Greg Sinclair

Seven yards from Eden

The clear reflective condensation drop clung momentarily, and then dripped from the iron grid of my facemask tumbling through the air almost playfully. As it fell, it continued to echo back the visual surroundings through a wall-eyed and microscopic view. In a blossoming flourish it splashed down upon the deep green tapestry where it joined the early Saturday morning dew already blanketing the ocean of thick grass beneath our cleated feet. For a moment I paused capturing each frame of its movement as the drop slid down an arced blade of grass, collecting dew and gaining speed until it crashed into the dark void of the soil below.

The whole scene was pristine and beautiful. It was a snapshot of the pure wonder of nature, a delicate and natural majesty as peaceful as new life.

“HUTT – HUTT – HUTT!!” The thundering voice unleashed the deafening crack of helmets into pads, the grunts and snarls of opposing strength. At once I was in motion, the green waves of grass torn and floating upon my wake. Each player donned in purple, moved in unison, fighting for every inch, executing the ‘twenty-eight blast’.

The oblong pigskin of the football thudded into my purple stomach between my waiting arms which clamped around it instantly. The ‘eight’ hole in the line was mostly open. A single linebacker moved into position to stop my gain. Making myself small, I lowered my head and lead with my right shoulder driving hard with my legs. The jarring impact failed to buckle my knees and I knew without looking what had happened. As I pulled up, I glimpsed the blur of the linebacker tumbling away to one side in a roll of arms and cleats. Before me lay four tiny white lines that marked four yards to our first victory. Among them stalked a single defender. His jersey bared the red and white number twenty seven, and his feet shuffled rapidly to get himself into position. But in a fraction of a second I recognized his left foot directly beneath him and turned slightly inward. He was out of position and in no way able support a full impact. Instinctively my head lowered pushing my shoulder to lead to his left where it would be physically impossible for him to avoid toppling backward. Even if he clung to me, I could drag him the final two steps to victory, to euphoria, to celebration.

It was at that point the voice of Kurt Miller, my best friend, echoed out from the deep recesses of my memory.

“Man, the way you break-dance, you should be the next Tony Dorsett on the football field! There is nothing more exciting than making a defender miss with deaf style! Just look at Justin Brantly!” Kurt was right of course. Justin was the star running back in this state. He was shifty, dynamic and drew huge crowds. Kids went to games just to watch Justin, not just to support their friends who played. I, on the other hand had been nicknamed ‘dozer’. Short for bulldozer, my talent was getting low and running over defenders. I drew no crowds. Bulldozing, while very effective, lacked ‘style’ as Kurt had reminded me over and over.

Instantly I changed my mind, pulling my head up and cutting to one side. The spikes of my cleats bit into the sod exploding turf into the air. I twisted my hips and spun in what seemed like slow motion. The arm of number twenty seven flailed hopefully and seized me by the waist, pulling me downward. With all my momentum lost, I toppled to the ground still in mid-spin. Looking up, I noticed two white lines separating me defiantly from my own promise land. The crowd erupted in a tumult of jubilation.

The wrong crowd.

Their crowd.

The game was over. I had lost. Slowly untangling, I drew myself to my feet. At once a darkened figure loomed authoratively over me.

“What the hell was that!?! We had them!”

“Look, I know how to do this!” the objection in my voice was stained with undirected disappointment.

“No, you don’t! Just put your damn head down and hit the hole! If you would just listen to me, we would not be winless!”

“Dad –”

“I told you not to call me that when we are on the field!” His eyes shifted nervously checking the players and staff moving busily all around us. He moved closer, his teeth clenched in agitation. “Out here, I am ‘Coach’.” The demand in his tone removed any misunderstandings. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

“Fine, Coach.” My tone mocked the title, challenging in the way every thirteen year old whom was being suppressed challenged; with cowardice sarcasm. He scowled drawing in a deep breath taking his time to exhale and breathe away the frustration.

“Look, I know you want to be a ‘dancing’ ball carrier with shifty moves and dazzling turns.” He put his hand on my shoulder where the thick pads repelled his gentleness. “But the truth is you are just not that type of runner. You are a power running back. A darn good one. You have strong powerful legs, not quick fast ones. You have a talent to get low and hit hard. I know that is difficult to hear but sometimes we need to just accept what we are and to be true to ourselves.”

I threw his hand from my shoulder and turned leaving the whole emotionally crushing event behind me. What did he know? Regardless of all his trophies, awards, championships and achievements, he was old and his time had passed. The future belonged to me and that of my generation. He was wrong. I would show him how wrong.

