-one-
Nothing much happened until that afternoon. Not a word from Lem Clemens, nor from anybody on the team. Nice bunch of people. Screw them all. If I got out of this I'd take Jackos' job away from him. If I got out of this.
Dr. William Sloane came. He was a fat quiet little man who seemed nervous. He kept reading the charts at the foot of my bed and papers about me in a folder he held in both hands and finally he told me I'd been given a sleeping electroencephalogram, but they weren't quite sure.
"Quite sure about what?"
"Well, uh, we're not sure."
"What the hell," I said.
"Nothing really specific."
"When do I get out of here?"
"We're going to try again. We'll give you a waking electroencephalogram."
So they wheeled me downstairs and the electroencephalogram was taken in a white, sterile room. The doctor who did it was a black and he was smiling all the time. It took about an hour with all those damn little needles he put into my scalp. He kept coming in and out asking how long had I played football, how many times had I been kicked in the head. Hell, if he only knew my head had a ringing sound in it half the time I was in high school and the rest of the time in college and this was a normal noise for a pro. How many times had I been knocked out? I had been knocked out once in high school, three times in college, three times in pro football. Miss Brooks came in and looked at me and made a face like she wished those needles were buried two feet into my brain. The doctor said Miss Brooks was a wonderful nurse and I was lucky to have her on my floor. Yes, I was sure lucky.
What did he know about a Miss Derry? He had never heard of her. After it was over, I was wheeled back upstairs on the elevator and soon I was back in bed. The fat doctor Sloane said he wanted to go over my brain wade tapes with another doctor and he would be talking to me again that afternoon. I waited and I waited and got tired of waiting and pressed the button on the bell cord and Miss Derry came in. I asked her for a glass of water.
"I'm sorry," she said. "No water or food until after the doctor sees you."
"What's the latest gossip about my brain?"
"I don't know."
"You mean you know something but you can't say anything."
"Really, I don't know."
"Where did you get that skin? Mother or father?"
She didn't answer. She went out and I lay there. There was nothing but kiddy programs and soap operas on television. I was bored as hell.
Then the fat nervous little Doctor Sloane came back with another doctor. They were carrying my brain-wave tapes. They studied them standing beside the bed.
"Nothing too specific again," said Dr. Sloane. "Hmm," said the thin tall younger doctor. His name was Dr. Henry Cohen. He kept looking over Dr. Sloane's shoulder.
"How do you feel?" said Dr. Cohen.
"Bored."
"Your head. Does it hurt?"
"A little bit when I move around."
"You've had a mild concussion."
"How long was I out?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"A first for me."
"See," said Dr. Sloane. He held up the brain-wave tapes.
Dr. Cohen took them and peered at them, squinting through black horn-rimmed glasses. "You see," he was pointing at something on the tapes. They muttered and murmured, studying the tapes. Then Dr. Cohen put one of those little lights in my eyes and studied my eyeballs.
"Um," he said, and snapped off the light. "Difficult to say. Um. Possible, of course. Better try a carotid angiogram."
"What the hell are you looking for?" I asked. "Possible subdural hematoma," said Dr. Sloane.
"In plain English?"
"Blood clot."
"Can't you tell?"
"Nothing really conclusive."
"Well, let's get on with it."
"First thing in the morning."
"Why not this afternoon?"
"What's your hurry?"
"I have to make a living."
Both doctors shook their heads.
"If there's the slightest subdural hematoma you might as well face the fact, you won't be playing any more football this year."
I knew what they were getting at. I'd seen other players like this. They simply opened up your skull and stopped the bleeding and you could either play again the following year or not at all. I don't remember anybody coming back to play after the skull was opened. Goddamn it, and just when I was going well. That bastard Lennox. Somebody ought to lay his head open with an axe. Lennox, you bastard, if I ever get the chance again I'm going to run right over your skull in practice.
"Could I talk to the team doctor?"
"Dr. Cohen is an excellent doctor."
Dr. Cohen smiled and laced his thin fingers together.
"You're really gung-ho to play as soon as possible?"
"That's what I get paid for:"
"I'll see what we can do."
They both left me lying in bed watching a soap opera.
Just before dinner, the team doctor came in. Dr. Harold Steinberg. He was handsome, black-haired. He had played for State back in the Thirties at Minnesota on two national championship football teams. He played a lot of tennis and his face was tanned. He came in wearing a big smile.
