“He’s a tough kid.” This from the surgeon, after ramming a titanium rod down the middle of Connor’s leg. “He’s lucky—if he had to get hurt, this was the injury you’d want. He’ll be stronger than he was before.”
Lucky.
I am daunted by what lies ahead, helping my son face the possibility that his dreams are shattered along with his leg. The countless hours of training and preparation put in up to this moment—mine, not Connor’s—may not have been enough.
If the NFL had a draft to determine which mothers were equal to the task of watching their son play on Sundays, I know more than a few who would go in the first round.