Source: theplayerstribune.com | Re-Post Duerson Foundation 7/7/2016 –
It was a beautiful night in late August. We were playing BYU at home in the first game of the season — the 14th season of my career. I was standing there on the field trying to catch my breath and contemplating my next move. We were trailing by 18 with less than six minutes left in the game, but we had the ball on the Cougars’ 10-yard line. I had just thrown an incomplete pass on third-and-three and was hoping our coach would let me and the offense stay on the field. I felt like I just needed one more chance. Yes, I had thrown an interception earlier in the game, but since then I had been slinging the ball around pretty well.
As I waited for our coach’s decision, I did a quick mental check of my body. My back and neck were stiff. My knees had that familiar throbbing pain. Some blood was dripping down my right shin. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would keep me off the field.
Actually, on the football scale of aches, I was feeling pretty good. My arm was warm, ready to throw 100 more passes, and I was particularly happy about my mullet, now sneaking out of the back of my helmet, lightly cooling my neck. All was good.
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We were going for it. As the formation got signaled in from the sideline, everyone started to move. “Ace Right! Ace Right! Ace Right!” I yelled, while glancing quickly from the sideline to the play clock. Thirty-five, I think to myself. O.K., we’re alright.
Receivers buzzed past, lining up, reminding me how open they had been on the last play. I ignored them, as my mind was occupied. It was a crucial fourth-down play.
Take what they give you, repeated in my head again and again. Make the routine play, I tell myself. My eyes flashed back to the play clock. Thirty seconds. Alright.