Why We Do It: Athletes and Concussions

I lie there on the ground.

           

“Not again,” I think to myself.  I rise to my feet with the help of a teammate.

           

“You alright?” I am asked over and over.

           

Yeah, I’m good.  I’m good.

           

But I am not good.  Far from it, actually.

           

I begin to play again, running around as if nothing ever happened, determined to “shake it off.”  As I continue activity, the pain in the side of my skull sharpens, and the left side of my vision begins to blur. 

           

“It’ll wear off,” I tell myself.

           

But it only gets worse. 

           

Finally, as I am no longer able to focus and a haze encompassed the left side of my sight, I walk solemnly to the trainer.

           

“I think I have a little problem.”

           

First concussion: tried to play the rest of the game, went to the hospital afterwards.

           

Second concussion: played the rest of the game, went to the hospital that night with a dent in the skull.

           

Third: think I would have learned?  Well, here I am again.

Why do I do it?  Why does an athlete refuse to accept that the hit they just received could be detrimental to his or her health, to his or her brain?  Why push on, “shake it off,” “rub some dirt on it?”

Because we view ourselves as fighters, as warriors of the pitch, immortal in the world of our sport, invincible heroes who have everything to prove.  We cannot be taken down, not like this.  It is a hit to the head, I am not sore, no broken bones, no sprained ankles, no cramping muscles; I feel fine.

Except for the nagging blur in my concentration. 

I cannot relay my pain to others; it is not an injury they can see.  Only I can realize the severity of the situation, and it is my duty to accept it and take responsibility for my body.

And as any true athlete can attest to, admitting you are hurt is the hardest thing to do.

Turn on ESPN, open a Sports Illustrated issue, what is the common injury, and sometimes link to death, of athletes?  The answer should scare me, but when you’re on the field, those images don’t come to mind.  All that I think about is getting back on the turf.

Most people cannot understand that desire, the desire to compete, the falsity that overcomes your conscience and ensures invincibility.  I can’t get hurt, not like this.

Not again.

The problem seems to stem from high school, where the athletic training staff, at least from my experiences, is not apt to handling such injuries.  Concussions, even if recognized, entail short-lived or nonexistent treatments.  And when concussions are not immediately dealt with, any more hits can cause serious consequences, even death.  Collegiate sports medicine teams are much more aware to the repercussions of head injuries, and professional sports have greatly raised their awareness to concussions as well.

With all the knowledge available today about concussions, why are they still so common and often becoming serious health hazards?  The answer does not lie with coaches or training staff; it lies with the athletes, athletes like myself.

I don’t want to admit I’m hurt.  I am an athlete; I play like an invincible warrior.  I don’t want to accept it.  Not again. 

“Yeah, I’m good.  I’m good.”  Athletes everywhere mutter these words as they rise from the ground.

And, as I said before, it is often far from the truth.

This story was originally published in The Franklin. 

Concussion

Senior night is not exactly going the way every athlete dreams; we are down by two goals with only about 20 minutes to go in the game.  I am playing center midfield, my usual position.  We are playing hard; South Dearborn was good, and we had produced a less than par season.

Our keeper punts the ball, the sphere moving farther and farther from his bright orange jersey and closer to me, ascending very high until it reaches its peak.

I keep my eyes on the white and yellow Wilson, tracking it as I move swiftly over the grass.  Falling, falling, I try to attack the object with my forehead.

There is a flash; it’s a spray of colors, a spectrum of neons and black.

I am lying on the ground, wondering what had just happened.  I get up, and begin to walk, the ball now being passed around the perimeter of our goal.

I look around and see the navy jerseys of South Dearborn, then watch as our jerseys flash the bright yellow of a highlighter.

But we aren’t wearing yellow jerseys, I think to myself.

Uh-oh.

I call for a sub and am taken off the field.  After our uniforms return to their original white, and after our assistant coach checks my eyes, I tell Coach Dennis that I’m good to go back into the game.

I was wrong.  After about five more minutes of play, the focus of my vision dissipated in a way I can only poorly attempt to describe.  It was as if I was seeing, but I wasn’t really seeing a single object at a time, only could grasp the whole picture without isolating any one thing or focus on an area.

I came back out of the game, informed my coach that I would not reenter, and took the bench, leaning forward with my elbows on my knee and my palms on my forehead.

After the game, all my friends gathered around for Senior Night pictures with their family.  I walked over to my parents, also.

“We need to go to the hospital,” I said. “Now.”