4. Declan
Declan
It’s not the size of the dog in the fight,
but the size of the fight of the dog.
~Bear Bryant
A week after winning our first game of the season, we’re at Atlanta’s Mercedes Benz stadium. Because we’re playing our division rivals, the Falcons, the locker-room energy has an extra intensity to it. A win today will set the tone for our chance at the playoffs.
I tape my wrists and pump up my teammates before we split into groups to meet with our position coaches.
“Battle of the Blue Ridge!” Marcus Delaney, our starting quarterback, and one of my best friends on the team, shouts. The sound of his voice echoes off concrete and metal.
A resounding shout of “Thunder!” roars through the room.
“We’re not here to play!” Marcus shouts. “We’re here to …”
“Win!” my teammates and I shout back.
Frank Bennett, the tight end coach, pulls me and the two other tight ends over into a corner of the locker room.
“Listen up, men. Everything we do today will dictate the tempo of this game. Their defensive coach wants to suffocate our quarterback. They’re hungry to sack Delaney.
Our number one priority as a unit is protection.
I don’t care if you're running a route or chipping on your way out—you do not let them get a clean line to Delaney. You hear me? Stabilize the edges."
We all exchange glances, nodding. We know our roles.
Delaney approaches me when we break from our huddle with our position coach. “Ready for the Houdini?” He smiles broadly.
“Itching to pull that one off,” I tell him.
We’ve been planning a play fake that will throw the defense off and hopefully result in a touchdown. We’ve run it in practice, capitalizing on our opponent’s weakness—one they perceive as a strength.
Football really is a chess game at its heart. We have to stay one move ahead of our opponent, strategizing and anticipating their moves. Physicality matters, but the mental game and the ability to outthink the other team matters just as much.
We gather by our tunnel and the announcer unenthusiastically says, “Please welcome our visitors, the Tennessee Thunder.”
At home when we run out, we enter the field player by player to the sound of cheers and fireworks. Away, we move onto a field in one group, all fifty-three men finding their way to the visiting team benches.
Atlanta’s players come onto the field one-by-one, we stand for the anthem and then the coin toss. They win and defer, which means we have first possession.
Delaney and I exchange a glance as our special receiving team takes the field.
The kickoff is caught and run to our thirty-yard line.
The tension is high as our offense takes to the line of scrimmage.
A few of Atlanta’s players trash-talk before the snap.
Their linebacker, James “The Wall” Jones, looks over at me and says, “A tight end trying to stop The Wall from getting to your QB? Good luck with that, Thunder. The Flock came to fly.”
I grind my molars, staring him straight in the eyes with a look that says I’m not backing down.
We make a first down. And another. When we’re at their forty-yard line, Delaney calls the Houdini.
I block hard for the first two seconds of play.
The rest of the offense fakes to the left, and their defenders follow our lead, leaving me open to catch the perfect spiral Delaney sends straight into my hands.
I’ve got a good lead on the defense. I take off running, my lungs burning as I dig into the turf, tearing toward the end zone.
The defenders behind me pant, the sounds of their grunts and the thump of their feet approaching fast.
I lean in, crossing the end zone just as arms wrap around my waist, pulling me down.
The tackle is awkward. I twist and hear a snapping sound.
My leg goes sideways. A searing pain shoots up through my hip.
The player who tackled me is up and off me in an instant.
I want to get up, do my victory dance and walk to the sideline, but I’m stuck in place. Pain overwhelms me, keeping me down.
Our score is announced, followed by a deafening silence.
I roll onto my back and when I open my eyes, trainers and medical staff are peering down at me, some dropping to their knees to ask me questions.
“Do you know where you are, Declan?”
“Yeah. I’m in Atlanta’s end zone. I scored a touchdown.”
“You did. Congratulations.”
A staff flashes a penlight into my eyes. “What hurts?”
“My leg.”
And I know. There’s a difference between pain and injury. I can play through pain. I can’t play through this—my leg is done for.
Movement and discussion happen around me. My mind spins while medical staff determine the probable point of injury and stabilize my lower leg with a vacuum splint.
“We’re going to lift you on three, Declan,” one of the trainers says.
“Okay,” I say, clenching my jaw as another bolt of pain runs through me.
