Bryson City Tales (23 page)

I dropped off my medical kit in the locker room. It was a fabulous locker room—as large as some college locker rooms. On my way back down to the field, I passed Preston guarding his and Joe Benny's spots on the fence at about the 40-yard line on the home side. This was just far enough down to avoid having their view blocked by the players on the sidelines, yet close enough to yell any needed encouragement to coaches or kids.

Once on the field I checked in with Coach Dietz. He had no medical concerns to report regarding the kids, but asked, “You got some Tums in your medical kit?”

“I do.”

“Can you keep some handy for me?”

“Will do, Coach.”

I stood by him to watch the warm-ups.

“Doc.”

“Yep.”

“Doc, I'm glad you're here.”

I nodded. I didn't say anything. May have been the lump in my throat. But I remember thinking,
Me too, Coach. Me too.

As I looked across the field, I was astonished at how small our boys were compared to the Sylva kids. Our largest player, tackle Mac Gossett, was probably six-foot two, 210 pounds. He was by far our largest kid. And
most
of Sylva's kids looked bigger than him.
We're gonna get creamed,
I thought.

After warm-ups were completed, the teams retreated to the locker rooms. Each coach had his kids in a small group, reviewing last-minute details. Asking and answering questions. The kids had each been taught how to “scout” their opposing players during warm-ups and had observations on any apparent injuries. Several of the junior varsity coaches who had scouted Sylva in previous games and during the warm-ups would go from group to group to share their observations.

A referee entered the room. “Coach, I'll need your captains in two minutes.” Finally Coach Dietz, who had been watching the preparations, clapped his hands. The room instantly became silent. All eyes were on the coach.

“Men, you've prepared well for tonight. There're probably four or five thousand folks who've come to see you. They've spent their hard-earned money to root for you—to see you do your best. I know that's what you're planning to do.”

He paused to spit out some dip into a cup he was carrying.

“Seniors, you've never lost to these boys. And their seniors have never beaten you. That's what they're here to do. Tonight is their entire season. They've come to our house, to our backyard, to beat us up and to beat us bad. They're planning to use tonight in their bedtime stories they'll tell their kids and their grandkids until the day they die.

“Men, tonight's your legacy. This is
your
house. Don't let these folks down. Don't let your parents down. Don't let the men along the fence down. But most of all, don't let yourselves down! This is
your
house. Get out there and let's defend it!”

In a rush of adrenaline and pent-up energy, the team erupted to its feet and moved toward the door, a surging, chanting masculine mass.

What a coach!
I thought.

The players tore through the paper tunnel, fire extinguishers went off, the band played the fight song, and the stands erupted in noise. I thought for sure I could feel the ground trembling. The sound was deafening.
Welcome to Swain County Football.

At the kickoff, at each home team score, and at the times the team left and then reentered the field at halftime, the stadium thundered. But the most notable and fascinating part of the evening for me was watching and listening to the men along the fence. Their intensity was well-nigh unto fanatical—both their approval and disapproval of every play and every decision. I had been on the sidelines at every SEC (Southeastern Conference) and ACC (Atlantic Coast Conference) stadium and many others around the country during my college and residency days, but never had I seen this level of intensity, passion, and zeal.

At halftime the score was tied. The halftime sermon was intense and motivational. The third quarter was scoreless. The team and the crowd seemed to be waning in strength and energy. Sylva's size and strength seemed to be wearing down our smaller guys. Tony Plemmons, our quarterback, was a small fellow but as tough as a bobcat. Unlike many quarterbacks, he liked to run, to hit, and to be hit.

As the fourth quarter began, we had the ball. Tony took off on a run and got hit hard on the play. After the Sylva players got up, Tony didn't. He was writhing in pain. We had no experienced backup quarterback. After a collective groan, the stadium went deathly quiet.

By instinct I found myself sprinting toward him, followed closely by Coach Dietz. By the time we got to his side, Tony was sitting up and leaning forward. He was holding his right hand across his left shoulder—his left arm lying limply in his lap. He was moaning in pain.

