Playing the Game

40. Please Get Up, Gray

His run is cut short as a pair of arms wrap around him. Just as he's halfway to the ground, the play appearing to be on the verge of being over, another body comes flying across, his shoulder dropping, slamming into Grayson.

It happens so fast.

A helmet is somehow on the field, the ball bouncing across the grass as a bright yellow flag is thrown into the air. There's another eruption from the crowd, a chorus of shock and echoing oh's thrown about, all mixed in with a surrounding shout of curses. But my voice is slammed back into my chest, my eyes glued to him.

Grayson lays flat, the realization that the helmet now laying on its side belongs to him. And when his teammates quickly begin waving over to the line, my heart completely stops.

"Danny," his mom's voice rasps beside me, the ache of panic clear in her tone as she reaches for her husband.

My eyes lock back on Grayson. Waiting for movement. Any movement.

Seeing players go down on the field is nothing new to me. Just last year, Jenna and Kristy collided in the outfield going for a ball. They both went up, crashed full speed into one another and hit the ground like a couple of limp noodles. The stands went silent, and every one of us on the field immediately took a worried knee as coaches and our school trainer rushed the field.

There's always an eerie silence that consumes the sports world when someone goes down. Especially when there isn't movement. Everyone holding their breath, praying for a knee to shift or an arm to raise. The anticipation fills every ounce of you, consuming your every thought, every worry.

I'll never forget watching as Kristy raised her glove in the air, signaling she caught the ball before letting it drop like a hot rock. But Jenna still hadn't moved. The silence in that moment was deafening. A lot like it is right now.

Except now, it's a million times worse. As the trainers rush the field, every player takes a knee. A sea of yellow and blue huddled together, heads dropped. The overwhelming feeling of family that surrounds a team in a moment like this.

An entire stadium of roughly 40,000 fans and every single one of them is silent. I've been witness to this before, but I've never felt like this.

My heart has pulled so damn deep into my chest, carving a hole into my ribs. The heat burning my lungs, making every labored breath heave from my throat. There's a frantic shake to my hands, rattling against my legs like those jumping beans I used to obsess over as a kid. I pull them to my chest, hugging them against myself in some worthless attempt to calm the buzz that's consuming me.

"Come on, Gray. Get up." His dad whispers from beside me and my heart begins to echo the sentiment.

Please get up, Gray.

"Danny," his mom repeats, only this time her panicked voice has turned to fear as her head falls against his shoulder, her eyes still locked on the field, on her son.

"Give him a minute. He'll get up. He always gets up."

I can't help but envy the way Vera clings to her husband, one hand holding her daughter's as the other grasps for strength from the man beside her. The way his arm is wrapped around her, pulling her into his chest adds another layer of weight to my chest. What I wouldn't give to be wrapped up in Grayson's arms right now, feeling the warmth of his embrace, the steady rhythmic beat of his heart.

When it feels as though all the air has been sucked from the arena, the smallest lift of Grayson's knee sends a wave of noise throughout the stands. My heart is still pounding erratically around its confinement, straining to feel more relief when he raises an arm, his hand landing on his head.