Paralyzed (9 page)

Sitting beside me, my father shook his head in silence. I was surprised to hear that the Browns still blamed me for what had happened to their son. Hadn't they looked at the videotape or spoken to Nate? He'd have told them that it wasn't my fault.

“Failing such action by the athletic district, and perhaps even irrespective of it, the Browns have informed me that they are considering legal action against Reggie Scott, Lincoln High School and Coach Clark for damages incurred and potential
loss of future earnings as a result of the incident.”

Now my head was reeling. First they asked for me to be suspended indefinitely? Now they were talking about a lawsuit? A week where things were looking up for me had suddenly turned back toward disaster.

Mr. Danton cleared his throat. “Now that we have heard from the Browns' side of the table, we'd like to hear from your side,” he said, looking our way. “Who would like to speak?”

Coach Clark quickly rose to his feet. “I'll start,” he said. “With all due respect to Mr. and Mrs. Brown, I can't believe what is going on here,” Coach said. “Reggie Scott is a fine player and, more importantly, a fine young man. I have been coaching at Lincoln for twenty years. I can't remember many players, if any, I have been more proud of.

“During those two decades of coaching football—and ten years of playing the game before that—I have learned a lot about
tackling. I may not know a lot about legal language, but I know about football technique. I can tell you, without any hint of reservation, that Nate Brown's injury is the result of poor tackling technique. It's that simple. The only part Reggie Scott played in this was that he was hit by Nate on the play. I can't imagine how you must be feeling, Mr. and Mrs. Brown. But I can tell you this: Blaming Reggie for this is just creating a second victim. It's putting a lot of stress on a good kid who doesn't deserve it.

“That's my opinion, for what it's worth. As far as Lincoln's official position on this goes, we disagree completely with any suspension. Period.”

The coach sat down and glanced over at me. It had felt good to hear him defend me like that.

Dad stood up next. “Like the coach here, I want to express my sympathies to Mr. and Mrs. Brown,” he said. “I can't even guess what your family must have gone
through these past several days. I wouldn't wish that on anybody.

“But our family has gone through a lot too. I've watched my boy wracked with guilt all week over an incident for which he can't possibly be blamed. He sat out last week's game against Franklin because of the effect this has had on him. And he's seeing a psychologist to try to get past it.

“My son has been through enough. He doesn't deserve a suspension. And as far as any legal action goes, I can't even begin to address that. It's too ridiculous to comment on.”

Dad sat down. I had never heard him speak so forcefully in public. He had made his point firmly but without yelling or being rude to the Browns.

Mr. Danton turned to me. “Reggie, is there anything you want to say?”

I looked back at Dad. “Go ahead, Reggie, if you want,” he said quietly.

I rose from my seat. My legs were shaking and my mouth was dry.

“First of all, I just wanted to say to the Browns that I am sorry this happened to Nate,” I said. “I never meant to do anything on the field that would result in anybody getting hurt.

“And I wanted to explain that I wasn't celebrating the fact Nate was injured when I was dancing around,” I continued. Tears were coming to my eyes now, and I wasn't able to hold them back.

“I was just happy that I'd made an interception. That's why I was dancing around out there.” Now I was looking directly at Nate's mom and pleading. “I didn't even know he was hurt until I looked back. I'm sorry if I made you feel worse because of that.”

I sat down. Nate's mom still wasn't looking at me, but his father, a burly man with a square jaw, returned my gaze. He mouthed the words “thank you” as he put his arm around his wife to console her.

“Thank you, Reggie,” Mr. Danton said. “I believe we've heard everybody's
submissions. That concludes the meeting today. The committee will review the information and come to a decision. Given the tight time frame with league games resuming tomorrow, we will render a decision within twenty-four hours.”

We got up from our side of the table. The Browns remained in their seats. As we left the boardroom, George Brown's arm was on his wife's shoulders. Her head remained buried in her arms.

