Paralyzed (5 page)

I didn't reply. I just stared down at the dining room table.

“Reggie, I've got a referral from Dr. Stevens,” Dad continued. “He wants you to go see Jim MacIntyre. He's a sports psychologist who has helped lots of kids in similar situations. Maybe he'll be able to help you too.”

“I don't need a shrink,” I said curtly. “Do you guys think I'm nuts, or what?”

“No, Reggie, we don't think you're nuts,” Dad said slowly. “But sometimes things affect us in ways we aren't even aware of. Lots of people see therapists. Look at it this way: You're going to be getting some expert help—no different than if you sprained an ankle or broke your leg.”

Yeah, right. Nobody thought you were a wacko if you went to the doctor. But just wait until the kids at Lincoln found out I was seeing a psychologist.

“That's easy for you to say,” I blurted out. “Nobody's ever told you that you need this kind of help, have they?”

My father's brow furrowed. He sighed and shook his head slowly. Maybe my last comment had gone too far.

“I've never told you this before, Reggie,” he said. “I
have
needed that kind of help myself.”

I was stunned. What was he talking about? My Dad, the most dependable, straightforward, no-nonsense Mr. Boring Guy had gone to a therapist?

“A couple of years ago, I had some problems. I had an anxiety disorder,” Dad said. “It was different from what you're experiencing. But it was affecting me at home and at work. And just like you, I didn't want to talk to anybody about it. Mom finally convinced me to see somebody.”

For a moment I forgot all about my problems and thought about what I was hearing. My Dad had problems with anxiety? How come? Why hadn't I noticed anything? Was he okay now?

“So what happened?” I asked, croaking out the words. “With your, um, problem.”
I didn't want to use the term anxiety disorder. I didn't even really know what it meant.

“I went to see Dr. Shaw about it,” Dad said, referring to our family doctor. “He put me on some medication. But he also sent me to a therapist. Mostly, we talked about how I was feeling and the problems I was experiencing. He taught me some ways of dealing with the feelings I was having. I know it sounds corny, but it changed my life.”

“But how were you feeling?” I had to ask.

“It's hard to explain, but I'll try.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I guess the best way to describe it was that I was worried. All the time, about everything. I've always been kind of a worrywart—you know how you and Mom always tease me? But it was beginning to take over my life. I was worried about things that it wasn't logical to be concerned about. I can see that now, but then...”

“Like what?” I asked. This was fascinating and scary at the same time.

“Like, for instance, I'd drive through an intersection and then, thirty seconds later, start wondering if the light had really been green when I'd driven through. Then I would wonder if I'd caused an accident. I'd worry about something like that all day. It started to affect my work, and I wasn't sleeping well or eating right. I was always worrying about something. When it was at its worst, I was barely functioning.”

“I never knew,” I said, shaking my head.

“People with mental health issues are pretty good at hiding them until it becomes extreme,” Dad said. “That's when they usually get help—when it gets so bad they are finally forced into seeing somebody.”

I was in a daze as my father continued talking. I was absorbing his words but I was also worried: What if I had inherited Dad's problem? What he had described to me sounded pretty scary.

It was as if he was reading my mind. Dad looked directly at me now and put his hand on my shoulder. “I know what's bothering you is different from what I went through,” he said. “You need help dealing with the aftereffects of one traumatic incident. For me it was a chronic condition, something that built up over time. But I also know that if you don't get some help, it can wreck things for you too. You don't want that.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said slowly, “I guess not.”

Still, the thought of seeing a psychologist made me nervous. What would people think about me?

“I know that it seems like a strange thing, seeing a therapist,” Dad said, again echoing my thoughts. “But it's not, really. I mean, when you think about it, your mind is one of the most important parts of your body. It affects everything.”

When he put it that way, it made sense. I was looking at Dad in a whole different light than I had just a few minutes ago.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay, what?”

“I'll go see him. This psychologist.”

