The Magic Number

I’m not certain what time it is, but the sun will rise in approximately ninety minutes. I have not slept for more than an hour, if I have slept at all, the last five nights. As if gaining energy from the sun each morning: I feel well-rested and remain energetic throughout the day. With the night, I’m ready to crash; however, before I realize it, the tug of the sun from across the globe strengthens my breath—previously exhausted. I feel fresh for my appointment with the constellations.

It’s not a great theory, but it’s successful most nights— the ones unlike tonight, when the lie sticks: blocking my mind from the real reason I no longer sleep. The neurologist said not to worry, to have trouble sleeping is normal during recovery. Not worrying is usually my forte, but the lack of knowledge on concussions leaves my stomach in a knot and my eyes peeled.

“The magic number is different for everyone. We advise some people to avoid contact sports after only one, others, up to five or six. They affect everyone differently and the science behind concussions is so new, we are still unaware of the long-term damages being caused. What number is this for you?”

The doctor’s face when I replied keeps me awake on nights like tonight. I was honest; I didn’t remember how many— my best guess was seven, four of which were diagnosed severe. His expression was one of awe, colored by curiosity in his eyes. His question—the same as mine is now.

What in the Hell was I thinking? My most recent blow to the skull occurred just over two months ago, now. The first morning I was home from school for winter break. Of course, I was aware of how many concussions marked my medical records before going on the mat. But I was in too deep; worrying about my head then would be to forfeit everything I worked for.

As I reminisce each individual case, it was never an option in my eyes to consider the long-term damages. To do so would allow fear to invade my mind and prevent me from performing. I’ve never sat out for broken noses, fingers, toes, or separated ribs—I’m the type of athlete who stays in the game.

Why is this injury any different?

As the sunrise creeps closer, I realize the likelihood of resting my eyes today is minimal. I never considered not sleeping for weeks at a time or not remembering the topics of conversations mid-sentence. I never worried about much more than getting back to the field or mat.

Hindsight says that to not consider these outcomes is foolish—but it’s not that simple. I’m stretching my memory, in attempts to recollect my thought process during each incident. It is more of a reach in the dark these days—I’m always intrigued to see exactly what I’ll recall.

It was my sophomore year of high school and I was an offensive and defensive lineman on the varsity football team. There were three games before playoffs began and I only have two distinct memories from the night of the injury. At the end of the third quarter, we did not get the ball snapped. The horn cut through our quarterback’s count.

We rose from our crouched positions on the one-yard line and reconvened with coach on the sideline. I come back into my memory sitting on a stool in front of my locker, the game was over and for the most part, everyone else had already left. I remained, staring blankly into the back of my locker. Still wearing all my pads. Dylan, my partner on the line, noticed before he left, I needed help getting undressed.

What is more influential on my consciousness toward the events of that night are the hundreds of reenactments from my friends—falling all over the field, running sideways (with their heads down) to the wrong huddle, and avoiding coach at all cost.

Then there are the videos taken on the sideline during the fourth quarter. I tried to convince my teammates to give me their helmets, in attempts of returning to the game.

My helmet was taken when I no longer knew my own name. Shamari, a senior on the team who had surgery on his knee, was given the job of watching over me. The videos were his. He held his fingers in the air and asked how many were up. I counted one hand, then the other, before checking back to the left, right, left, right, left.

“Seven,” my answer was confident.

To make the situation worse, I was unable to return in time for the playoffs and we lost way before I believed we should’ve. As the competitor I am, the blame in my mind fell on my own shoulders. It is common to see signs of depression following severe concussions.

The only thing on my mind for months—returning to the gridiron. I hated wrestling. All I wanted was to play football. When I wasn’t at school, I was in bed. I couldn’t clear my brain enough to worry about the present moment or enjoy a sport I’ve loved my entire life; there is no chance the long-term consequences of my injury ever crossed my mind.

The following season, junior year—after transferring schools over the summer—I was one of four or five players who earned a starting spot on both sides of the ball. Coach always talked about how he didn’t like playing people on both sides, but to be our best, he needed us five to do just that. I experienced symptoms of another concussion during the second game of the season, but I didn’t sit out. I couldn’t let my team down.

My most distinct memory from the season came a couple of games later, against Greenville Rose. Larry, my partner on the line, was a senior and already committed to play for East Carolina University; he stood at six feet, four inches tall and almost three hundred pounds. Neither of us remembered the plays. Depending on how we were feeling, we would mix it up. I would get the lineman, he would release to the linebacker or vice versa. Coach wasn’t too happy on film day, but he couldn’t say much, we made the blocks.

My head never hurt during the games, it was more of a numbness. I slept against my locker at half time and in the corner of the hallway, against the wall, after the game, waiting for coach to unlock the door. After what felt like an eternity, I finally made it on the bus. I knocked fifteen or twenty Tylenol out of the bottle, swallowed them at once, and fell back asleep until we returned to campus.

I wonder now—who won the game?

I don’t remember my junior season, except there was always a reason not to tell coach. The next game was always the most important game of the season—the consequences of an ongoing concussion never crossed my mind. It wasn’t until the second to last game of the season that I finally sat out. A couple of days prior, in practice, we did hitting drills.

We had a team full of hard hitters and coach enjoyed seeing it. The drill: line up about ten yards apart, smash into each other, bounce back, then player A is supposed to swivel past player B, while Player B prevents him. The drill ended early for me, first round, first hit, my lights went dark and my face-mask dug into the ground as I fell.