It was difficult getting to sleep that night with so many thoughts running through my head. Football practice had gone great that week. Armed with my newfound “centering” strategy from Dr. MacIntyre, I felt like I was playing better than ever. But at the same time, I didn't know whether I'd even be able to suit up the next night for the game against Filmore. Or for the rest of the season, for that matter. There was still a chance I'd be under district suspension.
As much as I had worried about Nate Brown over the last couple of weeks, the thought of not being able to finish my senior football season was devastating.

Sleep finally came, but it wasn't all that restful. I dreamed that I was lying in my bed, trying to get up. But for some reason, I couldn't. My legs just wouldn't move and, as I reached out with my arms to pull myself up, I grabbed onto a metal rail. It was then I realized that I wasn't in my own bed, but in a hospital. I started to panic and scream out for help before I woke up with sweat on my forehead.

I glanced at the clock. It was 6:30
AM
. Might as well get up. There would be no going back to sleep today.

The Northeast Athletic District had promised a decision within twenty-four hours. I knew I'd find out sometime today whether I'd be able to play against Filmore, but I wasn't sure exactly when.

After eating breakfast, I walked quickly to school, heading straight for Coach Clark's
office. I knocked on his door. “Come in,” he said from inside.

“Hey, Reggie,” Coach said enthusiastically. “Good to see you. Listen, I know what you're here for. I'm waiting too. I'm afraid I haven't heard anything yet. You'll be the first to know when I do, okay?”

The morning dragged on—history, then chemistry, then the dreaded third-period math class. Still, there was no word from Coach Clark regarding the suspension. When the noon bell rang, I knew it was time to head to the gym for the pep rally, but I still didn't know if I was going to be able to play.

The smile on Coach Clark's face provided the answer. As I entered the gym, he bounced up to me and shook my hand. “The district decided,” he said. “No suspension. Nothing. They dismissed the whole case.”

I was so relieved, I felt like turning cartwheels out on the basketball court along with the Lincoln cheerleaders. “What about the lawsuit?” I asked hopefully.

“Don't know yet,” the coach said. “I guess we'll just have to see what Nate's parents decide to do. I would think, though, that they'd have the common sense to drop it.”

I nodded. The situation wasn't completely resolved, but at least I'd get to play tonight. At least I wasn't going to be suspended for my senior season.

Midway through the pep rally, Coach Clark called the Lincoln co-captains—Lance Turner, Jeff Stevens and me—up to the microphone to say a few words.

When it was my turn, I grabbed the mike. “I'm just happy to be able to play tonight,” I said. “I'm going to do my best to make you proud of this team. I'm sure the other guys will too.”

The student section cheered. I felt a tingle run up and down my shoulders and arms. I wished the game could kick off right this second.

At about 5:00
PM
, we all boarded two long yellow school buses for the ride to
Filmore. This was the usual drill for a road game. We put on all our gear in the Lincoln locker room and climbed on the bus, carrying our helmets. We were followed by a long line of parents' vehicles, booster club buses and cheerleading squad vans.

Filmore was a forty-five-minute ride away, through downtown to the northern outskirts of the city. It was the newest high-end suburb, full of lawyers and accountants and other professionals and their families. In contrast, our neighborhood was much more varied. We had kids like Jeff Stevens from rich families, kids from average families like mine and those from poorer neighborhoods too. Everybody was lumped together at Lincoln.

The bus trip gave me time to think about the last two weeks. It had been quite a rollercoaster ride: first Nate's injury, then finding out about Dad's anxiety, facing my own problems, the fiery encounters with Nate's mom, and finally wondering whether I'd be suspended. It would be
nice tonight to forget about all that and just play football.

It was the perfect evening for a game— clear, crisp and with a slight chill in the air that signaled winter was just around the corner. Filmore played its games in a new stadium that must have seated nearly six thousand people. Even as we began warm-ups, it was close to being full.

The Filmore Friars weren't rated as highly as Lincoln, Milbury or Franklin. But we knew they were no pushovers, especially playing on their home field. Coach Clark gathered us on the sidelines, just before the opening kickoff. “Concentrate on the moment, boys,” he warned. “Don't think ahead, even one play. We've got to get this one.”

