Night Nurse

The rivalry between Burgnew University and Wallcorn State had existed for some thirty-seven years, encompassing every sport the two schools competed in. But the fiercest rivalry gestated sixteen years ago, when the two high end universities started meeting more and more frequently in the interscholastic divisional football playoffs. The heat of that rivalry had become almost volcanic in the last dozen years, when, with rare exception, the two football juggernauts collided year after year for the state championship. Almost every game came down to the wire, last second heroics always seeming to turn the tide or cement a championship.

For most of those years, the Burgnew Bullies and the Wallcorn Wild Boars were so evenly matched that even the so-called experts hedged their bets. But then, inexplicably, the last five meetings in a row between the bitter adversaries ended in favor of the Bullies, three of them decidedly one-sided affairs. It nearly broke the spirit of the Wild Boars, and each consecutive loss to their cross-county rivals was more bitter than the last.

But this year their hope was renewed. Although Burgnew went 11-1 in divisional play, Wallcorn had gone unbeaten, 12-0, for the first time ever. Their star running back, Ricky DeLong, had been nigh unstoppable all season, racking up just over 2000 rushing yards in their unbeaten swath of destruction. They had systematically dismantled opponents, offensively and defensively, all season, and they were on top of the world.

Still, their last five consecutive defeats at the hands of the Bullies haunted them. Having met them in the latter part of the regular season, brimming with confidence and thinking they'd steamroll right over their rivals, they'd only managed to defeat them by a mere two points...and only then because time had run out on the Bullies' last minute, resurgent offense. Given that hard fought, questionable victory, and their recent championship defeats at the hands of the Bullies, the Wild Boars, who had brimmed with confidence all year, suddenly found themselves entertaining doubts -- doubts they hadn't had all season -- about the outcome of this sixth, most recent championship clash.

And well they should. The Bullies, smug as ever, played just as rough and determined as did the Boars all season, their only loss coming at the hands of their rivals...and that loss stuck in their craws, like a great, choking ball of bile that kept them from swallowing. They felt they should've won that game. They felt they didn't lose it, really, they'd just run out of time. And revenge, so close now, would taste sweeter than honey.

Apparently forgetting all but the last five years, the Bullies had come to think of the Boars as their personal patsies, despite their impressive unbeaten record. So they'd beaten them by two points in the regular season, but this was the championship...and surely the Bullies would OWN them again this year.

The championship game was exactly the same type of battle the two teams had engaged in a mere four weeks past. The Bullies showed neither the #1 offense, nor the #2 defense of the Boars the slightest respect. The Boars, in return -- and despite their self doubts -- fought equally as tenaciously, and showed equally little respect for the Bullies. In effect, it was a battle of guts, brawn and wills. Every point, every yard, was yielded grudgingly by both teams. Each offensive gain was punished by merciless, bone-jarring defensive hits. Every player gave 110%. It was the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. Classic, gut-wrenching football at its finest. Young, strong bodies willing to sacrifice all for school and glory.

For fifty-nine minutes and forty-nine seconds the two teams clashed like avenging demons. With a mere eleven ticks left on the clock, the sweating, weary Boars were in jeopardy of losing their perfect season. The arrogant Bullies had the Boars' backs to the wall. The score was 19-15 in favor of the Bullies with a paltry eleven seconds left. And although the Boars were within easy field goal range on the Bullies' nine yard line, they needed more than a mere kick to win. They were out of time outs. Their offense was spent, nearly to the point of collapse. But...so was the Bullies defense.

Even though it was nine long yards to paydirt, the Boars' head coach felt he had to go to his ace. And even though the offense had scored a seemingly meager 15 points all day, fullback Ricky DeLong had been their shining star on offense, gaining a stunning, hard-earned 168 yards. But he was also bruised and battered to the bone. The coach knew the odds were against a successful nine yard running play, especially with the tenacity of the Bullies' front line. But with eleven seconds left, no time outs remaining, their receivers hounded into ineffectiveness all day by the Bullies' secondary, and fourth down staring them in the face, he felt he had to go to his best athlete. Nine yards...one play...for all the marbles. This was it. It had come down to this.

