Our team physician ran his hand up under my shoulder pads and instantly found his mark. “Thought so – it’s dislocated,” he said. And before I could mutter a single syllable, the 80-year old relic started pulling off his hushpuppy while I lay flat out. “Don’t fight me on this one son,” he said. “Just relax, I’m gonna try something here.”

“Something here” — that’s it? That’s the most medically advanced approach at his disposal?

He pushed his foot into my armpit and pulled firmly on my wrist until we both heard a loud thud. I looked at him and he back at me – neither of us reacted, but we both knew instantly that the arm was now “relocated.” And as I ambled back to the sidelines, the good doctor looked every bit as surprised by the outcome as me. “You know what?” he asked rhetorically. “Wow — I haven’t done one of those in over 40 years!”

It was opening day, senior year. The Pequannock Township Golden Panthers and I readied ourselves for a classic Skyline Conference match-up against the Highlanders of West Milford. With enough time remaining in a deadlocked game, we needed only to convert a short third down to maintain the well-orchestrated offensive series methodically moving us closer to six points. As was the case with many fullbacks at the time, my role was so rarely a ball carrier that when my number was called, I struggled to retrain my way of thinking. The next play would be no exception.

A quick hitter over the guard-center gap was predictably called. Suddenly, and with complete surprise, I passed two blitzing linebackers at the shoulder and moved unnoticed into the secondary. Many times before when the distraction of an open field presented itself, I employed unequalled self-control in order to redirect and head toward the end zone in light of my first instinct, which was to trample under foot any defender I might encounter. Unfortunately, this day I would lose the battle for self-control.

Heading up field and against the grain with great speed and agility (at least it felt that way to me), I fixed my sights squarely on a pylon located in the front left corner of the end zone. Suddenly, the unthinkable (or more accurately, the inevitable) happened – a defensive back appeared in the upper right hand corner of my vision. Without hesitation, I arrived at the only rational decision one could. My fullback logic was sound and unflappable – an entire season lie ahead no doubt filled with countless opportunities to score. I would opt to defer glory in exchange for instant and primal gratification.

I remember becoming focused on that part of the defender’s face just above the nose and between the eyes. And with as much grit as one could muster, I prepared to uncoil, deliver a blow, careen left and, if possible, still score. A masterful plan – almost.

Just shy of impact, I encountered a “turf monster” – a euphemism we used to describe the act of tripping over your own feet. I stumbled, faltered and unfortunately, reached down with my right arm (a classic tripod) to keep my balance. At precisely the time I planted my right hand, a crushing blow dislocated my shoulder. This certainly was not part of that master plan. It was, however, very real.

In an instant I knew my once promising prospects for a major college football career were now limited, or worse, nonexistent. I sat out the next two games and the last six were marked by several less-dramatic though painful reoccurrences. I was certain my football career was drawing to a close as rapidly as the football season itself.

With little help from my head football coach, I sought the counsel of an assistant and pled my case in desperation. His advice was direct and candid. He professed to have few connections outside his world of high school football, save one. Within days I paid a visit to the coaching staff at Milford Academy, a Connecticut prep school which gave me a shot – bad shoulder and all. August arrived swiftly and I reported for summer camp. Somehow various body parts held together for most of that season. My streak of good fortune continued and Colgate University recruited me. This Division I-AA program was proficient then for uncovering and persuading student-athletes who fell through the cracks. Colgate’s recruiting classes were filled with those possessing great potential but lacking options.

To my relief, Colgate eventually found me. With the exception of surgical mishaps, years of continued rehabilitation and nightly replays of the fated run, this story ends well. I played competitive football, participated in the NCAA Division I-AA playoffs two of my four years and received a degree from a highly respected academic institution. Ironically, I nearly missed the college experience altogether. With few connections to schools outside Northern New Jersey, I could have wound up working the night shift instead.

I’ve traveled back to watch my old high school play West Milford on occasion since but have never stumbled upon that guy who changed my life forever. Maybe that’s best – after all, I’ve only got one good shoulder left.

Scott Whyatt
Private Pilot, Sales & Marketing Executive