My sons, Bo and Mark, played football for nine years, from the fourth grade through their senior year at East Wake High School and, early on, I instructed them: Do not fake an injury. Do not lay on the ground acting like you’re hurt unless you are. If you don’t get up, you better be hurt.
And here we were, with less than a minute to go in the last game of Bo’s senior year, a playoff game we were about to lose, when he went down. And stayed down.
I’ll be damn! I thought. One more play and his football career would have been over. One more lousy play.
Then I did something I had never done and never dreamed I would do. I stood up and walked down out of the stands onto the track beside the field. I walked down the track a little ways and then out onto the field. I stopped beside the boy laying on the ground and looked down.
He was not wearing number 66, Bo’s number — it was the other offensive guard. Bo was standing nearby with his teammates, looking perplexed.
I was not embarrassed. I was relieved. That was not my son laying on the field in pain. One more play and Bo would walk away from football dinged up some but with no injury he couldn’t live with.
Relieved and grateful.
Coming Friday: You Need To Check My Contract