It was a simple play, but it had worked on a couple of occasions already. Everyone in the stands knew it was coming. So did the Bullies' defense. They were chomping at the bit. Like crazed animals, the defensive line, linebackers and secondary were all salivating, every single glazed eye glaring menacingly at Ricky DeLong. He had a bullseye on his forehead, and each of the eleven players on the defense wanted to be the one whose arrow pierced it. Each wanted to be the hero who brought DeLong to his knees short of the end zone.

Every fan in the stadium was standing, chanting, either for the offense or the defense. Amidst this deafening roar, the Boars' exhausted, gritty quarterback slammed the ball into Ricky's midsection, and all seemed to proceed in slow motion from there. The halfback scooted straight ahead, faking a run up the middle. No one even looked at him. The offensive right tackle and guard pulled right, Ricky pounding along behind them. The entire Bullies defense moved to their left, a wall of sweat and muscle. To the credit of the Boars' front line, and even their receivers, most of that sweaty bulk was mowed down, blocked, or slammed grunting to the turf below. But the defensive left end and the snarling, massive middle linebacker slipped through, their sights solely on DeLong. When all the bodies had finally fallen to the ground, opposing players negating one another in a spray of sweat and mud, only three determined bodies remained upright.

Now churning along unprotected, his blocking decimated despite a heroic display of tenacity, Ricky's eyes grew wide as he saw the steamrolling defensive end and middle linebacker bearing down on him. By this time he'd reached the five yard line. The two blocks of granite in muddy spikes closed in. Holding the ball curled tightly in the crook of his right arm, Ricky held out his left in a stiff arm attempt to ward off the onrushing defensive end. Instinctively, he lowered his head and prepared for a more solid collision with the drooling linebacker, growling and screaming his own determination. In his mind, he simply REFUSED to go down. Whatever it took, he would cross that white line.

The collision was, simply put, indescribably awesome. Neither team had ever seen anything like it before. At the exact same instant, all three players, hurtling at breakneck speed directly toward one another, lowered their heads for impact. Once their heads were down, they could no longer see to avoid disaster. Hence, DeLong's arm totally missed the onrushing end, slipping ineffectively off his outside shoulder. That attempt having failed, his body was completely vulnerable to the equally blind rush of the defensive duo. The three careening athletes hurled toward each other blindly and with the building momentum of runaway locomotives. A recipe for tragedy.

Three young, helmeted heads met with the force of slamming sledgehammers. The sound of helmet on helmet on helmet was so loud it was heard over the cheering cacophony that filled the stadium. Two seconds after the explosive impact, the stadium was deadly silent. When the once cheering crowd saw what ensued following impact, that sonic void was replaced by fearful moans and gasps.

The defensive end, his back bent into a near horseshoe shape from the force of the hit due to DeLong's greater momentum, blacked out instantly. For a brief moment, he stubbornly clung to the running back's left arm, then staggered a few feet toward the sideline, slumped to his knees, and fell flat on his face, his helmet turned around so that his face guard protected only the nape of his neck.

The snarling linebacker went silent as the force of the collision spun his body up and over DeLong's left shoulder, in nearly the same area where his unconscious fellow defenseman had been only a scant second ago. He whirled in the air over and behind the stunned running back, reaching out his right hand in one last attempt to grasp his escaped prey's elusive jersey in one last hope of bringing his man down. He would have succeeded, had it not been for the fact that the explosive force had also sent DeLong's body into an airborne spin, making an accurate stab at any part of him nearly impossible.

So concentrated had the linebacker been in taking down his adversary, that even as his airborne body spun out of control toward the sideline, his helmet sailing past the sideline cameraman like a bullet, his eyes still locked on his escaped prey. He'd made contact with him, and even if he couldn't make the tackle, if DeLong went down short of the goal line, the Bullies had won. Sadly, he too was unconscious before he hit the ground, and did not see the final outcome.

Ricky, stinging pain leaping along his arms and legs as he whirled through the air toward the goal line, tried desperately to twist and turn his body so that he would fall beyond the line and score the winning touchdown. His head was dizzy and his eyesight blurred from both the impact and his body's vertical spinning. His reeling eyes caught glimpses of turf then sky, turf then sky, over and over as he sailed goalward. When he finally came to earth, he was a yard short. But he'd landed on his feet, staggering, disoriented, his jelly like legs about to collapse beneath his weight. The jolt to his knees sent searing blasts of pain along the entire length of both legs, from hips to heels. And, he noted dismally through his mental haze, he was facing AWAY from the goal line.

