Chapter 7: The Greatest

Nevin’s House, Bryanston, Ontario

5:45pm, Monday, October 15, 1979

“Hello, this is Mike,” I said after I took the phone from my mom’s hand in the main entrance way.

“Hey, Mike! You don’t know me but I’m sure hoping to meet you on Friday at our football game at Medway. My name is Todd, Todd Daymend, and I’m the starting quarterback for...”

“The Parkside Stampeders. Hey, Todd, and to what do I owe the pleasure of this much unexpected but welcomed call from our upcoming opponent’s starting QB?” I interjected and then cut to the chase of the matter.

As soon as I heard Todd’s name, I immediately recognized it from my prior trip through high school and university. Todd and I became great friends as we attended several of the same football camps in the summer of 1980 and 1981, and we each were our high school’s male representative selected to attend the Ontario Athletic Leadership Camp held in the summer of 1980 at Lake Couchiching, north of Toronto.

We also attended Western together in the Physical Education or ‘Kinesiology’ department. After Todd graduated from UWO, he went onto medical school and became a well-respected family and sports medicine physician. Todd went out for UWO’s football team his first year, but gave it up after one season to focus on his studies. It didn’t help that Todd saw the writing on the ‘football’ wall after fellow first year player, Steve Samways earned the Mustangs’ starting QB job two games into their freshman season.

Todd’s older brother by one year, Erving also played at Parkside, but he was a mountain of a man. Erv was six-feet, six-inches and weighted two-hundred and ninety pounds in high school. Erv was their starting left tackle on offense, and a pure beast of an end on defense. Erv also went to UWO and was a starting offensive tackle from his second year ‘till he graduated. He earned first team All-Ontario honors twice, and was a second team, All-Canadian selection in his final year at Western.

“Well, because we played last Friday at one o’clock against Central Elgin, I was able to get to your game against those assholes, uh, pardon my language, the Voaden Vikings under the lights at Pinafore. I hated to see your starting QB get hurt. When I saw what that ass, Jack Deacon did to you, I just, uh, I wanted to give you a call and wish you a speedy recovery from that cheap-shot to your head. I never want to see anyone get hurt, and uh, it’s always more fun to compete against the best an opponent can throw at you.”

“I really appreciate the call, Todd. I’m doing a lot better than my mom thought I’d be doing; she’s a nurse by the way, after being in the ER ‘till almost three-am on Friday er, Saturday morning,” I replied over the phone.

When my mom whispered, “Who is that?” I put my hand over the mouth piece and said,

“A friend from Parkside Collegiate, Mom.” When my mom nodded and turned to go to the kitchen, I said into the phone, “Sorry for that little moment of silence, Todd. The ‘parental unit’ here just asked me a question, but she’s gone into the kitchen, now.”

“‘Parental unit!’ I like that and will have to steal it from you, Mike,” Todd chuckled on the other end of the telephone line. “Is there any chance you’re playing on Friday, not that I’m spying or anything? Like I said, I’d rather play against the best a team has to offer than against a short-handed squad?”

“I believe you, my man, and I’m not trying to blow smoke up your butt, here. However, I’m just not sure yet. I go back to the doctor on Wednesday to have her check me out. Hopefully, she’ll clear me to practice ... so I can play.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed and say a prayer that the doc clears you, Mike,” Todd replied.

“Quick question for you, how did you go about getting my number, since we’re not in the St. Thomas phone book?” (Note: No internet ‘Yellow Pages’ at this moment in time.)

“My dad is the vice-principal at Regina Mundi, and I asked him to give your school’s vice-principal, Mr. Williamson a call. They’re longtime friends from Western, so your VP gave your digits to my dad, so, ah...”

“Connections, I like it!” I chuckled.

“I, uh, don’t want to run up the parental units’ telephone bill, so, again, I really hope you’re feeling better and that your doc gives you the all clear to practice and play on Friday. Even if you’re not able to play, hunt me up after the game, okay. I’m number...”

“Number 9, I know and I’ll definitely get with you after the game ... playing or not,” I replied.

“Get as much rest as you can ‘till you see the doc on Wednesday. I got my bell rung by a Voaden idiot last year in our JV game, so I know that good rest really helps. See you on the field, Mike,” Todd said.

“Thanks for the call, my friend, and I’ll see y’all on Friday. Have a good week of practice because we’re coming for you ... gunning for first place in the conference. Later, dude!”

