Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 28
“What an honor,” said Pete to Eugene as he stared out at the spectacle. “Look at their faces. They’re so proud.”
“They should be,” said Eugene, standing slightly behind Pete and dressed in full uniform for the game. “They must have been something special in their prime.”
“It’s hard to believe it’s been fifty years since the last championship,” said Vern Foster. He was standing to the right of Pete along with Dr. Harper. Next to Harper were Dean Royce and President Davis, the dignitaries on the sideline for the pregame festivities. “All three of those men were local products, born and raised in the bayou.”
“They say it was one of the greatest championship games ever,” said Harper. “How ironic, the two teams meeting fifty years later, on the same field.”
“It’s perfect,” said Pete as he continued to take in the scene. “Absolutely perfect.”
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as a soft breeze slowly furled and unfurled the flags draping the stadium rim. Pete looked up into the crowd and easily spotted his parents next to Chloe. They were looking at the jumbotron projecting the midfield reunion, as the long retired warriors shook hands, a sense of mutual respect on their faces. Next an official stepped forward to instruct the nuisances involved in the coin toss, including the difference between heads and tails. Alongside the referee were the current tri-captains of each team, also holding hands. To the right of Connor Kelly was Derrick Smith, and to his left, Tyrone Tubbs. Connor had some black reflective tar on his face, and a confident look in his eyes. The breeze slowly waved his hair back and forth. The running back’s call was heads, and he was correct. Tulsa won the coin toss. After another round of handshakes the captains retreated back to their respective sidelines, adrenaline pulsating through their bloodstream. Tulsa Valley elected to kick off.
A stirring rendition of the national anthem followed, sung by a local country star with roots in the area. Upon completion of the song a trio of F-16 fighter jets roared across the sky, shaking the ground. Finally it was game time and the teams prepared to take the field. The Tarps gathered around Coach Hayes listening to his final instructions, the mentor’s arms waving emphatically up and down in the air.
“Tarps! Tarps! Tarps!” went the battle cry.
Then, despite all the buildup, there was a delay.
“Commercial time out,” said Foster. “The networks demand it.”
“What a moving ceremony,” said President Davis. “It was a great idea to have the old tri-captains meet at midfield.”
“Agree,” said Dean Royce. He shook his head in appreciation and looked at Pete. “If only Ms. Jackson could have seen it. She would have been in tears.”
“What?” said Pete sharply. “She’s not here? Heather’s not in the stadium?”
“No. Unfortunately she is not Dr. Wagner.”
“Why not?”
“A personal emergency,” said Dean Royce. “At least that’s what she told me just an hour ago.”
Pete just stared at the dean, wondering what possibly could have gone wrong. It must have been a major occurrence, since Heather Jackson was the team’s biggest fan.
“Wasn’t she going to be up in the VIP box with you?” asked Pete. “I mean, what else did she say?”
“She’s always up in the box with me,” said Royce. “I’ve watched every game over the last four seasons with her. Her knowledge regarding the game of football is exemplary.”
Pete just stared at the administrator, his mind running amok.
“I mean, I had just notified her of inviting Billy Mo and a guest up into the box and she turned pale. Now, I do know that she and Billy Mo have a bit of history together, but they are still very good friends. The best of friends to my knowledge.” The dean paused. “Shortly afterwards she informed me of an emergency, and left.”
“Billy Morris is going to be watching the game up in the VIP box, with you?” asked Pete. “Didn’t coach ban him from the game?”
“Ban is a harsh word,” said Dean Royce. “He doesn’t want him on the sidelines, so I thought it appropriate to invite him into the box.”
Pete just stared in disbelief at the educator before him, wondering if he had any social sense. Earlier in the day he saw Billy Mo strolling into the stadium with his date, their arms around each other’s hips. Perhaps Heather had witnessed the couple’s entrance? The visual certainly would have devastated her psyche.
