While concussions are no laughing matter, I do chuckle at some of the safety measures being taken by the NFL and NCAA, and wonder why no one seemed to care during my years of literally butting heads. The latest NCAA proposed rule for the upcoming season involves onsides kicks, where it is hoping to eliminate collisions by allowing the receiving team fair-catch protection “… whether the ball is kicked directly off the tee or is immediately driven to the ground, strikes the ground once and goes into the air in the manner of the ball kicked directly off the tee.”
About the only safety measures taken during my prep playing days were instructions to “Buckle your chinstrap,” usually followed by statements from the coaching staff such as “Lower the boom,” or “Hit ‘em hard,” or “Knock the living snot out of ‘em.” It never occurred to me until one balmy southern evening that the players on the other sideline were given similar instructions.
They were carried out on one particular evening as I stepped back to punt. I can’t say that my blockers let me down, because they showed no ability to block whatsoever on this particular play. I received the snap just fine, but before the ball ever reached my foot, about four or five – or 60 – helmets and shoulder pads collided incredibly at the same time on what was then my rather slender frame. Our helmets in the ’70s were nothing more than glorified dime store replicas. When someone hit you, it felt as if you were wearing a milk carton on your head. When half the team hit you, it felt like… well, I actually couldn’t describe how it felt at the moment because the next time I knew much of anything, I was laying on the bench.
I had apparently been knocked silly/loopy/cuckoo by these junior high monsters. Did they send for an ambulance? No. Did they have medical personnel attend to me? No. They waited until I could sit upright again, and the head coach walked over to me and said, “OK, Mooty, get back in there.”
If someone had mentioned the word concussion in those days, you might as well have been talking Mandarin Chinese in south-central Alabama.
I remember one of my brother’s high school games in which a friend and defensive back, Tom, had been knocked loopy late in the second quarter. The player was walked off the field to the bench, where he was seated as the rest of the first half played out. My brother recalls his coach giving his halftime speech and going over particular points when he asked how Tom was feeling. Suddenly, it was obvious Tom was not in the locker room. The coaches went back to the field, where they found a smiling Tom still on the bench watching the band perform. He not only didn’t realize he was supposed to be with the team, he also had no idea what day of the week it was. Fortunately, Tom was not allowed back into that game, but I don’t believe he received any special medical attention.
One of the craziest concussion stories was one I witnessed in a football game as a young sports writer in the early ’80s. It was a kickoff, and a member of the kicking team was running wide open across the field in hopes of catching the kick returner along the sideline. He never saw it coming. A blocked peeled back and caught the would-be tackler with a couple of forearms up high.
Talk about being knocked into yesterday…
The coach later told me that the injured player knew his name just fine, but he was worried about the groceries he had picked up at the store on a late-evening motorcycle run for his mother, which had happened the night before. When he finally sat up he looked around for the milk and eggs and asked about the whereabouts of his motorcycle.
“You’re motorcycle is fine,” the coach told him. “You’re not.”