Coach must have sensed something about this game. Right from the start, it seemed that for some reason we weren't sharp, especially on the offensive side of the ball. Lance Turner didn't have his usual accuracy throwing the football. When he
did toss a good pass, reliable receivers like Jeff Stevens weren't catching it.

The saving grace for Lincoln was that our defense was bottling up Filmore's attack. They couldn't get anything going, either. And Dr. MacIntyre's centering technique was working brilliantly for me. By halftime, I had six solo tackles in a scoreless tie.

As the game clock dwindled down to the last five minutes, our teams were tied 3–3. We had been lucky to get the three points we had. Our offense had barely moved the chains all night. The only way we'd managed to score was when I recovered a fumble at the Filmore thirty and Kyle Nance nailed an impressive forty-yard field goal. Filmore's points had come after its best offensive drive of the evening stalled out on our thirty. The Friars settled for three as well.

Now, with nobody playing well offensively, the game had boiled down to five minutes. Whichever defense held up better would decide the outcome.

Filmore had the ball at its own thirty to begin the series. I expected the Friars to stay conservative and keep the ball along the ground. Filmore's passing game had been sloppy. I was sure that their coaching staff wasn't going to risk a game-deciding interception at this late stage. Even a tie against Lincoln would be seen as a huge upset for the Friars. They didn't want to blow this opportunity.

On second down, Filmore quarterback Steve Akins dropped back and looked down-field for a receiver. For a second or two, I hung back, just in case he really did intend to pass. But then I bolted forward aggressively. I was certain they weren't throwing the ball. Not in this situation.

I burst into the backfield. By this time, Akins was rolling right, his halfback slightly behind him and to the outside. I shot between them, just in time to step in front of the pitchout that Akins had flipped toward his teammate. I saw the ball hanging in midair. I reached out my right
hand and tapped it up. Then I grabbed it with my left.

There was nobody ahead of me upfield, so I turned on the jets. I took a quick look behind and saw Akins closing on me. The kid had some speed. I began to angle the other way, trying to use the width of the field to my advantage. But Akins was closing the gap between us, eating up turf with each stride. I sensed the Filmore quarterback leaping for me. I felt his arm brush my leg, and I high-stepped to avoid his grasp. He crashed to the turf, clutching only air. I sped into the end zone untouched. The Filmore crowd sat in stunned silence.

I turned around and headed upfield, only to be mobbed by a sea of white Lincoln jerseys. My teammates were pushing and shoving and grabbing my arms, shoulders and helmet. “Take it easy!” Coach Molloy yelled. “Leave the kid in one piece.”

Kyle Nance booted the extra point, giving us a 10–3 lead. There were three
minutes left, and Filmore had one series to get even. It wasn't over yet.

Kyle didn't get his toe completely into the kickoff, which resulted in Filmore getting a good return to its own forty. From there, Steve Akins, anxious to make amends for my turnover and touchdown, efficiently marshaled his offense to our thirty. As instructed by Coach Molloy, we were in a “prevent” defense. We weren't willing to give up anything long so, consequently, Akins had picked us apart with short passes.

But the Filmore quarterback was also running out of time. There were just thirty seconds left on the clock as he lined up for a first down on our thirty. The Friars had time for maybe three more plays, tops.

On first down, I batted away a pass intended for Filmore's tight end. On second, Akins missed a receiver streaking on a sideline pattern. Filmore called a time-out, with eight seconds left in the game, needing thirty yards for a score. One stop was all we needed to hold on to this win.

Steve Akins again lined up to take the snap. Before the ball was released, however, he stepped back three yards. They were using the shotgun, just like Franklin had done in the late-going against us. The ball was snapped cleanly to Akins, who began to roll to his left. I drew a bead on where he was headed and burst through an opening in the Filmore line.

I was closing in on Akins. I could see his eyes widen as he fought desperately to get to the outside so he could avoid my tackle. I launched myself at him, but something stopped me in mid-flight. Milt Davis, the squat, muscular fullback for Filmore, had laid on a perfect block. It flattened me cleanly before I could reach his quarterback.