Nothing much happened until that afternoon. Not a word from Rodger Binks, nor from anybody on the team. Nice bunch of people. Screw them all. If I got out of this I'd take Vakos' job away from him. If I got out of this.
Dr. William Nolen came. He was a fat quiet little man who seemed nervous. He kept reading the charts at the foot of my bed and papers about me in a folder he held in both hands and finally he told me I'd been given a sleeping electroencephalogram, but they weren't quite sure.
"Quite sure about what?"
"Well, uh, we're not sure."
"What the hell," I said.
"Nothing really specific."
"When do I get out of here?"
"We're going to try again. We'll give you a waking electroencephalogram."
So they wheeled me downstairs and the electroencephalogram was taken in a white, sterile room. The doctor who did it was a black and he was smiling all the time. It took about an hour with all those damn little needles he put into my scalp. He kept coming in and out asking how long had I played football, how many times had I been kicked in the head. Hell, if he only knew my head had a ringing sound in it half the time I was in high school and the rest of the time in college and this was a normal noise for a pro. How many times had I been knocked out? I had been knocked out once in high school, three times in college, three times in pro football. Miss Cook came in and looked at me and made a face like she wished those needles were buried two feet into my brain. The doctor said Miss Cook was a wonderful nurse and I was lucky to have her on my floor. Yes, I was sure lucky.
What did he know about a Miss Cassidy? He had never heard of her. After it was over, I was wheeled back upstairs on the elevator and soon I was back in bed. The fat doctor Nolen said he wanted to go over my brain wade tapes with another doctor and he would be talking to me again that afternoon. I waited and I waited and got tired of waiting and pressed the button on the bell cord and Miss Cassidy came in. I asked her for a glass of water.
"I'm sorry," she said. "No water or food until after the doctor sees you."
"What's the latest gossip about my brain?"
"I don't know."
"You mean you know something but you can't say anything."
"Really, I don't know."
"Where did you get that skin? Mother or father?"
She didn't answer. She went out and I lay there. There was nothing but kiddy programs and soap operas on television. I was bored as hell.
Then the fat nervous little Doctor Nolen came back with another doctor. They were carrying my brain-wave tapes. They studied them standing beside the bed.
"Nothing too specific again," said Dr. Nolen. "Hmm," said the thin tall younger doctor. His name was Dr. Henry Cohen. He kept looking over Dr. Nolen's shoulder.
"How do you feel?" said Dr. Cohen.
"Bored."
"Your head. Does it hurt?"
"A little bit when I move around."
"You've had a mild concussion."
"How long was I out?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"A first for me."
"See," said Dr. Nolen. He held up the brain-wave tapes.
Dr. Cohen took them and peered at them, squinting through black horn-rimmed glasses. "You see," he was pointing at something on the tapes. They muttered and murmured, studying the tapes. Then Dr. Cohen put one of those little lights in my eyes and studied my eyeballs.
"Um," he said, and snapped off the light. "Difficult to say. Um. Possible, of course. Better try a karotid angiogram."
"What the hell are you looking for?" I asked. "Possible subdural hematoma," said Dr. Nolen.
"In plain English?"
"Blood clot."
"Can't you tell?"
"Nothing really conclusive."
"Well, let's get on with it."
"First thing in the morning."
"Why not this afternoon?"
"What's your hurry?"
"I have to make a living."
Both doctors shook their heads.
"If there's the slightest subdural hematoma you might as well face the fact, you won't be playing any more football this year."
I knew what they were getting at. I'd seen other players like this. They simply opened up your skull and stopped the bleeding and you could either play again the following year or not at all. I don't remember anybody coming back to play after the skull was opened. Goddamn it, and just when I was going well. That bastard Leighton. Somebody ought to lay his head open with an axe. Leighton, you bastard, if I ever get the chance again I'm going to run right over your skull in practice.
"Could I talk to the team doctor?"
"Dr. Cohen is an excellent doctor."
Dr. Cohen smiled and laced his thin fingers together.
"You're really gong-ho to play as soon as possible?"
"That's what I get paid for:"
"I'll see what we can do."
They both left me lying in bed watching a soap opera.
Just before dinner, the team doctor came in. Dr. Harold Steinbuch. He was handsome, black-haired. He had played for Bierman back in the Thirties at Minnesota on two national Golden Gopher championship football teams. He played a lot of tennis and his face was tanned. He came in wearing a big smile.
"Why didn't you duck your head and eat the ball?" he asked. "Yes, I've seen your tapes. Nothing shows really. A few crinkles in your brain, but they've probably been there a long time. Sorry I haven't been in. Very busy. How's your head? Any headaches? Nausea? You got kicked around pretty good. I saw the game. Yes, I know Miss Cassidy. That'll give you brain waves that will kick up your chart. Quite a piece. I should be twenty years younger. She's too solemn, though.
"What about sex?" I asked.
"What about it? I certainly could use some myself."
"I mean with this head."
"My God, are you screwing Miss Cassidy here?"
"No, I hardly know her."
"How do you get laid in this hospital?"
"Doc, I just want to know if I should or shouldn't."
"More power to you, Matt. I've never been able to get laid in this hospital."
"Is it dangerous? I mean, blood pressure, that sort of thing?"
"If you've got a minor sub -"
"- blood on the brain."
"Take it easy, Matt. Save yourself. Screwing will give you a headache."
He was right. Mary Beth had left me with a slight headache and a little dizziness, but it had certainly been worth it.
"I get horny lying here," I said.
"I'll send in Miss Cassidy."
"Thanks a lot."
"Take it easy. See you first thing in the morning. Get some sleep. I think everything is going to be okay. But we want to make sure."
"What's the deal?"
"Angiogram. Quite simple. We'll put a little dye into your karotid artery. Right and left." He touched the back of my neck. "Then take some quick pictures. If it shows dark anywhere in the brain, you're bleeding. We have to make sure."
"If it's okay, how soon can I get out of here?" "Quickly. Sleep well. Take it easy."
He smiled and went out. He was wearing a three-hundred-dollar suit, just like Rodger Binks'.