CHAPTER ONE

“Butch Cavet is really struggling today, Mike. He’s had two interceptions for large returns, and he’s been sacked three times. I know that his offensive line needs to step up and make some blocks for him, but I’m just not seeing the same Butch you and I know so well.”

“Man, I couldn’t agree more. You know, give him credit for coming back to New Orleans after being injured to help the team out earlier this year, but once their new starting quarterback was healthy, management should have released him. It makes you wonder what’s happening here and why they keep him on the payroll.”

“I know there are folks at home that think that’s harsh, Mike, but I agree. Forty-two might not seem old to most of us, but for a quarterback, it’s retirement age, and Butch Cavet’s body has taken quite a beating.”

“For sure, Tom. For sure.”

“Ohhhhhh! That hit was vicious, and folks, Butch is not getting up. Oh my, he is not getting up, and he is not moving. This does not look good. Oh my, oh my. Folks, let’s take a break while the medical teams get out there. We’ll be back soon.”

“Sorry, old man,” smirked the defensive lineman from the other team.

“Get the fuck off of him!” yelled the trainer. “Butch, Butch? Look at me, buddy. Oh, shit. Butch, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“H-how many?”

“That’s right, man, how many fingers?”

Butch couldn’t answer. It just wasn’t physically possible to do it. The world was spinning so fast he was about to puke inside his helmet. He spit out his mouthpiece and tried to roll to his side.

“Don’t move, Butch.” The trainer turned to the sidelines. “I need the doctor and a cart!”

“Fuck, Butch, that was a hard one, buddy,” said his center, Trevon Marks. “I’m sorry, man, they came in behind me, and I didn’t see them. I should have had that one. Stay down, man, stay down.”

“We got the flag, Butch,” said his receiver. “Roughing the passer. It’s okay, man. We’ll win this one for you.”

Butch wanted to say something, but every time he opened his mouth, his stomach began to hurl its contents. He felt hands on his body, lifting him gently and then the familiar feeling of the backboard. It should be familiar. He’d been carted off the field seven times in his career. Seven. Most of those were suspected or confirmed concussions, but two were broken bones that he could still feel to this day.

People said football was entertainment. Bullshit! It was a bloodsport with men willing to literally die on the field all for a fucking six-point touchdown.

“Stay with me, Butch,” said the doctor. “This one is bad, buddy. Stay with me. Don’t go to sleep, man. Not yet.”

“He’s bleeding,” said one of his teammates. “Why is he bleeding?”

“I don’t know yet. Get to the sidelines!” yelled the doctor.

The entire team was kneeling in solidarity and prayer, watching, not for the first time, as their teammate was carefully carted off the field. It would be hours before anyone would know his prognosis, and that would be the worst part. Commentators and supposed football experts would proclaim his demise, predict his retirement, and review every possible outcome to the scenario. Everything would be the worst possible outcomes, no one talking about what an amazing guy Butch is or what he could still offer the sport. Nothing but gloom and doom. Unfortunately, that was reality.

In their hearts, they already knew this would be the last time Butch would step onto the field as a player. It was too much. Too many concussions. Too many broken bones. Too many missed opportunities. Just too much.

“I need the scans done immediately,” yelled the team doctor. They whisked him into the training room with x-ray machines, CAT scans, even minor surgery stations where they could stitch someone up or fix a broken bone temporarily.

“I’m alright,” he whispered.

“You’re not alright, Butch. The league isn’t gonna let you play again, son. This is concussion number five.”

“Four,” he said. “Four that were verified.”

“Fine. Four. Four concussions, Butch. You’re not going to be able to function if you keep this up. You’re going to end up with permanent neural damage and possibly physical damage as well. You can’t keep this up.”

Butch didn’t say anything. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. No one would understand how he felt. No one except someone who had been through it with him.

It was hours later, after scans, x-rays, and an ambulance ride to the hospital, before multiple doctors walked into his room to give him the grave news. At least, that’s what the looks on their faces told him.

“Well, I can see by your face it isn’t good news,” he said. He was trying to hold his head still against the pillow. One wrong move, and he’d lose the contents of his stomach. Again.

“Butch, this is Dr. Strange. He’s one of the world’s foremost experts on concussions and their long-term effects on athletes. He’s looked at everything, son, and he agrees with me. You can’t continue.”

“But it’s my decision,” said Butch firmly.

“The league could deny your right to play,” said Dr. Strange. “I’m not sure you fully understand the severity of this, Mr. Cavet. Let me explain what this could look like for you. The first concussion generally appears with dizziness and blurry vision, insomnia, loss of concentration and memory, psychological issues such as depression, anxiety, and irritability. You’ve already experienced all of that.

