3RD AND ONE
Marc Buoniconti, son of NFL Hall of Famer Nick, details in new book a story of ‘tragedy to triumph’ after the horrific football injury that took his legs
FEW OF US KNOW in advance the moment that changes our lives. It's only in retrospect that we identify a crucial twist embraced, or avoided. We operate largely without a map, turning right or left at the next intersection on the basis of experience, speculation, or random curiosity. The "choices" are often unconscious, and beyond our awareness. We feel our way through life's contours.
Fate is nothing more than the public performance of accumulated decisions. Turning left to avoid a life-threatening accident has less to do with the instinctive action than the life experiences up to that moment in time. Do we take implied consequences "like a man," or do we confront whatever is in front of us with guile, grit, and cunning?
Life is a series of third-and-one situations, though we often aren't aware of the significance one way or another. That's the beauty and the curse of sports. The moments present themselves on the basis of a clock, the score, distance, preparation, and strategy, all of which are subject to dozens of nuances. In football, the object of the game is to move the ball downfield to score against the other team's defense. The offensive team has four downs to move ten yards to gain another four downs. Each play is important, but games turn on third down. If the offensive team fails to gain another first down, then it's forced to turn the ball over to the opponent. On third down with a yard to go, everyone digs in a little deeper.
For most people that doesn't mean a thing. But for a football player, it's the difference between success and failure. For the offense, it's the opportunity to extend the possession. For the defense, it's a chance to stop the drive. There are no illusions. It's one side trying to impose its will on the other. The stakes are straightforward and selfevident to every player, coach, and fan.
In effect, the essence of the game is compressed into a single play. A more intense new rush of adrenaline and bravado rises to the surface. The crowd becomes louder because the moment creates the same chemical reaction in them. The noise a player hears, even inside a small domed stadium with the ground covered in artificial turf, is more of a low rumble. It's the vibration of sound more than anything familiar or discernible. Heart rates rise, focus narrows.
I lived for those moments. I thrived on the challenge, the extra degree of difficulty. It wasn't just on the football field. I lived my life in that context, pushing limits, eager to see what was around the next corner, or where I might find myself after one test or another. Dive deep into the ocean for two or three minutes without oxygen? I can do that. Climb forty feet to the top of a tree and jump off executing a flip into a narrow canal? No problem. Defy rules designed to limit very broad
ideas of fun? Of course, why conform when not conforming provides so much entertainment? Test the limits of drugs and alcohol, skip school, hang out with dangerous dudes, buy drugs in the neighborhoods those guys did business in, even when some of those "friends" ended up dead, or in penitentiaries? Come on, danger is part of the fun, man.
What looked out of control to others was a confirmation of control to me. I wasn't dead. I wasn't in jail. I was in college, the starting linebacker for a hard-ass military school devoid of females and full of hard-ass guys.
What's going to happen next? Some people try to control life. Not me. You might as well try to grab a handful of air. What could be more inspiring than the confrontation directly in front of you?
On third-and-one it all comes together. At the most basic level, it captures the nature of the game and to one degree or another life itself. Who's tougher? Who's smarter? Who's more talented? Who wants it more? Who's willing to endure more pain? Who can feel the rhythm of a game, the sway of momentum? Who can focus in so narrowly that figuring out what the opponent will do next is reduced from speculation to near certainty?
In less than ten seconds it all plays out and the questions are answered. That's the allure of sports. There is instant gratification. Every
decision is resolved almost immediately. Life is different that way. A decision made without a second thought can change the course of a life a week later.
As the middle linebacker, my eyes widened as I keyed on the center. When the center lunged toward me as he snapped the ball, his movements told me all I needed to know. I stepped to my left brushing him aside and locked in on the ball. There is almost no perception of sound. The arms and legs are those of people, but in the moment they are obstacles to be avoided, or to be shoved aside in pursuit of the ball.
I was running close to full speed when the quarterback flipped the ball to a low-slung running back with thick powerful legs. He knew what I knew: It was third-and-one.
Otherwise, we had nothing in common. He was African-American with a dark history born of a rough, dangerous childhood in a neighborhood that mirrored his experience. From the porch of the small house he grew up in, the running back watched as his father was shot to death in broad daylight in the front yard.
In my life, the sun shined nearly every day. I loved my childhood, my siblings, and my parents. Our house was on a canal with tall trees. We had our own swimming pool, a large lawn to play football, and a basketball court. My dad was a celebrity with trophies and championship rings from his life in professional football. My mother was a loving woman every bit as strong as my dad. I had everything that was important to a healthy, positive life.
But in that moment, there was no history. We were two people with a singular mission. Mine was the exact opposite of his. He needed the yard. Three feet. I needed to stop him.
The running back swung wide, gaining speed when one of my teammates flew into his legs. The running back flipped into the air. Instinctively I calculated where I had to slam into the hurtling body to stop his momentum. I took one final step in an all-out sprint, then dove straight toward the impact zone. I saw the number 20 upside down on his uniform. With the running back's head nearly touching the ground and his legs straight up in the air, he lunged forward toward the first down, grasping for every inch.
I was locked in and loaded. I flew toward the target with every ounce of force I could generate.
Nothing about the moment was unusual or out of character with the tone and tenor of my life. All the daring and risky behavior came together thanks in part to an innate arrogance long cultivated by successfully navigating the consequences of a life lived free, and reckless. Then, in an instant, it was over. I never felt a thing.
Dad: October 26, 1985 was a Saturday. My wife, Terry, and I were sitting on the terrace of my Notre Dame roommate Richard Catenacci's Hunterdon County, N.J., farmhouse. Richard's property extended over twenty-five or thirty acres and included a pond. Over the years he'd restored the house that looked out over the valley - just spectacular. We were kind of pinching ourselves. We had known one another and remained best friends for more than twenty-five years. We were doing well.
Richard was the managing partner in the biggest law firm in New Jersey. I had three children in college, and they were doing great. As we sat there we were saying, "How lucky can we be? How lucky can we be? Here we are. I'm doing well. You're doing well. We're drinking champagne, celebrating on one of the most phenomenal fall afternoons."
It was remarkable.
Whose arm is that? Bodies were scattered around me. The arm didn't appear to go with any of them.
My body tingled. It wasn't pain so much as an absence of feeling. With little success, and even that diminishing I gasped to catch my breath. Seconds passed. Reality flooded in. I consciously confronted my emotions. If I panicked, I'd die.
The trainer reached me first. He peered into my eyes. His calm demeanor was betrayed by the horror on his face. He could only imagine what he couldn't see.
I mouthed three words: "I can't move." I knew what had happened. Still, the recognition was overwhelming. I didn't need a diagnosis. It was written on the faces of everyone around me.
I lay on the artificial turf in a small domed stadium, somewhere between life and death, for thirty minutes. How I survived is unknown, a miracle inside a nightmare.
I recall only one thought: don't panic.
The arm was mine.