Not At My Best

 The secret of ugliness consists not in irregularity, but in being uninteresting.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Retirement, year four.

I admit I've lost my edge. It takes me longer to design plot points that I consider compelling enough to include in a manuscript. Blogging is harder, framing the theme takes much more effort. And, I keep asking the wrong questions when a dilemma presents itself.

Last night, happily ensconced in a day of football viewing (and the Rose Parade we watched on the big screen) I tucked into the Bills game. My mom was a dedicated fan of the Buffalo football team, often purchasing this article of clothing, that "Dammit Doll" to distribute to the grandkids. There'd been a number of great games during the day (Tulane's improbable victory the highlight) so why not keep it going - watch some NFL before turning on the Avs and texting with my daughter.

In a thoroughly innocuous moment, involving an entirely ordinary tackle, Buffalo safety Damar Hamlin made a play, rose from the pile and then collapsed. While that happens from time to time - we used to call it "getting your bell rung" but now understand how serious concussions really are - but this was different. His teammates looked distraught, the commentators hushed. Something wasn't right.

We found out later that camera angles available to the broadcast crew (thankfully not to us) showed that first responders were administering CPR to Mr. Hamlin. Seconds grew to minutes. An AED was used to shock his heart back to a useful rhythm. Clearly, the young man's life hung in the balance, his future in the hands of people trained to keep a level head and administer care in the critical first moments of a medical emergency. An ambulance arrived, the game forgotten.

I thought about the kind of people who volunteer for EMT and paramedic duty, the ones I watched work over the course of my career. Each one talented, dedicated, committed to giving every effort to saving every patient.

I thought about the player's parents, who were at the game that night. I can't imagine what they went through, having seen their son get up a thousand times from the very same kind of tackle. Were they thankful they were there?

I thought about the teammates, the ones who share a bond few others know. Their teammate fought for his life and they were powerless to help. Men who are used to pitching in, giving everything on behalf of the team and a teammate. Watching and knowing that their friend might die on their field of dreams.

I thought of the commentators, shocked into silence yet forced to fill minutes on the air reviewing the few facts on hand. More than once they seemed close to tears, at a loss for words. One said, in so many words, that she was done trying to fill the time just so the network would have something to broadcast.

It was only after I visited Twitter for the latest information that it occurred to me I've lost my inquisitive edge. It turns out others - many others - were thinking about something else. They wondered when Mr. Hamlin had gotten his last COVID vaccine because, you know, that's what is important to them. I found those questions - uninteresting.

I pray for Mr. Hamlin, his friends and his family. I'm thankful he got immediate and excellent care from professionals trained in emergency medicine. I'm heartened that ESPN did not see fit to show the world what it looks like to do CPR on a young man on a football field. I thank everyone who stood vigil outside the University of Cincinnati Medical Center, set aside their rivalries and showed why we all have far more in common as human beings.

And I'm proud to have once been a first responder. Of all the skills on display on that football field last night, theirs were the most important.