THREE YEARS AGO, I wrote in this space about a post-Thanksgiving football game my high school friends and I play every year. I bragged about how we ruthlessly tackled each other to the ground without any padding or protection, and scoffed at the idea of one day switching to two-hand touch or even flag football. So it’s only fitting that at the game following the article’s publication I received my first serious injury.
On the opening drive, my quarterback desperately looked for receivers as the defense rushed him on a blitz. He decided at the last second to dump the ball to me at midfield. I caught it, took three steps forward, and was immediately pummeled by my friend Buck. He landed on top of me with unnecessary roughness. (Too bad there were no referees to see–and hear–this.) After the initial shock of the tackle, I stood up and glanced at my right hand since something felt awry. Sure enough, my pinkie had badly dislocated–popped out of its socket and bent away from me. I was more horrified at the sight of this disfigurement than I was in pain. My QB told me the only thing to do was to snap the finger back in place. Without wasting time, I gave it a good tug.
It didn’t work. After the second try, the pinkie fit back in its socket. Sort of. I refused to believe this was anything serious; the last thing I wanted was to be sidelined this early. So I continued playing. A little later in the first half it popped out again, and again I snapped it back in. But by the second half, I was a gimp, trying to tackle players with one hand, to catch with one hand, and hoping to avoid falling in the wrong direction. The good news is my team won. The bad news is, an X-ray showed my finger had been broken.
Was this the signal that the time had come for us to switch to touch football? Hardly. I’m not considered the best player on the team, so the guys figured it was just a freak accident. And indeed, in the next two football games, no real injuries were incurred by anyone–even me. I actually managed two sacks last year against my friend Steve, a perennial quarterback. (Full disclosure: The guy protecting the QB was someone’s overgrown nephew. He was only in sixth grade, but was so large he was deemed too big a threat to play football with his classmates. And he takes karate.)
This year’s post-Thanksgiving game had all the makings of another epic battle. Everyone matched up well–except for me. As a result, I was traded back and forth five times, in a scene reminiscent of gym class. But this wasn’t the worst thing that happened. Five minutes later, playing defense, I was trying to prevent Quarterback Steve from completing a pass. It was second down and I decided to rush him. He faked me out, juking to the right. My cleat, meanwhile, was firmly dug into the frozen soil. My body twisted to the right but my left leg was still planted to the left. That’s when I heard the sound no player ever wants to hear: “pop-pop-pop.” It was my knee. And with the second step, I crumpled to the ground.
The QB and another defender carried me off the field and everyone else applauded. (After all, this isn’t Veterans Stadium.) Worse than the pain was being forced to watch my friends from the sidelines. Unlike in years past, it was freezing cold. The skies were gray. It started to drizzle.
At least my team won, 12-10. I’ve been on a winning team for three years straight now. Aside from all the ribbing I got for this humiliating injury–one that ranks up there with Gus Frerotte’s celebratory head-butt/concussion and Bill Gramatica’s victory dance/sprained knee accident–the guys were actually concerned about my condition. But not concerned enough to raise the issue of touch football and flags.
This doesn’t bother me at all. Rather, it means I have a whole year to train for what might finally be my breakout game. “You’re watching your football career go by you,” joked a friend. He’s wrong. I don’t think I’m washed up just yet, destined to be a mere spectator at future games or maybe to videotape them. All I need is one more year. And besides, I’m still finding ways to prove my youthful strength and tenacity.
For instance, after the big game, we headed to McDonald’s. Without hesitation, I went for the Surf ‘n’ Turf (Quarter Pounder with cheese and a Filet-O-Fish) and Super-Sized fries.
“Why are you eating so much? You didn’t have a big game today,” asked one of the guys.
True. I might not have played like a champion. But at least I can still eat like one.
–Victorino Matus