As I knelt at his side I said, “Tony, it's Dr. Larimore. What are you feeling?”

“Doc, I think my shoulder's broken. I can't move it.”

With one hand I was instinctively feeling for his pulse—which was normal—while running my other hand up his jersey to the shoulder. The clavicle was intact. But the ball of the shoulder was prominent, and he yelped when I palpated the rotator cuff. I knew what it was and I knew what I had to do, but I'd have to act quickly before the shoulder muscles began to spasm—which would only make the pain greater and the treatment more difficult.

“What is it, Doc?” asked Coach Dietz, now at Tony's other side.

“Think we're fine, Coach.” I was trying to reassure him—and me too.

“Tony, I need you to lie back.” He slowly lay back, moaning from the pain of the sudden motion. I could hear a hushed groan from the crowd as they saw him slump to his back.

“
What is it, Doc?”
asked the coach emphatically. “We need to call the paramedics? You need Doc Mitchell?”

I didn't have time to explain. My mind was racing. I could hear Gary Ayers the next morning. “Swain County had a chance to win the game until the newest doctor in town broke the quarterback's shoulder trying to treat a simple dislocation.” Pete Lawson's headlines in the
Smoky Mountain Times
would read, “Perfect record given to Sylva by an inexperienced team physician. After the game Coach Dietz commented, ‘We'd have won the game if only I had called Dr. Mitchell out of the stands to care for our quarterback. Now we've lost him for the season.'” I could feel the cold sweat dripping down my forehead and was hoping no one would notice my trembling hands.

“Tony, let your arm go real loose. Don't fight me. I need you to trust me, OK?”

“OK, Doc. Just make me better, will ya?”

“I will, Tony. I will,” I said, trying to reassure us both. “Hold on now.”

If my diagnosis was correct, what I was about to do would cure him. If I was wrong, if his shoulder
was
broken, what I was about to do would not only make things worse, it would put Tony in even more excruciating pain. With him now relaxing, I moved quickly. In less than one or two seconds, I was able to abruptly perform a simple manipulation of his shoulder and arm. Both Tony and I instantly experienced relief as his dislocated shoulder moved back in place.

Tony's eyes widened, and he beamed. “Pain's gone, Doc. It's gone!”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Sit up, Tony. Let's get you to your feet.”

As he rose, so did a crescendo of applause from the crowd as they saw him swing his recently crippled arm. The stadium erupted. The ground shook.

The referee stepped in. “Coach, you're gonna have to sit him out a down.”

“No problem. No problem.”

As Tony ran off the field, the stands erupted again. Their hero appeared healthy. Coach and I walked off behind him.

“Good job, Doc.”

I handed him two Tums. He smiled and trotted ahead of me. I felt like I needed at least two myself!

After a quick check on the sideline indicated that Tony had suffered no nerve or blood vessel damage—and after a single play by a scared-to-death sophomore quarterback, executing his first play before his entire hometown—Tony hurried back onto the field.

His dislocated shoulder was just what he, the team, and the crowd needed. Sylva didn't stand a chance. The junkyard dog was out of the pen. We scored three times in the last quarter. The opposition never even got close to the goal line.

It was one of the most joyous nights of my life. I had made a difference. I had become, in one glorious instant, part of the team and part of the community. From that moment on, for the rest of the game, I wasn't watching
their
game, I was watching
our
game.

After the win the locker room was the scene of an ongoing celebration. Coaches, players, and parents were all slapping me on the back. There were enough cheers going around for everyone. Coach asked me to check on Tony. I did. His shoulder was in good shape. The rotator cuff seemed tight. It was his first and, hopefully, last shoulder dislocation. Fortunately it wasn't his throwing arm.

“Should I ice or heat my shoulder, Doc?”

I looked at the coach. He smiled. “I'd like you to ice it tonight and several times again tomorrow,” I said. “That OK, Coach?”

Boyce grinned from ear to ear. “Doc, you say it, that's the way we'll do it.” He slapped Tony on the back. “Great game, son. Tonight's part of your legacy.”