“Bye, Mike!”

Dr. Candice Wellend’s Office, St. Joe’s Hospital, London, Ontario

10:22am, Wednesday, October 17, 1979

“I feel as good as I’ve ever felt, Dr. Wellend,” I said as my mom and I walked back to her examine room on the second floor of St. Joe’s Hospital.

“Well, let’s just see how you do on a few of these simple tests before your mom and I simply take your word as gospel, Mike.”

“Test away,” I confidently replied as we stepped into the examine room.

Dr. Wellend did a series of checks on my eyes and vision, my reflexes and strength before she said, “You did well on those tests, Mike. Let’s do a few cognitive tests to see how your mushy brain cells do when you have to think fast, okay?” she chuckled as she obviously recalled our conversation from early Saturday morning in the ER.

“Are you sure we should be seeing a doctor who views mushy brain cells as an appropriate medical term, Mom?” I deadpanned and gave Dr. Wellend a small wink.

Dr. Wellend just shook her head, which caused her long pony-tail of jet black hair to swing over her shoulders and back. After she leaned over to get something from a lower cabinet shelf, she softly said, “I can see why those girls are all ‘gaga’ over you, Mike.”

When Dr. Wellend stood back up, she said, “Math flash cards, remember these from elementary school?” as she showed me a box-set of about twenty to thirty cards.

“Oh, the nightmares I’ll experience from seeing those things, again,” I chortled as I shook my head at my mom, who giggled in her corner chair.

“How many are in that stack, Dr. Wellend?” my mom asked.

“Ah, twenty-five, it says here on the package, why?” she asked with a confused look on her youthful face.

“If he can’t run through that stack in less than twenty seconds, he’s not healthy enough to play either football or practice with his band, that’s why?” my mother stated with a grin on her face.

“I take it, Mike here, was a math flash card wizard, as well as being a rock star and football hero.”

“If you can show them to me quick enough, I’ll get ‘em done in less than fifteen seconds,” I confidently stated as I scooted my butt to the edge of the exam table and stepped down on the tiled floor. “Rather do this standing up, like I did at St. Pat’s,” I added with a smile.

“Nod when you’re ready,” Dr. Wellend said as she saw my mom look at her nursing watch to keep track of the time.

“Give me and Doc a three, two, one countdown, Mom, please,” I said as I rubbed my hands together in preparation for this silly mental math challenge.

“Wait, wait, do you want the multiplication cards or the division cards, Mike?” Dr. Wellend said as she looked at both sides of the first few cards.

“Doesn’t matter to me, Doc.”

“Okay, we’ll do the multiplication cards, then.”

“You both set, now?” my mother asked. I nodded affirmatively to her and Dr. Wellend simply replied, “Ready.”

“Okay, ready, three, two, one, go!”

“63, 88, 15, 25, 36, 42, 18, 121, 99, 84, 30, 0, 12, 144, 120, 72, 28, 56, 8, 81, 72, 132, 14, 54, 45,” I called out as fast as Dr. Wellend could show me those card with various 0 to 12 multiplication questions.

“Just a tad over twelve seconds!” my mom excitedly stated when we both turned to hear my time.

“Good golly! I think I may have even slowed you down with my card turning, Mike. I’m thinking your brain cells may not be as mushy as I thought they’d be.”

“If you had French flash cards, my brain would have disintegrated, Doc,” I chuckled.

“Or exploded!” my mother exclaimed and then laughed at our replies.

“Good, good,” Dr. Wellend stated as I bent down to help her pickup those cards up off the floor. “Thanks, Mike,” she said with a smile as she stared at my face.

Being bent over with her back to my mother, Dr. Wellend held still for a moment, giving me a pretty good look down her blouse. Her medium sized breasts were mostly covered by a lacy peach color bra, which had loosely fallen away showing off her left reddish-brown, soft nipple.

When she reached over to take the cards from my hands, she smiled and gave me a little wink. As I stood back up, I thought, ‘What in the world was that all about? Why would this thirty-ish year-old doctor want to show me her boobs?‘

Dr. Wellend smiled at me and quickly reorganized the cards to have them all showing the division problems in the proper orientation. When she had them like she wanted, she said, “I want to try one more test with you, Mike. This time though, I want you to keep your eyes open and turn your head side to side ... like this, and then I’m going to have you do the division problems. If your head starts to spin or hurt... Let! Me! Know! Okay?”