Knees buckling, head swirling in a haze of pain and exhaustion, he turned himself around and took two wobbly steps, forcing himself forward despite the sparks dancing along his every nerve ending. Finally, down he went, like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. His mind had gone black...lights out. As he slumped earthward, his legs looked like just so much rubber. His helmet was several yards back on the field, and when he landed face first on the turf, his cheek grazed and was cut by the shoulder pad that had popped from his jersey at the instant of impact with the two defensemen. He lay motionless. But his upper body, from the waist up -- including the football still locked tightly between the crook of his arm and his chest -- was in the end zone. He'd scored. But there was no cheering, no booing, no elation or any audible emotion of any kind. Silence ruled the stadium for several long seconds.

That's when the groans started, the gasps, the flurry of movement. What once seemed like slow motion, now seemed like a jerky old sixteen millimeter Charlie Chaplin caper. Players from both teams ran to their fallen comrades, but stopped short, afraid to touch them. All three players were unconscious. The defensive end still lay where he landed, face down, arms limp at his sides, palms up alongside his hips, the back of his head staring out through his faceguard. He breathed, but did not move. The linebacker lay on his back on the sideline, helmetless and with his closed eyes aimed sightlessly at the sky. His fingers on one hand twitched. Otherwise, he was motionless. He too, breathed. Ricky DeLong lay in the end zone on his stomach, likewise unmoving, though breathing. His unprotected head would have hit the turf much harder had it not glanced off of his shoulder pad first. Despite his unconscious state, his right arm still clutched the football tightly. It had to be pried from his arm.

Team physicians and coaches rushed to the fallen athletes. Slowly, all three players came around, though groggy and in understandable pain. Still, no chances were taken. Ambulances were called. All three were put in neck braces and immovable restraints to be sent immediately to the hospital for Cat Scans. Nothing was left to chance. Young men's futures were at stake here.

The formality of the extra point was conducted, but no one's mind was truly in it. It made no difference, anyway. Extra point or no, the Wild Boars had triumphed. Only the actual score would be changed, not the outcome of the contest. So the kick was made, but the players on the field looked numb, lethargic. Both teams were worried about their players. The Bullies had two teammates to be concerned for, while the Boars had the questionable "luxury" of only having one teammate to pray for.

Good news was had all around. All Cat Scans were negative, except the one showing Ricky DeLong's moderate concussion. All neurological checks showed the athletes were otherwise just fine, though in need of some serious recuperation. But they would all walk, talk...and play football again. Considering the possibilities of such a spine-jarring impact, they were all lucky indeed. They'd each come millimeters away from becoming crippled for life.

The two injured Bullies were more upset at the their first championship loss in several years than they were in their injuries. Already they were vowing revenge next year, gritting their teeth through their muscle aches and the "stingers" they'd endured. Ricky DeLong had his school's victory, and the fact that he'd be a school hero for a long time to come -- which was a shoo in with the ladies -- to assuage his pains and the news of his concussion. After all, if he had to suffer a concussion, what better time to get one than the last play of the championship game? Even more reason he'd be a hero with the ladies. After today, he'd have his pick of women, both at the college and outside of it. What's a little concussion when the future looked so bright?

Though Ricky sighed expectantly - even through the pain and mental fogginess he experienced upon regaining consciousness - at the hero worship he'd surely receive, he had no true idea of just what lay in store for him in the near future. Things do not always happen as one plans them. Ricky would learn that soon enough. Almost immediately, in fact. And he'd learn much more than that. Much, much more. The next few hours for Ricky DeLong would encompass a lifetime of learning and experience, rolled into one chilly, dark night.

