But my mind wasn’t particularly focused on camera duty tonight. I just wanted to talk to Ezra.
The game was good, at least—Steeleville was giving Temple Sterling a run for its money. By the third quarter, we were down by six. Foster had kicked two field goals, and with the field situation, TS seemed primed to take another one. Coach sent Foster in as expected. The center snapped the ball, but no one set it down for him.
It was the fake-out play. The one he had told me about in the Taco Bell/Pizza Hut parking lot, what felt like ages ago.
I didn’t even see the pitchout, it happened so fast. Steeleville was quick to catch on, but not quick enough to catch Ezra. He took off up one side of the field, leaving crushing tackles in his wake as the offensive line wiped out Steeleville’s defenses.
He stepped over the white line of the end zone. The touchdown was good. The stadium erupted in cheers.
I looked for Foster, but he wasn’t in sight. Everyone was picking themselves back up. But Foster was nowhere to be seen.
And then there was this crowd of guys, our guys, forming at one spot on the field.
A call came from them: “We need help over here.”
I knew. Like some sick intuition. I just knew. And I didn’t think. I dropped the camera bag and ran.
I beat the coaches out, elbowed through the guys, and burst into the center of the circle, and there was Foster.
I thought maybe he pulled a muscle or something. Broke an arm. But he just lay there, unbroken, as if he had simply fallen asleep in the middle of the field.
He looked just like he was sleeping, Dev.
Mr. McBryde and Mr. Evans emerged through the crowd, and I was jostled aside. The stands were buzzing now. Ezra appeared, too, pushing his way through, still clutching the ball.
“Get back, give us some room, go on,” Mr. Evans said, while Mr. McBryde knelt at Foster’s side.
“Son?” He tapped Foster’s face lightly and then barked “911” at Mr. Evans.
I was numb. I watched, helpless, as Mr. McBryde gently eased Foster’s helmet off and said, “Come on now, son.”
Ezra dropped to his knees at Foster’s side. “Foster.” He put a hand on Foster’s chest. “Hey. Foster.”
Foster’s eyelids fluttered.
“How many fingers?” Mr. McBryde demanded.
“Two,” he croaked.
“What day is it, son?”
“Friday.”
“And who’s winning?”
“I don’t know. Did we fumble?”
“That’s my boy. No, we didn’t. Don’t try to sit up. EMTs are on their way.”
“I’m fine,” Foster said, but he didn’t look fine.
Mr. McBryde ignored Foster’s weak assurances, standing up and ordering the other team members to clear away. I stayed, and so did Ezra, kneeling at Foster’s side.
“It’ll be okay. It’s going to be okay,” Ezra said, and he was saying it to both of us, Foster and me, but he looked at me when he said it, and his voice was so steady and calm that I believed him.
After what felt like forever, the paramedics crossed the field with a stretcher.
They asked Foster a series of questions as they checked him over, shining a light in his eyes and doing all the usual medical drama show stuff.
“Are your parents here tonight, Foster?” one of them asked.
For the first time, I found my voice. “No. But I—I’m his sister.”
“You want to ride with him in the ambulance?”
I nodded.
“We’re probably looking at a concussion,” the EMT closest to me said. “Losing consciousness is never good with a head injury, so we need to take him in, get him checked out. But he should be just fine.”
We stood watching as they loaded Foster onto the stretcher. He looked particularly gray.
“Are you coming, Dev?” he asked as they started to wheel him off.