The team hoists me and lifts me onto the cart. I sit up, leaning on the padded backrest, my leg extended in front of me as the vehicle drives off the field to the courteous applause of the entire crowd.
I wave and raise my fist into the air to show I’m not down for the count. The applause ratchets up.
Both teams have taken a knee with their helmets off—for me. It’s a sign of respect, but it feels more like a death knell.
My eyes find Delaney’s. His face is somber, but he musters a smile and his head bobs in a single, quick nod.
My season is over.
I stare at cold padded vinyl under my leg.
Lynn, one of the Thunder’s trainers who’s been with us since before I joined the team is riding alongside me. She’s watching me for signs of a concussion, I’m sure. And she’s keeping an eye on my leg while we ride slowly away from the game—the one I’m supposed to be playing in right now.
“Stay with me, Declan,” she says. “How’s your pain level?”
“I’m alright,” I lie. The pain is the worst I’ve ever experienced.
I wince and she notices.
“Liar,” she says, calling me out.
“It hurts,” I concede.
“Anything other than your leg?”
“No.”
She smiles at me. It’s not a smile filled with pity. She knows players—knows me. We don’t quit. And we hate being the object of anyone’s pity. Her hand lands on my shoulder and I feel moisture gather behind my eyelids. I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a breath.
“I’ve seen worse,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Career-ending level stuff.”
“Mmm.” I hum. Then I nod. If she wants me to take out a gratitude journal and count my blessings, I’m not there yet, but I get the message. I’m down for this season. But I’ll be back.
“You think I’m out through the big game?”
“Depends on the break,” she says. “And your care. And the level to which you follow directions.”
“I can follow directions,” I tell her.
“Good.”
We pull into the building and the team helps me off the cart and onto a treatment table.
The doctor is there to assess me. They cut my pants away and I watch, my eyes void of emotion, my face taut.
Our portable X-ray machine is wheeled into the room and I’m left alone as images are gathered to determine my fate.
The doctor returns. Our medical and therapy staff enter with him, along with my position coach. “I’ve got good news, Declan.” The doctor stands across the room with his arms crossed, his face all business. “The displacement is minimal. And only one bone is involved.”
“Can you spell that out to me in layman’s terms?” I ask hm.
“You broke a bone near your ankle. One bone. It’s slightly misaligned, but nothing we can’t handle through surgery and casting.”
“That’s the good news?” I restrain my frustration, but it still seeps into my words.
The doctor nods. “No one’s ever happy to be in your position, Declan.
” His lips thin, his eyes convey a resolved professionalism.
“This is a setback. But you’re going to bounce back.
You might even catch the tail end of this season.
I can’t make any promises. A lot of that will depend on you—how quickly your body heals, how well you listen to what therapists tell you. ”
“I’ll do what I’m told,” I reiterate the same promise I told Lynn.
“I’m sure you will. And,” he pauses, smiling with more compassion than I can stomach. “I’m sorry.”
“At least I got the touchdown,” I say.
“You did. And it was one heck of a play,” he says, his smile growing wider.
The doctor pats me on the shoulder and turns to confer with other medical team staff. I hear them mention Emory University Hospital, and then my position coach comes over to me.
He confirms that I’m going to be taken to the hospital shortly. Then he says, “Lynn will be staying around with you through the surgery and your flight back to Tennessee. I’ve got to fly back with the team for film review and training tomorrow. But I’ll be checking in.”
The television in the corner of the treatment room has been muted. I watch as Lincoln Walker, a guy we all affectionately call Linc, takes the ball over the goal line for another touchdown. I smile past the pain in my leg and mutter, “Go get ’em, Thunder,” under my breath.
A week later, I’m back in my childhood home, our family’s estate in Waterford. I got here last night after spending six days in Atlanta for surgery to put in a plate and screws. I’m wearing a splint. My leg is swollen and I’m on pain meds.
My teammates and coaches called and texted the whole time I was away.
Delaney and Pierce come by. Someone my parents hired answers the door, announcing their arrival.
They walk into the front living room with their hands tucked in their pockets and an awkwardness between us that hurts almost as much as my injury.
No one wants to see a man down.
Our conversation starts out stilted. Pierce asks, “How are you feeling?”
“Not feeling much right now,” I say. “They’ve got me on meds.”
