The People We Wait For

Two years ago, our school’s head football coach and my friend, Jack Fairly, invited me on an atypical trip.

As a class A football coach at an urban Michigan school, Jack had been invited to spend the day with the Detroit Lions at their practice facility and headquarters in Allen Park.  Somehow (in all his wisdom), Jack managed to get the name Sarah Cunningham pencilled onto the guest list as well.

I knew almost nothing about the Lions outside of the various grumblings from Lions fans whenever their season record headed south. But being a little bit of an experience addict, I knew enough to take my seat in the outgoing van.

The Lions’ 460,000 square foot complex with it’s $35.5 million dollar price tag is a rare reminder that not all the Old Car Money has drained out of Michigan. Let me tell you, the Fords still drop a pretty penny when they want to.

I could pass on all kinds of things about the day. Like the practice fields, the state of the art training rooms, the hydrotherapy equipment. Or my fascination with the practice films and studio classrooms where the lessons of football were driven home.  Or the fact that Rod Marinelli nicknamed me, the only girl among the group, “English” by the end of the day. But I think I’ll stick to a more simple takeaway.

As we hung around on the sidelines during practice, I talked to players, almost none of whose names I can manage to remember two years later (to my coaching husband’s disappointment).

At one point, while we watched, two of the players scrimmaging on the field were involved in a “head-on collision”—a phrase I usually reserve for semis but somehow seems appropriate when referring to the wreckage that happens when giant humans derail each other as well.

One of the guys, the worse off of the two, who flipped into the air in some awkward gymnastic move and landed in all the wrong ways, lay stunned on the ground. Motionless.

Those of us observing cringed a little at his position, a body-contortion you don’t wish on a human.

The injured guy didn’t say a word. He just laid there, face in the dirt, as if paralyzed.

“He’s waiting.” The athlete next to me says. “That means he knows he’s messed up.”

I nod.

“That’s how you wait when you know you need help. You can’t even think about being hurt until you know somebody’s coming.”

Eventually, after some physical trainers sprinted to his side, the mangled player rolled over…and, eventually, as they examined him, he propped himself up on his elbows. Slowly, as he took in their words, he gleaned enough strength and direction from their voices to climb to a standing—but still clearly painful position—balanced on either side by his medics.

The whole thing ended without any fanfare. Probably a mild concussion and a leg injury. Nothing notable that landed on the news or anything.

But it struck me to watch how humans function when we’re in pain.

Sometimes we have to lie still.
We have to bury our faces.
We have to turn away from the world while our souls throb in agony.

Sometimes we have to lie there a good long time while we wait for that person who knows our pain—that person who understands us and our injuries—to come alongside of us, before we can begin to get up again.

I walked away wanting to be that person for others.
And wanting to let other people be that person for me.