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NOTES FROM A KEEPER
 The Unicorn Ups and Donkey Downs of Life as a Keeper Leaguer
by Michael E Lawrence
22/10/2007
I cradled him in my arms, muttering to myself, rocking: this can’t be happening, it’s not happening, it’s not
But it was.
As he lost strength, and he started to fade, I told him: come on big guy, you’re gonna make it, just stay with me, stay with me, tears filling my eyes, panic engulfing my soul.
But he whispered: so weak, so cold
And as his eyes closed I turned my head to the sky and screamed in anguish at the heavens: noooooo!!!
Ronnie Brown, my Ronnie, had torn his ACL, and he was gone, gone from the Prophets for a year, just like that.
***
Romo knows I’m down about it, and he tip-toes in to my office.
H-hey c-c-coach, he says, not really knowing where to take it from there.
I am sharpening pencils into a bin absent mindedly; I have sharpened 11 of them right down to the rubber.
Maybe we should go out to the practice field, huh? he asks, and bottom lip jammed into upper to keep it from quivering be brave, be brave, for Ronnie I nod my agreement.
Out in the sunshine I see LenDale a good kid, deep down whose been trundling along nicely enough as a number two guy to my Ronnie. And there’s Marshawn, so enthusiastic cutting here, spinning there who’s also been contributing points a little.
But Ronnie! my heart wails, remembering linemen left in the dust, screen passes turned into huge gains, hundreds of combined yards and double, triple touchdown games. He had so much more to give! What will we do without him?
Just then, a streak in black, silver and blue tears past me, almost knocking me off my feet.
What the hell was that? I say, turning to Romo, shielding my eyes from the sun.
That’s K-K-Kevin c-coach, he says dumbfounded, like I’d asked what air was.
Kevin? Kevin Jones?
‘Sup coach, Jones calls to me merrily, as he taxis back across the pitch. He flips the ball onto his index finger and spins it like a basketball. Feeling better, he says of himself, flexing the foot that only two months before had been locked rigid in a walking boot.
Evidently so.
I’d forgotten all about him, languishing all the way down there on the depth chart like a puppy trapped down a well. Only he’s dragged himself out and he’s ready to go.
Could he fill the gargantuan void left in the Holybourne Prophets by my dear, departed Ronnie?
Reckon so, he opines, before hitting the deck for the first of 100 one-handed press ups.
His time is now.
It has to be.
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