“Thanks, Coach. And, Doc, thanks to you, too!”

Outside the locker room there were only a few folks left. The lights had been turned off and a sprinkler was already on—preparing the field for next week's battle with Robbinsville.

A couple came up to me. The woman spoke first. “I'm Tony's momma. He gonna be OK?”

I explained the injury and what I had done. I recommended that they bring him to the office on Monday for an X ray—just to make sure everything was OK. I told them how to care for him over the weekend and suggested that they pick up an arm sling for the next day. It would make the shoulder more comfortable and guarantee plenty of sympathy at church. They smiled and thanked me.

Preston and Joe Benny strode up. They provided a running commentary on the game, praised me for my first game's performance, and were effusive in their congratulations. It was all a bit embarrassing. When they went off, arguing about this or that play or call, I headed toward my car. There weren't many left in the lot.

I suddenly stopped. At the gate stood Mitch and Gay. I felt a chill go down my spine.
Was he angry? Should I have called
him to the field?
In my haste to care for the quarterback, had I dishonored his position and experience? The questions were rushing through my brain when he stepped toward me, extending his hand. As he shook it, he asked, “Anterior dislocation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Neurovascular bundle OK?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any pain over the proximal humerus after relocation?”

“No, sir.”

“Sending him for X rays?”

“To the office Monday.”

“Sling?”

“Yep. Mom's gonna pick one up in the morning.”

He was quiet a moment.

“Good job, son. Good job. Don't know if I've ever enjoyed watching a game this much.”

He slapped me on the back as we headed out the gate.

“Should I have called you to the field, Mitch?”

“You stupid?” he asked, smiling. He paused for a moment and then laughed. “No, no. Absolutely not. Figured if you were in trouble, you'd call. Folks around me in the stands were yelling for me to go down, but I told them to just hush up. I told them there was a mighty fine physician down there. Glad you didn't let me down.”

“Thanks, Mitch.”

“Thank you, Walt. I'm glad you're here. Good night.” They turned to leave.

“Night, Mitch. Night, Gay.”

As they walked away I headed toward the car. Then something caught my eye. The scoreboard was still lit up: SWAIN COUNTY 35 VISITORS 14. And in the lights below the scoreboard, in the message section, it said, “Thanks, Doc Lattimore.” My first home victory. Although my name was misspelled yet again, it was sweet indeed.

chapter twenty

FISHER OF MEN

L
ouise and I were completing our paperwork on a minor emergency we'd just handled in the ER when we heard someone moving quickly up the hallway toward the nurses' station. Carroll Stevenson, the head technician of our radiology department, came into view and announced urgently, “Louise, the rescue squad's bringing in a full code from Fontana Village.”

Don and Billy soon appeared, with a heart attack patient in tow. As the gurney came through the door, I saw a stocky man alongside the rolling stretcher, performing chest compressions on the
patient.

“Louie,” Don shouted, “John had this controlled with nitroglycerin and morphine before we arrived, but now the patient's not responding.”

John Carswell was the head of security at the Fontana Village resort and a trained paramedic. He handled most of the resort's medical emergencies until the county rescue squad got there—nearly a forty-five-minute drive down the winding road on the south shore of Lake Fontana, a deep lake that began at Fontana Dam and ended where the Tuckaseigee River flowed into it at the western outskirts of Bryson City.

Don continued the patient's history as he and Billy guided the gurney into an ER bay. “His name is James. He's sixty-four years old. According to the wife, he has a known history of coronary artery disease, is status post two MI's, and has mild congestive heart failure and stable angina. No hypertension or diabetes. He's never smoked. Strong family history of heart disease. His last MI was one year ago. Takes Lanoxin 0.25 milligrams a day, Inderal 40 milligrams every eight hours, Isordil 10 milligrams every eight hours, and sublingual nitroglycerin PRN. He's had no cardiorespiratory symptoms in months, was at Fontana for a family reunion. After supper he had a sudden bout of severe chest pain, broke out in a sweat, vomited, and then fainted. Carswell was first on the scene.”