Concussion

My senior football season we had bad helmets. They had been used by Notre Dame for one season before they decided they were no good. How could any Catholic high school pass up the chance to wear Notre Dame helmets? I admit they looked cool. They were an attempt in plastic to imitate the iconic Notre Dame leather helmet. Because such a deal could not be passed up I got two concussions that season. 

The first concussion I don't remember much. I vaguely remember that somebody escorted me to the hallway where seniors had lockers. I found mine but could not remember the combination. Next, I remember being in a hospital room with, by coincidence, a classmate, Bob Moosbrugger. Apparently I became newly aware of this coincidence several times. Each time I asked Bob how I got there, what time it was, and why he was there. Of course, I did-not-do-not remember his answers. I remember only, his quite definite “yes” in response to my question, “Did I ask you that before?” I think the concussion took me out of practice for some days until I got a doctor's approval to play. The contact avoidance was not so long, however, to make me miss playing the next game.

The second concussion I remember as a walking, talking, running, afternoon nightmare. I remember coming part way to my senses on the sidelines when they stuck smelling salts under my nose. I answered their necessary questions about my name, and birthday and such; then they put me back into the game. I know we were playing Stanley of Fargo North Dakota. We had beaten them there the year before. (arriving in a train that arrived so late that we got into our uniforms on board, and still arrived at the game late.)

I had my senses together enough that on defense I knew my assignments. On offense, as the center, I had to remember the snap count and my blocking assignment. I must have done that well enough to stay in the game. However, I was in a timeless hell. After each play was over, I could not remember what had happened. I could not remember if we were winning or losing, though, in anguish, I kept looking to the scoreboard. When we walked off the field, I desperately hoped we had not broken our four year winning streak. Nor did I know if the game was over or if it was halftime until we went into the locker room and the Coach Warner gave a halftime talk—which, of course, I heard but remember nothing . If he was angry with the team and upset with my play, his swearing and kicking of chairs were lost on me.

Again, when the game was over I just followed the other players and kept looking up at the scoreboard to see who won and immediately forget. I suffered this all in silence. I guess I was too confused to express my confusion.

Somehow I got home. Perhaps, I got out of my uniform and went home with my parents. The Central High School stadium was only about ten blocks from my home. My parents were there. More likely I went with the team the longer distance to our own locker room and made it home by some other means. I believe I was crafty enough to coax information about the game out of my family without revealing my mindlessness and raising their concern. In any case, by the next morning I could read the newspaper to see and remember that we had won. Of course, I had no recollection of the game itself other than the seemingly endless nightmare. These were the longest couple of hours of my life; they felt eternal.

School, and football went on as normal. As I write, life has gone on as normal for six decades. If the concussions of my senior year in high school had ill effects, they stay hidden among my many idiosyncrasies. 

 



(c) from date of posting, by Bob Komives, Fort Collins