“Yeah,” Delaney says, looking at me and then glancing around the room at the two-story high windows, the artwork, the marble floor.
They’re used to opulence. This house says old money, and maybe just old people. After all, this was my parents’ home. The artwork is all stuff they picked out.
Pierce looks me in the eyes and says, “You’ll be back in no time.”
Delaney says, “We need you back. Yesterday in practice, Hendricks ran your crossing route so wide the linebacker had time to grab a snack.”
I chuckle. He’s just trying to make me feel better.
Delaney feeds off my reaction. “He’s giving it all he’s got. Bless his heart.”
I appreciate his effort to make me feel indispensable.
“Hendricks isn’t shabby,” I say.
Am I a stronger player? Usually, yes. But he earned his spot on the Thunder.
“He’s not you,” Delaney says. “Neither is McBride.”
“Thanks, man,” I say.
“Recovery’s a mental game,” Pierce says, staring at me with sincerity in his eyes. “Don’t let this take you out.”
“I’m not,” I say, fresh determination rising up inside me.
“We’ll be back as often as we can,” Pierce says. “Anything you want us to sneak in here, just shoot me a text.”
I chuckle. And then we’re all silent. Both their eyes land on my ankle.
“Thanks for coming by,” I say, needing to wrap this up.
I’m tired. And I don’t want any more focus on my injury today. It’s all I think about as it is.
“You’re still Thunder,” Pierce says.
“Thunder,” I say, making a fist and pounding my chest twice.
They return the gesture. “Thunder!” and they pound their chests.
The sound of the front door opening carries in to us and my mom and sister walk in the room.
Maeve asks, “Did we interrupt some ritual?” Her smile is teasing and aimed at me.
“We’re just trying to cheer him up,” Delaney says. “Good to see you, Mrs. O’Connell.”
“Good to see you boys too,” Mom says.
I introduce Maeve to the guys. “This is my sister.” And then I add, “She’s married.”
“The good ones always are,” Pierce says with a wink at her anyway.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Delaney says. “But we’re right here in town if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I say.
They clap me on the shoulder and we say our goodbyes.
Mom and Maeve fawn over me, fluffing pillows, asking me if I’m comfortable, relocating the remote and turning on some home show.
“How long are you here?” I ask Mom.
“As long as you need me,” she says. “But I had planned to drive back this afternoon to grab some things so I can stay here.”
“It’s not necessary,” I assure her.
I’m not being tough. What’s she going to do? My leg just needs to heal. The team will send a therapist over regularly and a local home health nurse is supposed to arrive this afternoon. The team’s got eyes on me—more than I’m used to, and more than I really want at this point.
Mom assesses me. “I do have a few things this week I was going to cancel. Fundraising meetings. A luncheon. Bunco.”
“Don’t,” I tell her. “Maeve will pop in. If I need you for anything, I’ll call. And you and Dad can come up in a few weekends to check on me. If I thought you were needed, I’d tell you.”
“You’ll let me know how he’s doing?” Mom asks Maeve.
“Of course.”
They settle in, talking to one another. The meds start to make me feel a bit drowsy, so I close my eyes, their voices blend and I doze off.
I wake to the doorbell a few hours later.
I lift my phone off the side table to check the porch camera.
The display is slow to come on, so I shout, “Come in!”
Anyone who made it through two sets of gates and the driveway gate is here officially.
The display comes to life.
Winona is standing on my porch, her wavy blonde hair falling down her back, and a small bag in her hand.
What is she doing here?
I speak through the doorbell microphone, pressing a button on my phone screen to access it. “Hey, Winona. What are you doing here?”
“Declan?” She looks around as if I’m about to materialize on the porch but my voice beat me to it.
“I’m talking through the camera speaker,” I explain.
She turns toward the camera and directs her next sentence right at me. Her blue eyes sparkle in the sunlight streaming onto the porch.
“I’m here with Riverview Home Health.”
“You’re …” my voice trails off.
Not her.
No.
She’s not a nurse. At least I don’t think she is.
“You’re a nurse?” I ask.
“No. I’m not.”
I’m about to ask her what she’s doing here, then she says, “I’m a nurse’s aide.”
They sent me a nurse’s aid.
They sent her.