“As you know Dr. Wagner, Billy Morris is one of my favorite players. I’ll never forget the time he came to my office after such a horrific ending to his athletic career, to further his education. He sat down before me and said…”
“Let’s go,” said President Davis to the dean and Vern Foster. His comment interrupted Dean Royce’s anecdote. “Time to get up to the box.”
“Dean Royce,” said Pete as the trio turned away. “Did she say where she was going?”
“Taking a bus out of town,” said Royce. “Down to Benton I believe. Was going to hook up with a ride from that point forward.”
Pete didn’t reply, still stunned by the news. He tried to imagine what was running through Heather’s mind at the moment. How could she have come to the game he thought, with Chloe in the stands and Billy Mo beside her with his new girl? He suddenly felt a deep sense of remorse. He should have been more forceful yesterday, but she would hear no more of his excuses. Benton, which direction is Benton? Why a bus to Benton? How could she possibly miss the big game? He couldn’t stop her now. She was gone for good. He looked up into the stands to see Chloe waving at him, giddy with excitement. The blast of a referee’s whistle, together with the roar of the crowd, prompted him to turn around for the kickoff. The national championship game between Tulsa Valley and Southern State had finally begun.
On cue, an inspired wave of young athletic men ran at full speed towards each other. The sound of the impact was gruesome, as a Southern State ball carrier tried in vain to burst through the skirmish line. He was hit multiple times before his spinning body was tossed violently to the turf and piled upon, a roar from the crowd. It was then Pete noticed Eugene to be jumping up and down at his side.
“Cheap shot!” cried out the kicker. “Cheap shot!”
Pete looked up field to see the team’s kicker writhing in pain on the ground, with Lance and Piper already running to his fallen side.
“They targeted the kicker!” screamed Eugene.
The training team immediately signaled for Dr. Harper and Pete for assistance. As Pete jogged onto the field he was able to hear Coach Hayes going crazy. The head coach was reaming out a line judge, screaming into his ear.
“That’s dirty football!” howled the Tulsa coach. “They went after my kicker! Throw the flag! Throw the goddamn flag!” The coach looked as if he was about to charge across the playing field. Profanities streamed from his consciousness. “Those morons went out of their way to injure my kicker!”
Upon reaching the fallen player it was obvious to Pete he was seriously injured. The sound of stridor was heard from behind his facemask, signifying an airway difficulty.
“I can’t…. I can’t breath,” gasped the kicker. “Help me!” His inspirations were labored.
“Where does it hurt?” asked Harper. “Point to where it hurts.”
The senior player quickly placed a hand on his midline chest, his respirations quick and shallow. He rapidly patted his hand up and down on his sternum, identifying the source of the pain.
“Does your neck hurt?” asked Harper while palpating his cervical spine.
The player shook his head in the negative.
“Let’s get him on the cart and into the training room stat,” said Harper firmly. “Now!”
What happened next was a tribute to the Tulsa Valley athletic training staff. They had practiced the drill a hundred times over and began to run it with surgical precision. A quick log roll maneuver placed the player on a backboard, his head stabilized by Harper. The injured Tarpon was hoisted onto the back of a medical cart, which sped towards a tunnel exit into the training room facility. An appreciative applause arose from the audience out of respect for the fallen warrior, his dreams destroyed by the premeditated assault from the Southern State goon squad.
Upon entering the training room, the kicker’s body was placed on an exam table. His face was turning slightly blue. Lance cut off his jersey and pads with a set of trauma scissors.
“Get the EMT crew in here stat!” screamed Harper. “Alert the hospital ER!”
Pete inspected the player’s chest wall, which was deformed at the juncture of his left collarbone and sternum.
“I can’t catch a breath,” gasped the kicker. “My left arm is numb.” There was a look of panic on his face as he tried to get up from the supine position. “Help me, help…”
The roar of the crowd rumbled through the walls as Pete placed a stethoscope on the player’s lung fields. It became obvious to him that the injured Tarpon had suffered a posterior sternoclavicular joint dislocation, which was a true orthopedic emergency. His collar bone was displaced downward into the chest cavity, compressing some vital structures including the brachial plexus, major arteries and most importantly his trachea – or windpipe.