Football was my life. I played every position on the field. In fact the official team roster listed me as the starting running back, second string quarterback, kicker, punter, kick returner, punt returner, first string linebacker and second string safety. No matter what was going on in a game, I was on the field somewhere. Everything revolved around football including my future. Classmates planned for careers, I struggled to pick a single position to play in the NFL.

It was the fall of 1984 and I was at the tumultuous age of thirteen. I was impressionable and far too concerned with what everyone else thought of me. Meanwhile, rumors had cycled back to my ears about being the coach’s son and my positions on the team, fueling the fires of determination to prove them all wrong.

I worked hard on my own, away from the disapproving coaching of my father, trying to master the spins and juke moves that made shifty running backs exciting and captivating to watch. Endless hours on the homemade obstacle course filled with cutting and spinning drills dominated my time. At night my leg muscles ached and twitched, reminding me of the limitations of the flesh and robbing me of sleep and relaxation. Yet, I persisted. Faster, lower, harder I pushed. I fought to shave milliseconds off times and traded stability for quickness, searching for the perfect balance that would provide me Justin Brantly-like skill and glory. Skill that would land me in the heaviest defended portion of the field.

The end zone.

Crossing the end zone was akin to breaching the walls of a medieval fortress. It marked undeniable victory. It was the most euphoric ten yard section of the field. While it contained the same turf as the rest of the field, it was a magical place. Once inside, you were like a king. Points were awarded, and the possibilities of mistakes were reduced. For example, you could not fumble in the end zone. Once the ball was possessed within its boundaries, it was ruled a touchdown and defensive maneuvers were no longer even legal. It also marked the only spot in this league where you could spike the ball in overwhelming jubilation without being penalized. It was a special place, a small personal paradise; an individual piece of heaven.

The next several weeks were marred by torrential thunder storms which canceled several games. To my father’s dismay I followed Kurt’s advice and continued to train to be an elusive running back. I used every minute of my spare time, and sought out the review of my close friends. While they did not play football, they knew entertainment.

“You need to be more dynamic. You still lack razzle-dazzle!” They coached me.

Our next game came in the form of the Halloween Bowl. It was an inner-divisional game against a team we had already played, and thus, lost to. Feeling refreshed, optimistic and ready I was prepared to display my newly acquired talents and reclaim our team’s honor.

Loosing the coin toss, I lined up to kick off. In a moment of sheer genius, I changed tactics and fired a kick low off the tee, resulting in a blistering, line-drive kick that blasted the other team’s kick returner right in the chest – causing him to drop it. All the while, from the sidelines ‘Coach’ bellowed bewilderedly,

“What are you doing?!?”

Under a rabid pile of digging arms and struggling bodies we recovered the ball on the seven yard line.

Seven yards.

With mounting jubilation the team took the huddle where to my exhilaration I heard the play being called,

“Twenty-eight blast, on two.”

This was it.

Today was my rebirthing.

This was not just a mere twenty one feet, not a mere seven yards. It was something more. It marked my chance to show everyone who I was in the making, what I dreamed endlessly of and what my future held. Seven yards from my dream, seven yards from my paradise, seven short yards from my very own Garden of Eden.

The condensation dripped from the iron grid of my facemask tumbling through the air almost playfully. In a blossoming flourish it splashed down upon the deep green tapestry where it joined the early Saturday morning dew already blanketing the ocean of thick grass beneath our cleated feet.

“HUTT – HUTT!!” The thundering voice of the quarterback unleashed the deafening crack of helmets into pads, the grunts and snarls of opposing strength. At once I was in motion; a wake of shredded turf littered the air behind me. Each player donned in purple, moved in unison, fighting for every inch, executing the ‘twenty-eight blast’.

The quarterback thrust the oblong trophy of opportunity into my stomach between my anticipating arms which secured it instantly. The ‘eight’ hole in the line was filled, I shifted and aimed for the ‘six’ hole which fate had opened wide for me. A single linebacker drove into position but there would be no halting my success on this day. Powering forward, I lowered my head and lead with my right shoulder driving hard with my legs. The bone rattling impact shook my core as the linebacker crumpled to the ground his hands feebly grasping for the purple of my uniform yet seizing only the emptiness of air.

Five tiny white lines away, I spotted him. Prowling the two yard line, viciously shoving a blocker aside, the red number twenty seven faltered, struggling awkwardly to break free of the purple player before him. It was then he stumbled, leaping from behind his blocker, collapsing to his knees.