"Why didn't you duck your head and eat the ball?" he asked. "Yes, I've seen your tapes. Nothing shows really. A few crinkles in your brain, but they've probably been there a long time. Sorry I haven't been in. Very busy. How's your head? Any headaches? Nausea? You got kicked around pretty good. I saw the game. Yes, I know Miss Derry. That'll give you brain waves that will kick up your chart. Quite a piece. I should be twenty years younger. She's too solemn, though.
"What about sex?" I asked.
"What about it? I certainly could use some myself."
"I mean with this head."
"My God, are you screwing Miss Derry here?"
"No, I hardly know her."
"How do you get laid in this hospital?"
"Doc, I just want to know if I should or shouldn't."
"More power to you, Scott. I've never been able to get laid in this hospital."
"Is it dangerous? I mean, blood pressure, that sort of thing?"
"If you've got a minor sub -"
"- blood on the brain."
"Take it easy, Scott. Save yourself. Screwing will give you a headache."
He was right. Mary Ann had left me with a slight headache and a little dizziness, but it had certainly been worth it.
"I get horny lying here," I said.
"I'll send in Miss Derry."
"Thanks a lot."
"Take it easy. See you first thing in the morning. Get some sleep. I think everything is going to be okay. But we want to make sure."
"What's the deal?"
"Angiogram. Quite simple. We'll put a little dye into your carotid artery. Right and left." He touched the back of my neck. "Then take some quick pictures. If it shows dark anywhere in the brain, you're bleeding. We have to make sure."
"If it's okay, how soon can I get out of here?" "Quickly. Sleep well. Take it easy."
He smiled and went out. He was wearing a three-hundred-dollar suit, just like Lem Clemens'.
-two-
That night there were a couple of good movies on television, but I knew I was going to have a tough time getting to sleep. I kept thinking about how long I might be out of action. If I were out of action another two weeks, Jacko would be ready, but that wasn't too bad. It would mean we'd start about dead even for the first-string quarterback slot. I knew I had a stronger arm and more experience, but I had to be right on because they were building this kid. He needed at least three more years experience and even then he wouldn't really be seasoned. You needed about seven years quarterbacking in the pros to really be sharp and old warrior. Unless you were Namath. But how many Namaths are there with a wrist snap like this? I knew they wouldn't give me a sleeping pill, not with an alleged head injury, but things turned out better than I thought they would. I fell asleep watching the ten o'clock news. The trouble was I woke an hour later. The television was still on, showing some western. I felt nervous and started worrying about football and how soon I would get back to the team. In the night the worry seemed worse than it should be, but I couldn't turn my thoughts off; the worry got worse until I was sore at myself for being such a damn fool to worry this hard, but it was always like that waking in the middle of the night before a game, which is why I always take a sleeping pill the night before a big game. So do most of the other players except when we were using those big sloppy, fat guards in the old days. Those lard buckets never worried about any game. Hell, they didn't have to move laterally in those days. Anyway, I could not sleep. I was lying there wide awake when the door opened softly and shut just as softly. It was dark in the room and I wondered if it was Miss Derry who had come to take my temperature. I couldn't see her in the dark, but I could hear her and she sat down on the edge of the bed and touched my leg.
"I couldn't get to, sleep thinking about you," Mary Ann said.
"How did you get in?"
"Waited until the nurse left the hall station."
I felt her hand go under the sheet and move up my leg.
"God, you get me so hot," she said.
"Don't say anything," I said. "The hall has ears."
I couldn't move. I wondered what the hell I was getting into with this hot-boxed chick. What the hell was I going to do with her once I got out of the hospital? Very handy now. But later I might have her on my hands. No thanks.
"You're going to do it this time," she said.
"No harm in trying."
"I'm going to really milk you."
She drew back the sheets. I felt her hovering over me .in the darkness. Why couldn't I come with her? It had never happened before. But I was empty of answers. She put her hand on my balls. No response. Maybe I was all washed up physically and emotionally. Dead, but not buried. She cupped my scrotum, but my dick was utterly limp. Her hand felt remote, far away, yet she held my balls.
I looked up in the darkness at the ceiling.
"Why?" she said and stroked my cock again. "Is it me?"
"It's me," I told her. "I don't know why."
