Life After Summer

"Hut one. Hut two. Hut three. Go long! Come on, don't go easy on me, now."

Football was like breathing for my father. As his only child, it was a given that it would be in my blood.

My mom poked her head out the backdoor like a turtle expecting a threat, in this case, a would-be stray football.

She hollered, "Now, Steve, don't push Chet too far. Breakfast in 15 minutes. We're eating together, and then we're packing."

"Yes, Ma'am!" my dad saluted and smirked. Smart man, knowing when to take orders.

We were taking one last summer trip to the lake cabin before we started preseason practice.

As a freshman whose father was the coach, I felt pressure to be on top.

I needed that trip to be a kid one last time. I wanted to swim, fish, play my guitar and make S'mores. I wanted to relax and think of anything but football, because when we returned, I wouldn't be thinking of anything BUT football.

I remember having a lively conversation over breakfast about who would drive and who got to choose the road tunes. Compromises were made, and peace prevailed.

Mom took the first leg behind the wheel. We stopped for lunch and to top off the car. Dad got behind the wheel, and mom insisted, "Chet, you sit in front where you can stretch out your long legs. I can read in the back while you two talk football." Never mind that she could have led that conversation.

A couple of hours later, we ran into a summer squall - the kind where heaven sees fit to douse everything at once.

Then...

Darkness.

Had I fallen asleep? My eyes felt heavy.

Beeping.

Whispers, "They said the other car swerved over and hit them head on."

A soft gasp. "The poor dear."

With effort, I reverse-winked an eye open, and promptly shut away the glare. My head felt like someone had used it for batting practice.

Someone moaned. I think it was me, because after another gasp, I felt someone touch my shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

Someone else said, "Ma'am, wake up! I think your son is conscious."

I heard my mom sob, "Oh, Chet. Thank God! We were in a car accident."

Someone squeezed my hand. "Mom?" I forced my eyes open.

"I'm here, Chet," her voice cracked. She had a small bandage on her head. Her eyes were swollen and red.

"Water," I choked out.

Mom put a straw to my lips. I remembered water feeling almost as good going down after a particularly hard practice.

"Where's Dad?" I asked.

A pause.

Not a good sign.

Mom sniffled and wiped one cheek, then the other. "He didn't make it." She buried her face in her wad of tissues. "If only I had been driving. If only I had sat in the front." She blew her nose and grabbed more tissue.

I thought about the fact that she had been with Dad for 10 years before I was born. "I'm sorry, Mom. I know you love him, and so do I. It wasn't your fault."

I felt my eyes well up and spill over.

"Chet, there's more bad news." Her eyes darted down the bed and back. "I'm afraid to tell you..."

"What? Just say it!"

Another sob. "They had to remove your left foot. It was smashed up beyond repair."

It was then that I realized I couldn't feel much below my stomach.

She hastened to add, "They're going to put on a prosthetic one so you can walk again, eventually."

I closed my eyes and turned my head away. I asked, barely above a whisper, "No more football, right?"

She matched my low volume, "I'm afraid not, son."

I started physical therapy almost right away. I thought football was tough!

A couple of weeks later, I attended my dad's memorial service in a wheelchair. It was a touching send-off. Many of his colleagues and former students spoke fondly of him. One lightened the mood by telling the story of how Dad had managed to escape the Gatorade shower after winning his first state championship by pushing the cooler back on the kids who tried to dump it on him.

As summer was winding down, I started writing a song for my dad. I decided I was going to perform it at school. By the time my mom knew I was serious, she called the principal. She was happy to agree to let me sing.

When school started, my friends acted different around me. Some kept looking at me with pity written all over their faces. Some avoided me. Some talked loudly, like I had lost my hearing with my foot.

It was my new mission to prove that the I'm more than a sad, could-have-been case.

At the assembly that first Thursday, classmates cheered me to the stage with a polite, muted response.

I managed to transition from the wheelchair to the stool without falling. Mom handed me my guitar and said, "It's a beautiful song and a wonderful tribute. You've got this!" She pressed a hand on my shoulder and then walked off.

Strangely, I wasn't nervous. I was determined.

Into the mic, I said, "This song is for my dad, Coach Wheeler. It's called, 'Touch the Sky'."

Everyone was eerily silent.

I strummed and finger-picked my opening chords and then put the emotions of the summer into my singing.

When I hit the final chord, everyone jumped to their feet. The applause was deafening.

I lost my father. I lost a foot. What I found, was a new calling.