“The intensity of these symptoms depends on the number of brain injuries sustained and the severity of the head trauma. There's no definite number of how many head injuries a person can sustain before permanent damage occurs, but you are definitely at the precipice. Given the number of concussions you’ve had, I would suspect that you’re experiencing brain dysfunction, vision and vestibular system dysfunction, autonomic nervous system dysfunction, and hormone dysfunction.

“The next things that will occur are not pretty. They could place you in a nursing home or other type of care facility. You have already begun a buildup of abnormal proteins that damages brain tissue. Symptoms include memory loss, mood problems, and suicidal thoughts. According to your coaches and teammates, your moods have been erratic at best.”

“So much for being great teammates,” he scoffed. “My moods have been erratic because my coverage has been fucking awful, and we’ve been getting our asses kicked. Anyone would be moody with that shit happening.”

“Butch, this isn’t funny. We’ve all heard the stories of the guys who have killed themselves because of this kind of damage. Heroes of the game. Guys that everyone thought were made of steel. But they weren’t!” yelled the team doctor.

“Then what? What are you saying? I’m done. I’m no longer a player. I can’t play football. Is that what you’re saying? If that’s fucking true, what am I supposed to do? What?”

“I think you need some time to think about this, Butch. You’re off the roster on injured reserve for the next three weeks.”

“Three weeks!”

“Three weeks, Butch. That or retire now. We’ll reexamine in three weeks and repeat the scans, but it’s unlikely anything will change. Football is a great sport, Butch, but it’s not worth your life.”

The two doctors left his room, closing the door behind them. He stared at the ceiling, then slowly closed his eyes. At some point, he fell asleep, only waking when he heard a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

“Hey, asshole,” smiled his teammates.

“Hey. You guys here to give me my gold watch,” he frowned.

“Brother, we just want to be sure you’re okay, that’s all,” said Petey Rossi. His longtime friend, although that was a stretch, and offensive tackle had been there for him the last ten years on and off as he played with New Orleans. There was a brief break in there where he played in Colorado, but he always wanted to come home. Behind him, Butch caught sight of the young QB that would be taking his place.

“Kurt,” he said briskly.

“Hey, Butch,” he said quietly. “Sorry about all this, man. Really, I am. I know you have to take it easy for a few weeks, but we’ve got Nashville next week. I could sure use some guidance on how to handle their defense.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I should be out of here in a few days but come by any time.” The young man nodded, smiling at him. It wasn’t his fault. He was doing a job. Just like Butch had done his job when selected to take over for the retiring QB two decades ago.

“Butch, you’ve got a lot to offer the game,” said Petey. “It doesn’t have to be on the field. Imagine what you could do as a coach or mentor for new QBs. Or as an analyst. You could even be a scout for a team. You would be able to identify young talent on both sides of the ball. The game needs you.”

“Yeah. Right. Just not throwing the ball.”

“Man, you’ve got a lot to learn, Butch. I’ve been playing more than a decade now, and even I know it all comes to an end sooner or later. Your life isn’t worth it.”

He followed the advice of the doctors for a whole week. One whole week and still, all he could think about was getting back on the field. While the others wore full-on pads, tackling and hitting, he was working out on the sidelines. He wanted to show them he was good to go.

Unfortunately, his body wasn’t ready to go anywhere. He could feel it. Something was different. With his head down, he went into the training room and had one of the trainers draw him an ice bath. It was miserable at first, but the benefits for his aching body were worth it.

“Butch, maybe you need to seriously think about retirement,” said the coach. He was chest-deep in the ice bath, staring at the man who’d had enough faith in him to bring him back from the dead pile.

“I’m not quitting. You and I both know that I can recover from this.”

“Butch, I’m not sure that you can,” said Osterhausen. “Doc says this could be career-ending, and that doesn’t even include all the concussions you’ve had before. The league and the team owners are putting pressure on me.”

“The damn concussions aren’t my problem!” he said, slamming his hand into the side of the tub. “My problem is that I don’t have an offensive line that protects my ass.”

“Careful, Butch. Those boys work hard and have protected you for a lot of years. You need to face the facts that you’re slower than you used to be, you don’t release the ball as quickly, and you’re not seeing the open receivers as well. It’s natural. We all slow down eventually.”

Butch said nothing, turning his head away from the one man he thought would have his back.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said the coach. “We have to talk about this, Butch. I’m getting pressure from the front office and from the league.”

He left the training room, rubbing his bald head, realizing that was why he had a bald head. Forty years of playing and coaching would do that to you. Frustrated? Rub your head. Confused? Rub your head. In the end, you ended up with ulcers and a bald head.

It was nearly an hour later that he decided to finally head home and maybe, if luck were on his side tonight, not be on his wife’s shit list. Looking down the hallway, he spotted the lights still on in the training room.

“Damn. He can’t even turn off a fucking light.”

As he approached the room, he heard the soft hum of the ice bath. Did he leave that on as well? Turning the corner, he stopped, staring at the picture in front of him. What the hell happened?

“Oh, damn.”