Dr. Wellend quickly turned her head to the left and right a couple of times to demonstrate what she wanted me to do prior to answering that second set of math facts. “You don’t need to keep time for these, Aileen.”

“How many times do you want me to twist my head each way?” I asked.

“About ten quick ones should be good. This is counts as one twist, Mike,” Dr. Wellend said as she moved her chin to her right shoulder and then all the way to her left shoulder. “Try and do one twist cycle per second. A little slower, a little faster shouldn’t matter much. Ready?”

As I did the rapid head turns, Dr. Wellend counted out each one for me. When I finished doing them with my eyes open, she asked, “Vision and head still good, no pain, dizziness?”

“No, Ma’am,” I replied with a smile.

“Okay. Answer these division questions as quickly as you can now. Here we go.”

“9, 5, 8, 3, 9, 10, 1, 12, 5... 9, 6, 3, 7... 7, 4”

“Good stuff! I’ve seen enough to know that your noggin is working just fine, Mike, and Aileen.”

“So you think I can get back on the field and with my band?” I excitedly asked after hearing her prognosis.

“Yes, but,” she replied and then looked at my mother, then to me and added, “only if you can limit any physical contact on the football field ... uh, when is your next game?”

“Friday, against the team we’re battling for first place in our conference!” I exclaimed not liking the look on the doc’s face, though.

“What’s your head coach’s name, Mike? I would like to talk to him about some things to look for at practices, and in the game should you take a lick or two, okay?”

“His name is Paul St. Georges, and the number for our school is...” I replied.

“And what time is your game on Friday?”

“We play at three, maybe three-fifteen depending on how long the JV game goes before our game.”

(Note: In the late 1970s and 80s, most Canadian high schools did not have lighted fields or even stadiums to play in. The field at Medway is still inside the quarter-mile track with a few portable wooden bleacher set up on the track for the 100 to 300 students and parents, who show up to the games. I can remember only playing three night football games during my entire high school career.)

“I’m off ‘till 11pm on Friday, so, uh, I may come and watch your game. If it’s for first place, it should be a pretty good game, right?” Dr. Wellend said as she flipped through her little pocket calendar. “I’m still going to call your coach, in case you get dinged in practice today or tomorrow.”

“You’re gonna come to our game, really?” I asked with a surprised look on my face.

“Yes, I love football. I cheered at Laurier University for three years before I quit to buckle-down in preparation for my medical school exams,” she replied as she made a note in her calendar. “Your game is at Medway, up in...”

“Medway is in Arva, north of the university. Take Richmond Street North or Highway Four and you’ll take a right at that traffic light in Arva. Mike’s school is about a half mile on the right,” my mom replied with those simple directions to Medway.

“Can you turn the volume down at a low roar at your band practices, and if you feel a ringing in your ears or you get a headache, just-ah call it a day with your Bandettes, okay?”

“Sure thing, Doc,” I replied and nodded to my mom who was paying real close attention to the doctor’s instructions.

“I may give the girls a rundown on your band limitations. I know they’ll watch him like a hawk for any signs of eye, hearing or headaches,” my mother said as she gave me a mini-evil look and then a small wink.

“They did seem like a great group of girls. I could tell they were really concerned about your noggin, Mike.”

“There you go again with the wonderful medical terminology. Just where did you get your medical degree from, Doc?” I asked with a serious look on my face.

“The bottom of a cracker-jack box!” she replied with her own dead serious look on her face. All three of us broke out laughing after the doc and I stared each other down for a moment.

“You a Meat Loaf fan, Doc?” I asked thinking she may have gotten that answer from Meatloaf’s hit, Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.

“I like it, why?” she replied, obviously thinking of the dinner item instead of the rock star.

I decided to have a little fun with her, so I took a deep breath and sang:

“You’ll never find your gold on a sandy beach.
You’ll never drill for oil on a city street.
I know you’re looking for a ruby,
In a mountain of rocks.
But there ain’t no Medical Degree (Coupe de Ville) hiding
At the bottom of a Cracker Jack box!“

I then added the vocal guitar like sound of that song, after singing that lyric.

“You’ll have to forgive my son, Dr. Wellend. He just had a major concussion. And regardless of what you just said, I know his brain cells must be really, really mushy!” my mother stated as she stood up and tugged on my right arm as I held the doctor’s left hand in my two hands.

