Head Bangers

The Washington Post recently ran a story about the recent spate of concussions among NFL players and how the league is reacting to them. In essence, any head shots will be punished by major fines and suspensions, even for first offenses.

Ex-Redskins linebacker and head-hunter Lavar Arrington wrote a blog on his worst concussions, both giving and getting. Arrington is the fellow who dumped Cowboys quarterback Troy Aickman on his head in the course of a vicious sack, giving him the last of a long series of knocks to the head and ending his career as a player.

Concussions are scary things—no cartoon birdies flying around your head chirping classical music, just a closing wall of dark, that at least in my case, I was able to talk my way out of and stay in this reality.

My brother, who played football in high school, was whacked more than once, but never hard enough to pass out. A friend, who was dumped on by a defensive player, remembers waking up on the sidelines with the coach saying “What’s your name, what day is it?” He says he practiced his answers beforehand so as to be able to get back into the game, but instead of “what day is it?” he was asked: “how many fingers am I holding up?” and answered “Saturday”, winning him a trip to the ER.

The most frightening concussions have got to be ones your kids get. When my son, Alec, was in eighth grade, he came home one afternoon with his glasses bent, the front wheel of his bicycle flat, and his bike helmet cracked. “I hit a rock,” was his explanation, “and got flipped over the front” (turns out he was riding down a flight of stairs and told me the rock story so as to not get into trouble). I bundled him into my truck and took him to the eye doctor to get his glasses fixed. On the way home, he complained of a headache and nausea. Alarm bells went off in the back of my skull and we skipped the last turn for home, going directly to the hospital. We walked into the Emergency Room and within a minute, he was on a gurney, headed for the MRI.

What seemed like years later (I think I aged at least that much), the doctor came in to see me. “Alec has a concussion” he said, “it’s not serious and a good thing he was wearing a helmet. Here’s the MRI scan”, he said, showing me a series of photos. I remember thinking how strange it was to be looking at my kid’s brain. “Nothing out of the ordinary” said the doctor, “All we can see here are girls and video games. Give him something for his headache, keep him quiet, and home from school for a day. He should be fine.”

I am happy for the parents of NFL players that the league is finally at least trying to keep their kids from harm. Except for any and all opponents of the Dallas Cowboys who still should be allowed to clobber them bums.