I often mentally blacked out after big hits, but this was my first time going unconscious; I could no longer hide it. I was living in a fog for more than a month, sensitive to noises and lights—not showing it the best I could. It was a relief to be able to lock myself in a dark room for a couple of weeks to recover.

My reputation as “the wrestler” at my new school kept me from getting down on myself for missing playoffs, again. I focused on everything but letting my head heal fully. I couldn’t wrestle scared, that is a sure way of hurting myself. And I knew how to answer the trainer’s questions at this point—she couldn’t prove anything. If my head hurt during practice, I focused on the people looking up to me. I knew I wasn’t the only one hurting—I kept going.

Winter break for wrestlers is never relaxing. It is the heart of the season, and two of the biggest tournaments each year (before states) are over break.

I came into the bracket of the first tournament as a two seed and wrestled to the semifinals match. I didn’t perform up to my abilities in the bout, but I only needed a few points. I battled to my feet—somehow—my opponent trapped both of my hands against my waist.

I was defenseless. I dropped my hips but there was no hope, I was airborne. He took me illegally over his head; the only thing to catch the weight of my body was the back of my skull. My muscles went limp—I was unconscious, and he easily rolled me to my back before the ref realized I was out.

For all I know, they could’ve woken me up hours later, but I think it was closer to a minute. Although unable to finish the match, I won. The slam was illegal; he was disqualified. It hadn’t been long since the “recovery” of my previous concussion. I sat out the rest of break before returning, ready to compete for the remainder of the season.

To prove I was healthy, my mom would ask me to remember three random words: tangerine, elevator, dandelion. She held conversations with me for ten minutes or so, before asking for the words. I’m never sure how the conversations went—but if I wished upon a dandelion, it would be for the juiciest tangerine imaginable, or maybe an elevator like Willy Wonka’s.

At this point, I was starting to understand the severity of these injuries adding up. In efforts to preserve my head for dreams past high school football, I didn’t play my senior season. I prepared for college wrestling and my senior season of high school wrestling. Not playing sports at all had not yet crossed my mind. The bliss continued until my most recent concussion. It was almost two years exactly since the illegal slam, and now, wrestling was more about getting my life back on track than winning matches.

My freshman year of college, I was second string to a senior in my weight class. This isn’t surprising as a freshman, but I didn’t deal with it properly. I drank and partied too much—getting in trouble around every corner. By the end of the year, it was muddled whether I would be able to return. Before I left campus, coach promised me, if I did the work necessary to be eligible, I would have a spot on the team.

My life was flipped upside down and my mind was fogged for weeks. I found light in my ability to fight my way back onto the team. I still had a chance to earn back what I’d lost: everything I worked my entire life to achieve—just to throw away.

The simple opportunity to live a childhood dream.

The summer before my sophomore year was unlike anything I did before. I woke up at seven each morning; summer classes began at eight and went until one thirty. I went to the gym, practiced, and lifted until four. The I’d go to work, waiting tables from five until midnight. When I got home I’d open my books to do homework for around three hours each night—fall asleep in time to wake up and repeat.

My only goal was to prove myself worthy enough to wrestle again.

Due to my situation, I was ineligible the first semester. Luckily, I could practice with the team, because the season goes through both semesters. I had the opportunity to win a starting position for the second half of the season. My last hurdle was winter break. The rest of my team stayed at school and trained all except a few days—hotel rooms and food were provided.

Because I technically wasn’t an active member of the team until after break, I had to prepare for the trenches of our season without my team. The first thing I did when I woke up in my own bed on break was throw my gym clothes on and head to the facility. Once I spent a few hours on the weights, my old coach/training partner met me to train on the mat.

If I wanted to show up after break, ready to go, I had to push my limits while at home.

We were wrapping up the workout session with some live goes. Coach brought in some of his friends who used to wrestle to fit in as extra bodies, giving him a break between rounds with me.

I swept the leg of one of the less experienced wrestlers, his instincts kicked in and his limbs began flailing. His elbow caught me square in the forehead as I secured his second leg to bring him to the ground. Blood rushed down my face and chest, I felt my finger to my face and the skin flopped around each side; the tip emerged in the gaping slash above my eye.

Coach Andre looked sick. I chucked and reminded him I was okay—I got the take-down.

At this point, I didn’t feel the pain and didn’t think I was hit with enough force to have another concussion. Throughout the next few days, the familiar symptoms sank in.

Finally, I considered the consequences of my actions.

I still wasn’t ready to walk away though. I had something to prove.

Following break, my school coach helped with my decision— he doubted the validity of my concussion. When I arrived on campus, he asked me to clean out my locker.

If my teammates didn’t warn me he was acting-out in my absence, this news would’ve caught me off guard.

I plead my case—my words fell short to his unwelcoming ears.

As the sun rises this morning, I am no longer a wrestler. The worst part is that I don’t remember why I’m not sad. Although I lay awake most nights, my optimism shines through.

It is easier not to consider what is going to happen to my brain as it matures—because no one really knows.

I smile and joke with my loved ones; I hope they never consider me a burden. When I no longer remember them—I tell them to put me aboard a boat and wave me off. At least then, I will be happy while clueless.

What I’ve discovered is that it is pointless to worry about the consequences now—the time for worrying is far past, and I never did then.