Edited by Barney R. Messed with by me.

I didn’t know there was bad trouble coming until it was almost too late for my continued health.

Author’s note: All references to police, investigator, medical, and banking actions are figments of my imagination.

I am Gregory (Greg) Arnold Rasmussen, 38, and father of a 10-year-old daughter Christina (Tina) Marie. I was married to her mother. I am not married anymore. I come from old and a lot of money, I am a poster child for a ‘trust fund baby’.

I met Tina’s mother, Sara Carmicheal when I was a junior in college. I had, until then, majored in football and coeds. I was the starting wide receiver and punter on our Division II School. We had a decent program and were always first or second in our conference. We played in the Div. II playoffs the year before I was recruited.

Sara was a freshman volunteer trainer. She was studying to become a nurse. I hurt my ankle on a punt when I was tackled while my kicking leg was still off the ground. I was out for the rest of the game, and the x-rays showed that the ankle did not appear to be broken. I was treated by a beautiful angel wrapping the ankle to protect what was thought to be a severe sprain. The angel turned out to be Sara. I jokingly asked if she was an angel of mercy or a figment of my imagination.

She did not take it well. She finished wrapping me up, handed me crutches and without a word left the training room.

I realized that I had stepped in it and wisely and silently went back on the field to watch the rest of the game. We won a close game that should have been a blowout.

I asked the coach after the game if I could talk to the entire staff and team the next day after practice. He asked why and when I told him I had screwed up with the trainer and wanted to publicly apologize. He agreed to it.

During the next practice where all I could do was stand or sit around, I composed my thoughts. When practice ended a few minutes early, and coach called all of the team and staff into the film room.

He started it off with an announcement. “As you know and saw in the game Saturday, Mr. Rasmussen hurt his ankle and is out for at least four weeks. We have the talent to cover his receiving duties, but unless one of you was a punter that I did not know about, we have no replacement kicker. I need a volunteer or six to try to learn to kick our punts.”

He then told them; “Mr. Rasmussen would like to say a few words.”

My ankle had been really screaming at me, but I got up and painfully hobbled over to the podium. “First, I want to let you all know that I did a very stupid thing while I was being treated by our training staff. One of the trainers that spend their free time helping us with our pains and recovery was hurt by an unwelcome comment I made in jest. It was insensitive, uncaring, and demeaning. Sara Carmicheal, you have my most humble apologies. I meant what I said as a joke, and as soon as I saw the hurt, I knew it was in bad taste. I didn’t say anything at the time, because I did not know what to say. I am sure I am saying it wrong now, but again I am sorry.”

I added; “Now that I have confused everyone if some of you want to learn to punt, I will do everything I can to help you. I may not be able to kick for a while, but I was taught by a former NFL punter that lost his nonkicking leg in a car accident, and I think I can help anyone of you that wants to learn.”

After the meeting, several guys came up and said that they would like to learn to punt. Coach and I got some background. It seems that two of the guys were backup punters in high school, and another had kicked punts in emergencies or on trick plays. All three said that the longest kicks were twenty-five yards or less and that they had no clue how to direct their kicks.

When I was leaving the film room after setting up with the coach and the volunteers a time to practice, Sara was waiting for me. She thanked me for the apology and asked if she could look at my ankle. She mentioned that it looked like I was in extreme pain whenever I had to move that leg.

As the swelling had started to go down, the wrappings were loosening. I said that it would be a good idea for her to look at if even if it did not need to be anything but rewrapped.

She went into the film room and talked to the coach for a minute and then walked with me back to the treatment room. After removing the bandages, she got a concerned look and asked me to stay sitting while she made a call.

She left the room, but I could hear some of her conversation from the hallway. “Yes Dr. Walsh, I know the x-rays showed no breaks, but the foot is misaligned with the leg, and there are contusions that are inconsistent with a sprain ... Yes, doctor, the x-ray machine is here, but we don’t have a radiologist or technician here to take the films ... Yes, I can drive him to the campus hospital ... OK, I’m sorry to interrupt your evening. I will meet you in the ER.”

Then Sara returned with the coach. Coach took one look and told Sara to grab a wheelchair and he would come with us to the hospital.

When she left to get the chair, the coach talked to me. “Greg, your football is over for this year at least, you have at best a dislocated ankle, and if I were to guess, you have multiple fractures in the joint. I’m sorry son, but it looks like you are out for at least the rest of this season and spring ball.”

Sara returned with the wheelchair and with the assistance from both of them they got me in it and wheeled out to the team minivan. The drive to the hospital was quiet. Coach told me not to worry about anything, my scholarship was still in place even if I could not return to the team.

I got the strangest look from the coach when I laughed. “Coach,” I said. “You must really be worried, I’m a walk-on, and I refused a scholarship when you offered me one this last year. I am a trust fund baby, and I had you give my scholarship to two of the kids you had on half scholarships.”

I continued, “I love football, but it is not my be-all, end-all. I knew I would never be a pro, but I enjoyed the game. If I never play again, it won’t devastate me.”

Coach took a deep breath, almost a sigh of relief. “Ok.” Was all he said until we got to the ER.