“Let me make a note of that in his medical chart ... Nurse Nevins, Mike’s mother says her son’s neurons are definitely mushy because he sings silly songs to his doctor ... there, got it down.”

“Ha! Ha! Very funny,” I said as I opened the examine room door and allowed my mom and Dr. Wellend to walk out before I stepped in behind her. I swore Doc Wellend put a little extra ‘sash’ in her ‘shay’ as she walked and talked to my mother about keeping an eye on me when I got home from either football and/or band practice for the foreseeable future as concussions were (and still are) a tricky medical issue.

When we got out to the small waiting area, Dr. Wellend snagged a couple of her business cards from the counter and scribbled something on the back of one of them.

“I’m going to call your coach in a few minutes, but if I don’t get a hold of him, Mike, please give him my card and have him call me ... hopefully before you practice today. Stick these in your pocket, and don’t lose one of them, okay?”

I gave her a raised eyebrow look at her weird instruction but then said, “I have him for physical education in our last period of the day, Doc. So, I’m sure he’ll let me know if you got with him. I’ll make sure he gives you a call before practice if he hasn’t heard from you. It might be just before practice, so if he calls around three, are you able to talk with him?”

“I’ll make sure Tawny; my office administrator gets his call to me.”

“Do we need to set up a follow up with you, Dr. Candice?” my mom asked.

“No, I don’t think so, Aileen. I’m going to see him on Friday and I will talk with him after ... hopefully not during your game. So, don’t go running off to the locker ‘till I get with you. Got that, Football Hero?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I smartly replied and had to give my head a little shake when I saw Dr. Wellend give me a subtle wink and nod.

“Ms. Tawny, can you get this rock star and football hero a medical note for this morning. You got one for Monday and Tuesday in the ER, didn’t you, Aileen?”

“Yes, I’ve got that note in my purse, and I’ll put this new one right with it, thanks.”

“Be careful and limit your contact in practice today and tomorrow, and if your band practices...”

“We’ll cut the volume down to a more humane level ... gotcha, Doc!” I said with a smile.

“Get out of here. I’ll see you on Friday, and I’ll see you around the hospital, Aileen,” Dr. Wellend chuckled at me and addressed my mother.

“I’ll be here tomorrow, three to eleven, Dr. Wellend,” my mother said as she took the medical note from Ms. Tawny.

On our way out to the parking garage, my mom grabbed my arm and said, “I need to make a pit-stop at the lady’s room. There’s a coke machine; why don’t you grab a Coke and get me a ... Sprite, please.”

“Sure thing, Mom.”

As I reached into my pocket to pull out a one-dollar bill, Dr. Wellend’s business cards fell to the floor. ‘What did she write on the back on that card?‘ I thought as I bent down to pick them up with her hand-written note facing up.

It was a good thing I was at the hospital because I darn near had a stroke when I silently read, “If you want a house call, Dr. Candi J” Under that brain-blowing note were her home’s digits.

Medway High, Arva, Ontario

1:35pm, Wednesday, Oct. 17, 1979

“Cuda! You’re back! Are you okay? You feelin’ better?” Lynette cried as she saw me sitting in our eighth period ‘Intro to Latin’ class with Miss Auzins.

“I got a clean bill of health and only minor restrictions for football and band practices,” I said as I got up out of my desk and shared a hug with Cano.

“Cuda! Good to see you! Are you feeling better?” Jennifer exclaimed as she came into the room on a pair of crutches.

“Yeah, Jenn, I’m good to go. How is your ankle doing?”

“I get rid of these things on Friday, hopefully. I’ll be in a walking-boot for a month or so, Dr. Kennedy said when I saw him on Monday afternoon.” Jennifer flapped her two crutches out to the side as she stood at her desk.

“Bonum est te revidere, Michael,” Miss Auzins said after she set her class materials down on her desk.

“Juxta, uh ... condictum revertar ad bonum, Miss Auzins,” I struggled to reply in Latin to our teacher. The word order for this wonderful language was still relatively new to me. (Good to be back, Miss Auzins).

“Bene dictum,” Miss Auzins replied with a smile. Our teacher then added in her strongly accented English voice, “When everyone gets here, please give a short report on your health to limit the need to repeat it a thousand times, please.”

I smiled and nodded at our diminutive teacher. Miss Auzins was at most five-feet tall and I doubted she tipped her bathroom scales at ninety-pounds. She had a reputation as a stern, hard grader, but she was great at explaining things and demanded excellence from her students. There was nothing wrong with that in my opinion, as I was a similar type teacher in my former-future professor positions.

