Page 2 of Platinum Pressure

Second and goal.

I wasn’t worried, though. We’d been in tougher situations with better teams. We had the shit in the bag.

Cauldwell looked scared. He was a backup quarterback, with a lot to prove. I wouldn’t doubt he had the weight on his shoulders, but this was our time. We were going back to the bowl.

I kneeled into position.

“Black forty-two. Black forty-two.”

I listened intently for the hike. I even tried to hear a hut. Neither came. It was a subtle sound I hadn’t heard from him before. The right guard charged at me before I had time to get my bearings.

One swift motion knocked me off balance.

Then I heard it . . .

POP!

My world slowed down until all I could see were the shining lights of the stadium roof. They knocked the wind out of my lungs as I tried to remain conscious. What was the sound I heard? Did someone shoot me? Was I about to die on the field I loved so much?

The pain started from my knee and spread up my thigh and down my calf to my ankle and toes. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t curl up into a ball and wished it all were a nightmare I’d wake up from. Hell, my big ass couldn’t curl into a ball even if I wanted to on a regular day.

My football career flashed before my eyes. My dream began as a little toddler running around the house with a helmet and pull up. It continued through little league in elementary school, through middle school football, and varsity football as a freshman in high school. When I picked my college, it was an easy decision. I would be a Texas legend. Texas bred so many superstar athletes any of our biggest colleges would get my name in the right rooms—and it did. Draft day, opening night, and six years to the super bowl win all played in my mind like a highlight reel on social media. I was him.

I am him.

“Platinum!” I heard someone yell my name.

“Yo, P! Get up, man,” another voice called out.

My vision returned to the present as I felt the medics, the coaches, and my teammates surround me.

“Platinum!” Coach called out to me.

“What’s hurting you?” one medic asked.

“Can you move?” another quizzed.

They threw questions at me all at once as they assessed the damage.

I mustered up the strength to speak. Where was the main pain coming from? It felt like every inch of me burned with pain, but it started in my knee.

“My knee . . .” I croaked out. “I can’t move my leg.”

Tears pooled in my eyes as I tried to sit up. “Ah fuck.” I covered my face with my hands and shook as the pain became too much.

All I could think about was the fact my career could be over. I was a 380-pound defensive tackle. My height and weight distribution made me a literal brick wall. A knee injury could very well end my dreams of winning another ring before retirement. The last thing I wanted was to be forced into an early retirement because of an injury to my body I couldn’t recover from.

This couldn’t be it.

Not with thirty-five seconds left on the regulation clock.

Not with a championship win on the line.

Not with the whole city counting on me.

I lay out on the field while the team medics brought the trauma kit. Surrounded by my teammates, I kept a strong face, even if I felt defeated now.

“Keep y’all fuckin’ heads up, man. This game is ours. Bring home that NFC championship. Take us back to the Super Bowl. Y’all got this, man. Y’all can do it wi-without me.”