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Normally, I felt pretty connected to my parents. Right now I didn’t think there was much they could do to help me.
    â€œReggie, I know you’re still worried about that boy,” Mom said. “But you have to let it go. There’s nothing you can do.”
    â€œI know. I’ll try.”
    Mom grabbed me and hugged me, kissing my forehead.
    â€œIf you need to talk about anything, just let us know, okay?” Dad said.
    I nodded. I knew that they were trying to help, but they didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to help myself, either.As I headed up the stairs to bed, I hoped that tomorrow things would feel better.
    I saw it the second I opened the front door the next morning to grab the newspaper. The Lincoln spirit sign that I had left by the trash cans was back in the front yard. This was weird.
    I walked into the kitchen. “This is bizarre,” I said. “I put that spirit sign by the trash when I came home last night. Now it’s back on the lawn this morning...”
    â€œI put it there,” Dad said. “I noticed last night that it had been taken down, and I stuck it back up. Reggie, you’ve got nothing to feel bad about. You’re a Lincoln varsity football player. We’re proud of that, and you should be too.”
    I shook my head. Tears welled up in my eyes. “I took that sign down for a reason,” I yelled.
    Dad looked hurt. “Reggie, I...”
    â€œForget it,” I said, running out to the lawn and yanking the sign out once again. “I’m getting rid of this stupid thing for good.”
    I pulled the sign out of the metal holder. Then I held it up in front of me and ripped it in half. I grabbed the pieces, ran around the side of the house and stuffed them deep into the trashcan. The sign wasn’t going up again.
    I was still angry a few minutes later when Dad confronted me. “What’s this all about, Reggie?” he said.
    Tears were now streaming down my cheeks, and I let it all out. I told Dad about my talk with Dr. Stevens and about how Nate Brown might never walk again. About how I didn’t want to be known as “Stick-’em” anymore.
    â€œI can understand how you must be feeling,” he said quietly. “That’s really awful news about Nate. But we still don’t know how this is going to turn out. Try to bepositive. Remember that no matter what anybody says, this really had nothing to do with you.”
    Somewhere, in the most logical part of my brain, I knew Dad was right. Nate had hit me, not the other way around. It was Nate who had used sloppy, dangerous tackling technique, not me. Maybe if I kept telling myself that over and over, it would start to feel like the truth.

chapter seven
    Football practice went a little better over the next couple of days, although I still didn’t feel anything like my usual self out on the field. Unlike Monday, we didn’t do much hitting with our first-string offense. Coach Clark didn’t like risking injury so close to the next game. It was mostly drills and chalk talk as the coaching staff tried to get us ready to face Franklin. The Demons had won their first game of the year 53–0 overPeabody the previous week. This was a huge game for us. We all knew it.
    Just before Thursday’s practice, Coach Clark called us all in to midfield. “Take a knee,” he said. “I’ve got some news. First of all, Nate Brown is still in hospital. The doctors say it’s too early to tell what his long-term prospects are. For now, he’s not walking. I know that’s not what anybody wants to hear, but I thought you boys deserved to know the truth.”
    For most of the players, this was the first news they’d had about Nate Brown. I could sense it was hitting a few of the kids pretty hard.
    â€œNate is in room three-one-six at Gower General,” Coach Clark continued. “He’s not allowed visitors yet, but I’m sure