I hung up, stopped, leaned against the side of the closed deli I was passing, and brought up the web browser on my iPhone. Turned out I didn’t even need to search for his name or the bowl game; it was there, one of the top stories, instantly accessible.
After the first one I was in a daze. I watched one after another after another on my way home, blowing off everything, everyone, all my plans meaningless. Nothing mattered except me getting to the television in my living room.
Flipping to ESPN as fast as I could, not even changing, I sat down with my jacket, beanie, and scarf still on, just needing to know, anything else not even worth considering.
At this hour, they were reporting from outside the hospital in Phoenix where Carson was. The concussion, originally the main concern, had turned out to be much less serious than suspected. Even though he had been knocked out on the field, he had apparently regained consciousness very quickly in the ambulance. The concussion was ruled mild and was not in any way life-threatening.
The second they finished with the update, they returned to the top story. Carson Cress had been tackled by two defensive linemen simultaneously, and his right arm, his throwing arm, had sustained a multifragmentary compound fracture, and now they knew his bicep had been torn when the bone had snapped in three places. It had occurred in an instant, and as I watched, horrified, the film of the injury, seeing it unfold, my eyes blurred. I couldn’t even imagine the pain. He would need to have surgery to set the bone, as well as to reattach the muscle. In all probability, the experts said, he would never throw a football again.
There was so much commentary, so many competing experts; there were diagrams of the arm, a play-by-play of how it had been twisted completely back and then landed on. A helmet crashing into his had caused the concussion; the fall and the tackle of the second lineman did the damage to his arm. The player who drilled him helmet-to-helmet was suspended, but the other guy was just playing ball. There was no fault in his hit; it had just been an unfortunate series of events.
The guy who was suspended refused to talk, the other guy was “damn sorry” for the outcome, but the play itself could have gone down no other way.
And so it went, interview after interview, more doctors, highlights of Carson’s family arriving at the hospital: mother, father, grandmother, his sister and her family, his brother with his, and the family priest. They talked endlessly about how bright his star had been, what he could have meant to professional football, how there had been talk of the Heisman this year, but now… now it was all a dream that would never be. I didn’t remember when I started crying, but I fell asleep still fully clothed, waiting on any news.
I woke up right after three, set my alarm for eight, stumbled into my bedroom stripping off clothes on the way, and collapsed onto my mattress. When my alarm went off and woke me later that morning, I called in sick for Monday, told the other assistant manager that I was sorry, and hung up. I needed to get to the airport. I was finally going to use my Discover card for something more than groceries.
I flew from Lubbock to Phoenix, and it was fast. I just had to wait until almost one in the afternoon to catch a flight out. Once there, when I turned my phone on, I saw I had five missed calls from a number marked private. When it was suddenly buzzing and I had a new incoming call from what I assumed was the same number again, I answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Vince?”
“It is,” I said, walking through Terminal 3 at Sky Harbor. “May I ask who this is?” I was talking to a woman, that was clear, but she hadn’t identified herself.
“This is Amelia Cress, Carson’s mother.”
It was a wonder I didn’t drop the phone. I had enough conscious thought to squeeze tight instead of opening my hand, so my cell stayed in my grip. There was nothing else I could manage.
“Hi,” was all I could get out. I had no idea what else to say.
“Vince what?”
“Wade,” I told her.
She cleared her throat. “Good. Now I have a last name.”
But why did it matter? Why on earth was Carson’s mother calling me?
“Vince?”
“Yes, ma’am, sorry. What can I do for you?”
She cleared her throat. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Phoenix.”
“You are?” She sounded surprised.
“I am. I came to see Carson. And I don’t want to intrude, but—”
“That would be wonderful. When can you be here?”
I couldn’t even breathe. What in the world could be her agenda? “Ma’am, I’m not a friend of his.”