A wide smile spread across my father's face, and his blue eyes twinkled. “That's great, Reg,” he said. “I think you're making the right decision.”

I went to bed that night with a bunch of different thoughts racing through my mind. I wondered what it would be like to talk to somebody about what was going through my mind—my private thoughts. I still felt a little uncomfortable about sharing them.

I wondered how Nate Brown was doing, lying in a hospital bed. He was probably a lot more uncomfortable than me, thinking about whether he was ever going to walk—let alone play football—again. Maybe talking to someone about my feelings wasn't such a big deal.

But mostly, as I tried to get to sleep, I thought about my father. Dad and I had always had a good relationship, but our conversation tonight was the most open
he had ever been with me. Part of me felt good that he trusted me enough to tell me those things. But another part felt scared that my Dad, who had always been a rock in my life, had experienced something so frightening. And I hadn't even noticed there was anything wrong.

Another big surprise was awaiting me the next morning at breakfast, as I dug into the Friday
Times
with my bowl of Cheerios.

Even though I wasn't playing in tonight's game against Franklin, I still flipped quickly to the prep sports section.

Division mulling suspension for Lincoln player
read the headline atop the small story on the right side of page three. A queasy feeling crept into my stomach, and I stopped chewing my cereal.

Northeast Athletic District officials are considering a Milbury request for disciplinary action against a Lincoln player following a serious spinal injury to Miners tight end Nate Brown
.

A district source has informed the
Times
that a number of complaints have been made about the play on which Brown was injured last week. The Milbury player remains in Gower General Hospital.

I couldn't believe what I was reading. Were they serious? I hadn't done anything on the play except get hit. Or had I? Was there something on the game video that showed something different? Something I'd missed? Now my stomach was really flipping about.

I read on.
The Lincoln player involved in the incident was linebacker Reggie Scott, a senior with a reputation for being a hard hitter in the defensive backfield.

What were they talking about in this story? I hadn't hit anybody on that play. It had been the other way around. But this
article was making it look like I had laid out Nate Brown with a vicious tackle. This was unfair. So why was it making me feel guilty?

There was just one more paragraph to the story:
District officials were tight-lipped about a possible suspension. But it appears Scott will play tonight when the Lions take on the highly rated Franklin Demons in one of the most anticipated games of the season
.

I tossed the paper across the eating bar in disgust. The story made me sound like some kind of dirty player, like it was my fault Nate was lying in a hospital bed. How could they put something like that in the newspaper without even checking the facts?

Dad looked up from his section of the
Times
after I threw the Sports section down. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“This is unreal,” I said. “They're saying I'm going to be suspended.”

Dad dropped his part of the paper and grabbed the Sports section. He quickly found the article, scanned it for a few seconds and then put it down. “Irresponsible,” he muttered. I could tell he was choked.

“This is a terrible piece of journalism,” he said. “It seems to be based on a rumor and not on any fact. I'm sure you won't be suspended. You did nothing wrong. But I will call the
Times
today to complain. And I will call Coach Clark.”

I nodded. The story was already in the newspaper, though. Even though it wasn't true, people would assume it was. That was just the way things worked.

The school day that followed was one of the strangest that I had ever experienced at Lincoln. It was a football Friday, so there was the usual hoopla. The Lions pep squad was selling “Defeat the Demons!” ribbons during the morning break. All the players, including me, were wearing our Lincoln jerseys to class.

At lunchtime, there was the usual pep rally in the gym with a couple of hundred students sitting in the bleachers. The cheerleading team turned cartwheels and built human pyramids out on the hardwood. Coach Clark stepped to the microphone and talked about how important this game was to our season. I hardly heard a word he said.

My mind was elsewhere. I wasn't playing tonight, and it felt weird. Normally, on a game day, I would get more and more excited as each class ended, itching to get out on the field. Today, I just felt tired. I was sad I wouldn't be playing, but in another way I was relieved. Everything about the day felt off.