And it would all begin at the hospital's change of shifts, when the night nurse would come on duty. The moment she entered his room, his life would change completely...and forever. Shortly after admittance to the hospital, Ricky DeLong found himself more exhausted than at any other time in his admittedly brief college football career. As if his brain-jarring collision with the Bullies' determined defensive beasts wasn't enough to drain his energy, the series of neurological and psychological tests and the CAT scan that followed further weakened him. Factor in the results of those tests, a definite second degree concussion, and it was no wonder the Wild Boars' star fullback was a glimmer of his former self. On the plus side, no bones had been broken and no damage had been done to his spine. A very lucky thing considering the battering his body had taken on that savage final play. Certainly, he was cautiously assured, he would recover, and most likely fully (though he was given no promises to that effect), but there being no cure for a concussion save rest, and plenty of it, he was placed in a private room for a twenty-four hour period of observation. Under the proper medical supervision, he was encouraged to rest. Followup tests would be done the following day, the results of which would determine whether he stayed at Wallcorn Hospital or was allowed to continue his recuperation at home.

Throughout the evening his vital signs had been constantly and regularly monitored by the evening shift nursing staff. The few visitors that had been allowed had all been ushered out of the room by 8PM. With only the occasional interruption, he was finally allowed the complete rest his battered body, and mind, needed. The door to his room was closed, the lights extinguished, and Ricky fell into a deep, much needed slumber.

Darkness filled his room as if it were almost palpable. Even the autumn moonlight couldn't penetrate it, thanks to the requisite bulky, impenetrable shades blocking the window. But when Ricky awakened with a start, the room seemed to be bathed in some cool, hazy glow. He laughed at himself when he imagined wisps of fog billowing about on both sides of his bed in that ghostly glow.

As he watched the fog mill about on the floor and near the window, he chuckled out loud at his mind's amusing games, realizing it must be an aftereffect of his concussion. The doctor had warned him his mind might play tricks on him, warned him he might think he was fine when in actuality he wasn't. So, rather than get worked up by the hallucination he was experiencing, he simply joked with himself about it. As he looked through the glowing haze toward the shade-blocked window, thinking that somehow the moon's glow had sneaked through after all, he allowed himself a little personal quip.

"Ooooh," he laughed to himself, "where's Bela Lugosi when you need him?"

"Who's Bela Lugosi?" came a softly spoken reply from behind him, on the other side of his bed.

Nearly jumping out of his skin, Ricky whirled about to see still more fog. But this fog seemed to coalesce into a shape. It looked like the smoke of a campfire trying to take some kind of vertical shape. But he saw no human being in that misty mirage. Then, just as quickly as the rising smoke had appeared, it was gone, dispersing in little tendrils of fog, like a blue, hazy sunburst. Even as his heart raced, he started to chuckle at himself again. Man, oh, man, concussions really DO play tricks with the mind!

"I'm sorry," the soft voice came again, this time from the window side of the bed, "I'm Vanessa. I'll be your nurse during the night shift." As Ricky's neck once again whipped around toward the sound, the soft voice continued. "Now, just who IS this Bela Lugosi person?"

In the light blue glow stood a hazy figure, a figure that sharpened in clarity from second to second. Dressed all in white, even to the crisp nurse's cap, it was obvious that if this was another hallucination, it was at least one that Ricky could enjoy...and exactly the type that Ricky would expect his hormonal mind to produce. If this indeed WAS a creation of his concussed brain, he had every intention of enjoying it fully.

Almost as if on purpose, the glow in the room momentarily focused on this angel in white surrounded by blue. Ricky could see her every feature as if the fluorescent room lights glowed their brightest. Besides the stark whiteness of her uniform, Vanessa's skin was fair. All else about her was either dark or brightly colored. Her smoothly flowing, shoulder length, shiny black hair formed a frame around her light-skinned face. Her eyes were dark and mysterious, seeming to harbor eons of wisdom in their depths, even though she couldn't possibly be more than thirty years old. Her lips shined crimson, moist and inviting. At the end of her sleeves, her fair complexioned hands boasted a quiet power, almost as if she preferred to hide that power for some reason of her own. Her long, thin fingers sported bright red fingernails. Ricky got the impression those nails wanted to be much longer, but were sadly clipped short to avoid violating any hospital dress codes. Her curves could not be hidden beneath nurse whites, and sexuality oozed from her every pore. Her face was beauty personified. One would get the impression that men would die for such beauty, and probably had.