Strike 3

Strike Three. It was like throwing a ball w/ a string attached to it, it shot right back into place. I yelled and immediately popped up. Coach looked over at me and asked, as calmly as he could, “Your shoulder pop out again?” I nodded and he gave me the keys to the training room to get some ice. I walked out of the gym, down the hallway, and into the training room. After I filled the bag with ice I looked at myself in the mirror. I thought back to when my shoulder first dislocated.
It was a hot day back in August. First day of pads, 2nd practice of the day. Tackling drill. I got low, and when I tried to tackle I just bounced off. I sat down, took my helmet off and said to the coach, “I think my shoulders out…” Meanwhile Iggy, now a freshman in college who helped coach, had started the drill in another part of the field. The trainer quickly came over and was able to pop my shoulder back into place. I was out for 2 months. Strike One. Not so bad I thought; even if I don’t get in this year I still have next year. I worked out and rehabbed as much as I could, and finally received a doctor’s note just before our last game. I was released to play. In practice that week it was obvious that I was rusty. At one point, Coach Fry, who was trying to turn me into a linebacker, yelled out, “THAT’S NOT HOW WE PLAY FOOTBALL! DON’T HALF-ASS THIS!” The very next play I made an outstanding tackle for a loss. Coach Fry ran over to me, and just hugged me, telling me, “That’s how you play football.” He then proceeded to hug every other defensive member. By the time the game came, I was ready to play. I was hungry for the action. I was put in on special teams. I missed a tackle and fell, my shoulder cracked. I ignored it. Four plays later I was playing linebacker. I read the play perfectly, sweep to my right. I crossed the line of scrimmage to make a nice tackle for a loss. But I bounced off again. My shoulder was out, but this time it wasn’t going back in easily. I threw my helmet down, not from pain, but out of frustration. I had to go to the ER. I had two choices once I got there: Get hopped up on painkillers so I wouldn’t feel anything, or go into the next room and get my shoulder popped in immediately. I chose the latter of the two, surprising the nurse. I walked into the next room and the doctor came in, he manipulated my shoulder blade and before I knew it, my shoulder was back in. It felt like a great pressure had suddenly just been relived, but nonetheless, Strike Two. I had rehabbed, I had worked out, only to get injured at Morning Madness, reaching for a basketball.
I walked back into the gym. The game was still going on. I walked out the other door into the cold, but sunny, Southern California morning. I checked the time on my cell phone. It was 7:15. I had been at school since 6 am for this practice. I called my parents and my doctor. I had an appointment that afternoon. I had seen my orthopedic surgeon more in the last few years than I had seen my regular doctor.
After describing how my shoulder popped out there was a long silence. Dr. Gilbert broke the silence with, “You’re going to need surgery.” I fired back with, “But I don’t want to play football next year…” Another pause. Dr. Gilbert is a man who does not like surgery; he will have you avoid it at any cost. But he told me again, “I still suggest the surgery.” I went through the rest of the visit in a fog. In fact, I went through the next few weeks in a fog. I had an MRI and I met with my surgeon. The fog continued.
As I sat down to do an essay re-write for English class, my parents called me into the kitchen, along with my brother and sister. My mom beat around the bush, but finally told us that our oldest brother had cancer. He was only 24. This hit me like a ton of bricks. The fog I was in had masked this until it was right in my face. WHAM! I talked to my brother later that night, and I had nothing to say to him. He’s seven years older than me, I have known him for all 17 years of my life, and I was speechless. We had nothing to say. He didn’t know what to say to me, and I had no clue where to even begin. So we sat on the phone, in silence. How could we have nothing to say? It was ridiculous. It was inexplicable. Finally he told me he was going to bed, and we had an awkward good-bye. But how could we have nothing to say? I’m going in for surgery in two weeks and he has cancer, and we have nothing to say. But life goes on.

Life has gone on for nearly 6 months now. My surgery was a success and my shoulder is almost back to normal. My brother, now cancer-free is working at a restaurant up in San Francisco. But 4 months ago this was not the case. Four months ago we were in the middle of it all. My brother’s chemotherapy, my shoulder rehab, it was all there, and it was all current. Now it seems like something far and distant. My brother inspired me to live life and to enjoy every second I have with someone. It is a time I will always draw from. A time I will never forget.