I was lifted carefully from the van and placed on a gurney. I was then wheeled directly into the x-ray department. 45 minutes later, a Dr. Walsh (according to the stitching on his immaculate scrub smock) came into the ER all full of himself and almost gleefully said, “Well Mr. Rasmussen, it looks like you will be spending the night in our fine establishment. Tomorrow morning you will be flown to the university med center in the city for ankle surgery. You have four small bones broken and numerous bone fragments that need repair or removal. You will probably never play football again, but other than a stiff ankle, you should heal fine.”

I looked at coach and with a raised eyebrow I asked; “Is there any doctor in the hospital besides this cheerful windbag? He seems almost gleeful that I am injured. I want nothing to do with him.”

I had a thought. “Coach, Sara, do either of you have a cell phone here?”

Sara gave me hers. The Dr. reached for it. I grabbed his wrist. “If you want to continue to be a person with fully functioning hands, you will retract your arm, do a complete military about-face and get your smarmy ass out of this room. In case you did not realize it, Rasmussen Hospital has my family’s name on it. One call from my father or grandfather and you will be doing the remainder of your residency or practice in West Africa.”

He gulped, put his arm down and left the room like his ass was on fire and he needed to find water.

“Coach, Sara, I’m sorry you had to be witness to that because I hate to use my family’s influence to get special treatment. I’m just more afraid of what my mother would do if I didn’t call her than what that poor Dr.’s feelings mean to me. No one in his position should sound so pleased that a patient is injured.”

With that, I called my home. Dad answered. I brought him up to date and told him I would be at the med school hospital in the morning.

Well, dad was not above using his influence, so a medical transport helicopter ambulance took me to the center that night, and the best orthopedic surgeon available was waiting for me the next morning.

More x-rays and the surgeon told me the same thing as the clown at the school hospital, except he said he could fix me up so I had 90% or more of my normal ankle movement and probably no limp. He also was very professional and told me he too felt my football days were over.

Well, I was pissed that the breaks weren’t found the first time, but there was nothing to do about it. I told the doctor to do his work and fix it as best as he could.

I went into surgery the next afternoon. When I came out of anesthesia, the doctor told me that the surgery went very well, and with the help of a small plate and four screws, my ankle would heal almost as good as new. I was kept in the hospital for three days to guard against infection.

When I was discharged, I was in a walking boot for at least eight weeks. I hobbled around the film room and showed coach and the three possible punters film on kicking technique. By the time spring ball would come around, one or more of them would be ready to take over the punting duties.

When I finally got back to classes, I was still wearing the boot. I had lost a full semester of classes. I signed up for the next semester and went looking for Sara.

I checked with the athletic department, and they would not give me any information, citing privacy rules. I was pissed. I went to the athletic director’s office and took my boot and sock off and showed him the scars.

“This happened playing for this school to make money on football. If I am treated as if I am no longer an athlete, then this school will lose all of the Rasmussen trust scholarship funding. Then I will see that the school is sued for the poor diagnoses of the injury I suffered while on the football field. Do you understand what I am saying?” (I know I had said I didn’t like to throw the family name around, but you do what you must to achieve the expected result.)

He nodded and sort of shrank into his chair.

“I came here to find the trainer that saved me from being a limping cripple after the doctor and others on your medical staff fucked up. I want to thank the young lady. Your front office people cited a “privacy policy” that they can’t even give out names. If that is true, why are trainers introduced to teams?”

The AD looked like I had shit in his soup. “There is no privacy policy, what did you want?”

“Number one, I want you to hire dedicated and competent medical staff, then the same for your front office staff. Next, I would like to personally thank Sara Carmicheal. She saved me from being a cripple and maybe even save my foot from amputation. Now would you advise your staff to tell me where she is or how to get in touch with her?

“Before you get all pissed off, if you can do all of that, I am prepared to fund an account so you can pay trainers who are not in the sports medicine program. They would have to be nursing or pre-med students, and not grads or professional trainers.” (I have repeatedly been told that after you beat a mule with a big stick, it helps to offer a carrot afterward.)

“Now do you think I could talk to Sara?”

He nodded.

He took me to the basketball facility and we entered the training room. Sara was studying a textbook and looked up when we entered. She smiled when she saw me and then said. “Daddy, do you always hang out with good for nothing kickers?” Then she laughed and came over and hugged me.

“Sara, this time you’re right, I must be good for nothing, I know our AD’s last name was Carmicheal, but I never made the connection.”

I turned toward Mr. Carmicheal, “Sir I think I understand the counter people in your office now. They were just protecting Sara and you, not really trying to keep me from saying anything to her.”

I thanked Sara and asked if I could at least take her to dinner to reward her for her actions. She squealed and said yes. She even agreed to drive as I had problems with the pedals with my walking boot.

We went on the date, and my interest in other coeds disappeared. I also realized that I had better get my school shit together. I needed to earn a legitimate degree that I could use for my work life.

I changed my major from basic basket weaving to financial management and my minor from sewing to creative writing. That set me back an additional semester but made my family very happy.

I was now a junior all over again, but I discovered that I actually enjoyed school. I was walking and when I was fatigued, with the help of a cane, but unless it was getting ready to storm, I was pain-free. Sara and I became a dedicated item. I wined and dined her every chance I got.