“It’s a posterior sternoclavicular dislocation!” shouted Pete to Dr. Harper, who was on the phone with the emergency room physician. “Tell them to get the cardiothoracic surgeon down to the ER immediately.”
Harper relayed the message only to be informed the CT surgeon was at least forty minutes away at home. The EMT squad burst into the room with a gurney in tow.
“We’re going to need him,” shouted Pete. “I don’t care how far he lives away. Get him there now!”
Harper relayed the message and hung up the phone.
Pete palpated the player’s left radial artery at the wrist level. The pulse was shoddy and his hand was cool. A major neurovascular compromise was clinically presenting itself, secondary to the depressed clavicle.
“Get him out of here immediately!” yelled Harper to the EMT squad. “He’s critical.”
The player’s respiratory status deteriorated, as he rapidly gasped for air. His right arm began to spontaneously flail forward, searching for help.
“Should we intubate him?” asked the emergency medical technician. “He’s turning blue!”
“You can’t,” said Pete. “It won’t work. His collar bone is compressing the trachea!”
“Get him the hell out of here!” screamed Harper. “Before he dies!”
The EMT team approached the kicker’s body.
“No!” shouted Pete with a quick wave of his right arm. “We have to get the pressure off his mediastinum now. Lance, get me some betadine and a towel clip.”
“Are you nuts?” cried out Harper. “Don’t even think about manipulating his clavicle! His aorta could cut loose! That needs to be done in the OR with a CT surgeon standing by! You could kill him Wagner!”
“He’s gonna die anyway!” screamed Pete at his mentor. “Whether it’s here or over in the emergency room waiting for a CT surgeon to get into town!” He stared down Dr. Harper as the training team froze in place. “I won’t let that happen. We can’t let that happen Dr. Harper!”
The player’s failing attempt to breath began to produce a hideous, irregular, high-pitched gurgle, his lungs screaming for air. Pete poured the antiseptic solution over his chest wall and instructed Lance to take hold of the victim’s left arm. He put on a pair of gloves and reached for the towel clip, which was a surgical clamp shaped in the form of an ice block holder, with razor sharp tips. He brought the clamp down to the depressed clavicle area and punctured the skin with the clamp’s edges. A rush of blood soiled the makeshift surgical field. The sports fellow toggled the clamp back and forth until he felt the edges of the depressed collarbone, upon which he squeezed firmly, locking the clamp on the bone. The maneuver elicited a spontaneous lurch from the now unconscious patient.
“Lance, slowly abduct his arm and apply traction,” said Pete clearly. The head trainer responded, bringing the player’s arm away from his body while pulling it in an outward direction.
“Doctor Harper, kindly stabilize his opposite chest wall,” continued Pete. The senior surgeon complied, holding down the kicker’s right chest wall.
“O.K. Lance, on the count of three I need you to pull. Ready? One, two, three – pull!” shouted Pete. While Lance applied traction, Pete began to forcefully yank up on the clavicle, in an attempt to dissociate it from the sternum itself. The displaced bone was fixed in position, and did not budge.
“Come on Lance, pull the arm! Let’s see what you got! It’s now or never. Pull Lance. Pull!”
The trainer placed his foot up on the table edge for traction and began to pull even harder, his actions now sliding the kicker’s body towards the edge.
“Piper, EMT squad, help Dr. Harper hold him down!” yelled Pete. “He’s going to go into cardiopulmonary arrest if we don’t get this bone off his trachea.”
For the next thirty seconds an all out traction-counter traction effort was applied across the fallen player’s chest, in an attempt to reduce his sternoclavicular joint – and save his life. Sweat poured down Pete’s forehead as he forcefully pulled up on the clamp, praying it wouldn’t dislodge from the bony edges. Lance let out a groan as his massive biceps began to shake, his force barely held in check by the opposing medical team. Blood continued to ooze all over the player’s chest wall. Another roar shook the walls of the complex. Suddenly an audible “pop” occurred, as Pete’s body lurched upwards.