We spent the first half of our class going over some new vocabulary, as well as getting the proper tense and genders’ for these new Latin words. In the last half of the class, Miss Auzins quizzed us on our comprehension of prior course material. Because I never liked how French was taught in elementary, mostly conjugating words involving ‘stupid memorization’, I really liked how Miss Auzin’s incorporated actual comprehension and application tasks within her foreign language classes.

I was nearly late for my ninth period physical education class as I was stopped numerous times by friends and other students inquiring about how I was feeling. Just as I was doing up my football/soccer cleats in the change room, Mr. St. George poked his head in and yelled, “Ten seconds or your late!”

When he saw me tying my shoe, he added, “Michael, my office. Please.”

“Be right there,” I replied, zipped up my gym bag and hung it over the hook with my jeans and ‘All-Blacks’ New Zealand Rugby shirt.

“Sir,” I simply stated as I walked into the co-joining PE office.

“Got a call from Dr. Wellend at lunch,” Mr. St. Georges said with his back to me as he put an attendance roster on his clipboard. “I was a bit surprised but real glad to hear that your coconut hasn’t lost its milk, and that you’re cleared for ‘limited practice’. Make sure you put this black jersey on when you get your gear on. I’ll talk more with you about how I see things going in practice and against Parkside on Friday. Out here, avoid contact and collisions with others, and definitely NO heading the soccer ball!”

“I’ll try, Sir,” I replied.

“No try ... just do! Keep your head out of harm’s way!”

“Yes, Sir!” I stated as he waved me out into the gymnasium, and then to the practice field.

After taking attendance, Mr. St. Georges instructed his male students in various soccer ball control and reception skills. He rightly hated the term, ‘trapping’ the ball as good players normally receive and redirect the ball to space or send it to another player or take a shot on goal with it. Seldom did soccer players trap the ball.

“How’s the head, Mike?” Mr. St. George asked as I chased an errant pass down near the field’s sideline.

“Never better!” I yelled as I used the sole of my left foot to pull the ball back and then pivoted around to dribble it back to my four man group.

“You haven’t felt any shooting pains, headaches or dizziness, huh?”

“No, none. I really haven’t felt this good in a long time, Coach!” I replied as he came over to Brad, Andrew Wearing, Jon Lunby and me.

“He seems like his regular, ‘PITA’ (pain-in-the-ass) self, Coach,” Jon chuckled as he redirected my pass to space and then sent a pass to Andrew as Brad tried to intercept that ground ball.

“Yes, if Nevins ain’t complainin’ about something, I know something is wrong with him,” Coach chortled as he slapped me on my right shoulder. He then blew his whistle right beside my ear to stop our class. “Oh, sorry about blowing that in your ear, Mike,” he said as he stared at my face.

“I’m good, Coach. That didn’t bother me, other than it just being ... loud.”

“Okay, good. Again, sorry ‘bout that.”

He then divided our class up into four teams and we played two seven-on-seven games on a couple of short field areas. About five minutes into our small-sided game, I heard Coach yell, “Keep your head out of harm’s way, Nevins!” as our team set up to defend a corner kick situation. After that command, I moved over to defend Brad, who was taking the corner kick for the other team.

Because most of us weren’t skilled soccer players, I had to quickly duck for cover as Brad’s kick whistled straight for my head from about ten yards away. “Oh! Damn! Cuda! Sorry! I didn’t mean for that to happen!” Brad exclaimed as he ran towards me after his kick sailed over everyone and went out-of-bounds on the other side of our small field.

I burst out laughing as I got back up on my feet and brushed the dirt off my hands. “You must really want Ronnie as your quarterback, don’t ‘cha, Brad!” I chuckled as I gave him a high-five.

“At least I know your reflexes are working well, and you’re finally following my instructions!” Coach yelled from between the two mini-fields.

“Those reflexes didn’t give him a chance to ignore your instructions, Coach!” Wayne Psotkin yelled.

“Good point, Wayne! Either way, Mike kept his head out of harm’s way!” Coach stated. “Five minutes!” he then called out to signal how much time we had left in our mini-soccer game.