It was just him, me and Eden. And I had him beat. The crowd roared. My head lowered, my shoulder shifted forward.

Four white lines.

Three white lines.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, a voice echoed,

“You need to be more dynamic. You still lack razzle-dazzle!” At once my head shot up. Just before me number twenty seven was thrashing to get his feet beneath him. In that instant I dove forward in the highest, most dramatic arc my powerful legs could launch me. Both my arms locked around the ball as I imagined the dynamic site the crowd witnessed. A human rocket launched over the final defender and into the Promised Land. The world paused as fate itself held its breath, below me tiny white lines flashed by.

Then suddenly something blasted into my knees. The pristine field of grass transformed into a blur of green streaked with white as I pin wheeled head over heels. The centrifugal force splayed my limbs as I fought to clutch the ball with both hands. Somewhere in the tumbling spiral of the world, I glimpsed the red twenty seven on his feet with his head down and shoulder leading where my knees were located just a split second before, passing over him. Panic overcame my senses and challenged my logic as to what would halt my spiral. Terrifyingly, the answer presented itself.

The next glimpse I caught was the inverted turf slamming into the top portion of my helmet just above my facemask. My head jarred backward. I felt the hard crown of my helmet impact the middle of my back. Unconsciousness claimed me before the crack of bone registered in the canyon of my ears.

I awoke to the site of several phantoms looming over me. Not players, but people. Some older, some I did not recognize. In the middle, peering down at me with wide, welling eyes was my father.

“Coach?” I queried.

“Dad is here.” He responded, tears falling now, gently picking sod from my helmet. “Don’t move, son.”

“What is…?” I attempted to sit up, but the moment I moved blackness claimed me once more under a tidal wave of agony.

The next time I awoke I was strapped to a board with two paramedics hovering over. I was taken by ambulance to the hospital where I underwent a battery of tests over the next several days. I was informed I had suffered a massive concussion and fractured my C-3, the third vertebrae down from the base of the skull. I had lost partial feeling in my left arm and left leg. To minimize any further damage, I was fitted with a metal halo.

The metal halo is a restrictive support device that immobilizes the head and neck. Imagine a metal headband with four long metal supports connecting to a reinforced chest harness. The harness strapped to the chest while the ‘halo’ portion is held in place by four screws. Yes, that is right; the halo is screwed into the skull. It is an uncomfortable apparatus that must have been developed in the torture camp of some third world country.

Nurse Catherine Dunn was a pleasant, plump nurse whom, to this day, I loathe with every fiber of my being, for the sole reason that at 6:18am every morning she would enter with a screwdriver to tighten the halo.

There are mornings I still jolt myself from a dead sleep at 6:18 in a cold sweat.

Over the next several months, I had an immense amount of time to mull things over. I realized that what matters least, is how others view us. I was lost, did not know who I was, and this was the sole reason for it. We must remain true to ourselves. During rehab I learned just who my friends were. Sure, Kurt still came around but I found that we had grown apart. His life revolved around deep self-serving opinions and entertaining television programming, while mine revolved around obtaining the ability to walk and move normally again. More than once he had commented that I still walked with a limp, yet, it seemed his view mattered very little to me. It was not that I was rejecting it or drew opposition, but it seemed that I had awakened and realized who I really needed to listen to, was me. And while I might have still walked with a slight limp, I was perfectly happy with my ability and quite satisfied just being able to do so.

My dad was there every day. Sometimes just to talk, sometimes to hold me up and keep me focused on the right fight. And although he held every right in the world, he never once uttered the words : ‘Told you so’.

During that long and painful time in my life, I learned to be true to myself. A lesson learned through hard self inspection and physical agony. For the first time in my life I was forced to sit down and face it all from inside. No strength or speed or running could help me. It was a hard path and knowledge that I don’t think I could have earned any other way.

I never played football again. I tried and realized that without all the misguiding, I did truly love being a power running back. However, it was too late. Somewhere in all this I picked up a hesitation. It was not much but just enough to ruin one’s chances at ever being a pro.

Today I have almost fully recovered sensation in my left appendages. Although I still walk with a slight limp that causes me to discreetly drag my left foot, it is almost undetectable. Kurt and my friends have faded into the past, while my dad remains a constant support. He too, walked off the field that day, never to return again. He was begged to coach under offers of glory and greatness, but without hesitation and true to himself;