“What was that?” asked Harper, his face red and a vein protruding from his neck. “Something snapped!”
“We got it!” said Pete. “It relocated! At least I think…”
“You did it,” said one of the EMTs.
The kicker suddenly began to breath rapidly, as if he had just surfaced from an underwater dive. His lungs sucked up air in a deep, hungry fashion as Pete continued to maintain an upward force with the clamp. The medical team didn’t move, awaiting orders from their leader. Pete allowed the player to continue breathing, until his respiratory rate began to slow, and a healthy pink hue appeared on his face. Carefully he instructed the traction team to ease their pull, while still holding on to the clamp. The reduced collarbone held its position.
“Oh my God,” said Piper. “I’ve never seen anything like that! You just saved his life.”
“Nice work Wagner,” said Lance. “Nice work.”
Pete still didn’t trust the collarbone, and held onto it. His heart was beating rapidly inside his chest. He looked up at the medical team in the room with appreciation. The kicker slowly opened his eyes, which darted from side to side. He looked straight up at Pete.
“I can breath,” he said. “Oh my god, I can breath.”
“We got it,” said Pete. Next, he instructed the EMT squad to transfer the kicker’s body onto their gurney, while continuing to hold onto the clamp. He had no plans to let it go, at least until the player was stabilized in the emergency room. Within five minutes he and Lance accompanied the player into the ambulance, racing away from the stadium complex.
“You’re going to go down in history,” said Lance. “That was miraculous. You saved his life!”
“We had to do it,” said Pete. His right hand was quivering from the continual pressure applied to the clamp. Some bumps in the road tossed all three occupants upwards. “He was about to expire. There was no other option.”
“Absolutely unbelievable.”
As the siren blared Pete just stared at the head trainer. The ride to the hospital took only about three minutes. Some blood was still oozing from the clamp site. Pete wanted to ask Lance why he misled the press, but the moment was inappropriate.
“Thank you,” mumbled the kicker. “Thank you so much.”
“Where are your gloves Lance?” asked Pete. “There’s blood all over the place. Shouldn’t you be wearing them – for everyone’s safety?” Pete held a neutral look on his face, hoping the trainer recognized his open-ended question. He waited for a response, but there was none. Lance refused to make any further eye contact with Pete. Within a minute the emergency vehicle backed into a trauma bay. The rear door opened and an army of medical personnel rushed the patient into the hospital. His vital signs remained stable and his care was ultimately transferred into the hands of the cardiothoracic surgeon.
As Pete walked outside the hospital, he could see the lights of the stadium in the distance. The perimeter of the medical center was deathly quiet, together with the entire town. Everyone in Tulsa was either at the game or indoors watching it on television. A faint roar could be heard in the distance. He approached a single taxicab parked outside the emergency room, the driver staring down at this radio. Pete opened the rear door of the cab.
“Cannonball!” screamed the driver. “Hail to the Cannonball!” He began to honk his horn in celebration.
“Connor Kelly with a punishing seven yard run into the end zone… which ties the game at seven,” said the announcer over the radio. “Oh, what a run by the Cannonball!”
“Excuse me,” said Pete.
The driver looked up at the physician with a jubilant grin, while pumping his fist up and down. “Go Tarps!”
“I need to get down to a town called Benton, as soon as possible.”
“Benton?” said the driver.
“Yea, have you heard of it?”
“I was born and raised in Benton,” said the cabbie. “What’s the rush? The game is on!”
“It’s an emergency,” said Pete while still looking into the car. “I need to reach someone who is on their way there now, by bus.”
“A bus out of Tulsa?”
“Yes.”
“There’s only one bus a day out of Tulsa to Benton,” said the driver while looking at his watch. “And that bus pulled out forty minutes ago.”
“Can you head it off?”