After a throw-in, a ‘semi-beehive’ formed around the ball, and I made sure to stay out of that rough and tumble, un-soccer like situation. When the ball was kicked towards my opponent’s end, Brad had a few yards on me in the race to get the blue and red ball. As we sprinted for the ball, I drew even with him as we approached the rolling ball.

“Cuda, that’s just not right!” Brad yelled as I passed him and pushed the ball ahead of me. As I used a speed-dribble down the left side of the field, I peered over my right shoulder and saw my teammate, Wayne sprinting down the center. Just as Brad tried a sliding tackle on the ball, I sent a left-footed pass through the ‘box’, which Wayne easily one-timed into the left corner past Dennis Grainam, their goalie.

“Yeah! Two-Nil!” I yelled and jogged to congratulate Wayne on potting the ball in the back of the net.

“Sweet cross, Cuda,” Wayne tiredly said as we patted each other on the shoulder and jogged back to our half of the field.

“Okay, time gentlemen! Put the soccer balls in the bags and toss your ‘pennies’ in the laundry basket!” Coach yelled after he blew his whistle.

(Note: ‘Pennies’ are what we called the mesh singlets you wear to identify your teammates in practice games.)

After a few moments, we heard, “You guys don’t honestly think I’m supposed to carry these bags of soccer balls to the equipment room, do you?” Coach sternly called as most of the guys scurried towards the gym and locker room at the end of the school day.

“We got it for you, Froggy,” Andrew Wearing said as Wayne, Brad, me and Andrew carried the cones, soccer balls and laundry basket towards the back door to the gym and equipment room.

“That sprint didn’t...” Coach asked as we journeyed from the field.

“Didn’t bother me one bit other than it being, you know, a sprint,” I chuckled in response to his partial question.

“That’s good to hear. I’ve got a couple of things to do in my office and then I’ll be down in the varsity locker room. You guys run and get ready for your practices, and I’ll talk with you there, Mike,” Coach said as he waited for us to vacate the equipment room to lock it.

As we started into the gym, Coach yelled, “Cleats! Guys! Cleats!”

We immediately stopped and took off our football/soccer shoes before we continued to the boys’ change room in our socks.

“Are you guys ready for Dorchester, tomorrow?” I asked Andrew and Jon, both of whom were on our boys’ varsity volleyball team.

“Oh, yeah! With first place on the line, you better believe we’re ready for them!” Andrew replied as we walked across the gym floor to the change room.

“If we can limit Sandlak’s outside attacks, I doubt they can beat us,” Jon added. Jamie Sandlak was a six-foot-four outside hitter for the Beavers’ volleyball team. He also was a pretty good post player on their basketball team.

“I’m gonna shade to his side as much as possible, so hopefully he won’t get many one blocker attempts,” Andrew stated. Andrew was our main middle hitter/blocker, and at six-foot-five, he had the size and ability to limit Sandlak’s kills.

“Are you going to be able to play against Parkside?” Wayne asked as we entered the boy’s changing room.

“That’s the plan ... as of right now. I’m supposed to avoid contact in practice, and if all goes well, I’ll be in there against the Stamps,” I replied.

“Take care of that melon, then, Cuda,” Andrew said as Brad and I grabbed our street clothes and gym bags from the change room.

“Have a good practice, guys!” Brad said to Jon, Andrew and the rest of the guys on the volleyball team.

“Back at you, Brad, Dennis, Cuda,” Jon Lunby said as he was changing into his volleyball practice shorts.

I was happy to see Kane in our varsity locker room when Dennis, Brad and I entered. He had his right arm in a sling and was talking play calling with Ronnie Wood when they saw Brad and me.

“I heard you were back at school, Mike. Are you practicing, today?” Kane asked as I walked over to check on him and his arm.

“I’m back at it. I just wish you were able to play, too. What’s the verdict with your chicken wing?” I replied and followed up.

“Kennedy is cutting me next Tuesday morning. I tore my posterior labrum and he may tighten up a few of the muscles around my shoulder. He won’t know what all he’s got to do until he gets into the shoulder,” Kane replied.

“Are you planning on replacing me, Mike? ... Please!” Ronnie said as he got up off the bench and gave me a slap on my left shoulder.

“What? Two days as the starting quarterback is enough for you?” I chuckled gave Kane a left-handed high-five.

“Hell yes! I’ve got a hard enough time remembering what I do at my two receiver positions, so learning what everyone has to do as the QB ... I’ll gladly give that back to ya, Mike,” Ronnie replied with a major grin on his face.