Packed Off

 Because he was a jock, some people might have thought Neil Brown was a bit dim, but before college, he was the best word-smith I knew, and in the disjointed band of misfits we called a high school, that made him a leader.  He found or created a phrase we ended up using a lot: Packed Off.  It meant getting so injured that you couldn't continue in the athletic event you were in and had to be taken off the field.  Packed Off.  

It only happened to me once.  I didn't know it yet, but this would be the last game I played at St. Andrews.  My relationship with the headmaster was bad and getting worse, and soon I'd be off to other adventures away from the class I'd been with since second grade.

It was cold.  A late fall rain made our field an ugly mud pit for the last game of the season.  Coach Clark developed a play just for me.  Pulling guards were pretty standard in those days, but I was a tackle.   I couldn't maintain it, but for short distances, I could develop fairly good speeds, and with my size and leg muscle, his thought was I could pull around the end and build up enough momentum to take out pretty much any defender in our way.  Nobody expected a tackle to pull around the end, plowing the field before a runner.  We'd tried it a few times, and against some defensive formations, it was devastating.  We were behind and needed to put points on the board badly.  It was my time.

Ours was a natural grass field, the cold and the rain made the sod something of a paste.  Down!  Set!  Hike! I pulled out of my position, turned toward the end, and planted my foot to turn back into their defensive end...  My foot was supposed to pivot, and I would direct that considerable momentum and bulk into their defensive end, but my foot stuck in the mud.  I could feel the pop.  I connected with my man, but without much power.  We made a few yards, but not enough.  Second down.

I knew I was in trouble.  I also knew this was our last game, and I and every kid and coach, and parent I knew wanted to end the season with a win.  Third down.  For me, it was a regular play.  My job was to stay in my position and move my defensive counterpart toward the end enough to create a hole for our man to go through.  Four yards and a cloud of dust, Coach Clark called it, but we needed six.  

I was in considerable pain and starting to limp.  Down! Set! Hike!  I connected with my man and pushed for all I could.  Three yards.  Not enough.  Fourth down.  Special teams, my job was to protect the punter and then make it downfield as fast as I could to block the way of the receiver.  I blocked, I started to run and collapsed.  The pain was intense, and my right leg could no longer support me.  I was packed off.  Coach Myers (now Doctor Myers) put my arm around his shoulder and crutched me off the field.

On the sidelines, my pants wouldn't pull over my knee, so he cut them.  Coach Myers had his eyes set on medical school and knew more about anatomy than anyone I knew.  My knee was the size of a cantaloupe and turning purple on one side.  

"I can go back in!"

"You can't go back in."

We were losing.  It was our last game for the year.  We needed this game to have a winning season.

"I can go back in!"  I stood up.  I wouldn't be denied.  Michael Mitchell hid my helmet.  I wasn't going back in.

Playing hurt is part of the American Male credo.  Sylvester Stalone literally made a career making movies about guys who played hurt.  "Are you a pussy?" "Get back in there!"  If you're a man, you feel it, even if nobody says it.  We're forged into believing we are disposable men, I suppose, in case we're ever needed in a war.  Once you get to be around thirty, you can start living for yourself without this burden of playing hurt hanging over your head.  It takes a toll too.  Every boy I know has scars on his face, and seventy percent of them have profoundly damaged knees.  I don't know anybody who had any of these micro-brain injuries you hear about that come from getting your bell rung too many times, but I don't know anyone who was tested, either.

I never had sons, so I never got to put it in practice, but I decided if I did, we'd have a talk about sports and steroids and playing hurt and not making the mistakes dad made.  For young men and boys, the message is pretty clear: your life, your health, and your well-being aren't as important as the game.  Know your place.  Whatever cultural forces make young men believe being disposable is honorable are wrong and possibly evil.   I got packed off.  Mike Mitchell hid my helmet, so I couldn't go back in.  I'm glad he did.