divorced her first husband and moved back to Madrid from California.

It was a nice little abode if you could put up with the noise from the likely inebriated and enthusiastic patrons. It certainly could have used some more extensive noise insulation. The crack of the billiard balls colliding; the raucous laughter of an amused drunk; the overly loud conversations that seemed to increase in volume as the drinkers reached higher levels of intoxication.

The pain in my wrist hadn’t subsided. In fact, it had grown worse. It throbbed. Yet… my primary thought was wrapped around the fear that I may miss a football game. My overwhelming hope was that I would wake up in the morning and the pain would be gone.

I stole away for a while and sat on the stairs, crying… softly, as I held my wrist. Before long, Barb came looking for me. She came around the corner before I had a chance to wipe the tears away.

“Bart, what’s wrong?” She asked… genuinely concerned.

Barb has always been a second mom to me… sometimes a first mom. She was 13 years my elder and had practically raised me. We had… and still have… a very special bond. To this day, she is the “Switzerland” in our family. The peace-maker. The neutral one. The glue that holds us together. The one that we can all go to without fear of judgment. I’d be lost without her.

She hated to see me cry. She always tried to comfort me. I can now reveal that I used her soft heart to my advantage on occasion as I grew up. I guess she probably knows that. I manipulated my way into attending a movie or eating a free meal at a restaurant as I would cry when Barb was set to go out on a date. She would simply tell her date… whomever that might be… that I was going with them. Isn’t that crazy? I mean… if I were the guy, I would have bolted! Taking a chick on a date and having her little brother tag along? No chance! But Barb seemed to have this mysterious power over those of the male persuasion and they simply nodded and went along with her program.

But there was no manipulation going on now. My tears were real and born out of great pain.

Barb made arrangements for me to see the doctor the next day. The pain had eased somewhat later that night… at least as long as I kept it still… and so I was confident the injury was minor and that I’d be back on the football field the following day.

When the doctor came in after reviewing the x-ray, I was so nervous that I felt I’d throw up…