The last buzzer had just rung, and I was walking toward my locker when Jeff Stevens called out from behind. “Hey, Stick-'em. You ready to kick some serious Franklin butt?”

I knew Jeff was just being friendly, but I didn't want to hear that nickname. Not now
or ever. I didn't want to talk to anybody about football, either.

“Not really,” I said quietly. “I'm not playing tonight.”

Jeff's jaw fell and his blue eyes opened wide in surprise. “What are you talking about, dude?” he said. “That story in the paper this morning was bogus. Everybody knows that.”

“I can't play,” I repeated solemnly. “The coaches and my parents decided I wasn't ready to suit up.”

“Not ready?”Jeff said, dumbfounded. “What's wrong with you? Are you injured?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does ‘not exactly' mean?” Jeff said. “You're acting weird, man.”

I turned and faced Jeff, shaking my head. “Look, I can't explain it, okay?” My voice was rising, and I felt my forehead growing hot. “It's not my choice. You'll have to ask Coach—and maybe your dad—why I'm not suiting up.”

Jeff was really confused now. “My dad? What does my dad have to do with anything?”

“I'm just not playing, okay?” I was really annoyed now, and my voice was breaking. “Good luck tonight.”

“What do you mean, ‘good luck?'” Jeff said. “You'll be there, right?”

“I don't know,” I said, backing away quickly down the hall. “It's just too weird. I'll talk to you later.”

I had to get out of there, away from Jeff. I was getting too emotional and I couldn't explain why. I wanted more than anything else to be with my teammates but I knew deep down that I wasn't ready to play. And I wasn't ready to tell them why.

The six-block walk home seemed even stranger than the rest of the school day. Normally, on a football Friday, I stayed at school and ate a pre-game meal with the team in the cafeteria. Then we went over plays and strategies with the coaches
and slowly got dressed for the pre-game warm-up. Tonight, I was heading home.

The coaches had intercepted me first thing that morning at school to tell me that the newspaper story was wrong. There wouldn't be any suspension. They had also asked me to spend the afternoon and evening with the team, just like normal. But I didn't feel right doing that. If I'd been wearing a cast on my leg or had my arm in a sling, it might have been okay. Those things were almost expected for a football player. But what was I supposed to do now? Wrap my head up in a big bandage? I had no way to explain to the guys on the team that I wasn't playing because of a mental problem.

“Reggie, I'm surprised to see you,” Mom said as I came in through the back door. “Why aren't you with the team? You guys have Franklin tonight, right?”

“I couldn't do it,” I said glumly. “I just don't feel like I belong there today.”

Mom walked over to me and wrapped me in a big hug. Although I was now at least five inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than her, I still felt like a little kid whenever she hugged me. It still made me feel better too.

“I understand,” Mom said soothingly. “This is a tough thing you're going through.”

Mom broke away from me and hurried over to the stove. “Sorry,” she said. “I have to stir this chili or it'll burn in the bottom of the pot.

“I'll tell you what,” she continued. “When Dad gets home, we can all have some of this. Then we'll go to the game together. It's not every game I get to sit with my boy.”

I smiled weakly. “I don't know,” I said. “I'm not sure I want to go tonight.”

“Well, you think it over. Let us know.”

“Okay.” I nodded. I was suddenly feeling very tired. I went upstairs to my room,
flipped on my stereo and plopped down on the bed.

I must have dozed off because it seemed like just a couple of seconds later, Dad was knocking at my bedroom door. He poked his head inside and smiled.

“Hey, Reg,” he said. “Are you coming down to have some supper with us?”

I got up and rubbed my eyes. “Be right down.”

Mom and Dad were already eating when I sat down at the dining room table. I dug into the big bowl of chili that Mom had laid out for me. Even though it had been a terrible day, the chili, topped with grated cheddar cheese and accompanied by garlic toast, tasted great. It felt good to get some comfort food in my stomach. I hadn't been eating too much the last few days.