Where were you when you saw Damar Hamlin go down?
As you waited and waited for news, what did you experience?
How should you and I respond to events at the Bengals – Bills game on January 2?
What’s most important right now is Damar Hamlin’s health and recovery.
How the rest of us respond—from the NFL commissioner to the teams to all of us who are a part of this ecosystem—is important too. So I’m taking time to respond by reflecting on another traumatic moment for me.
I wasn’t there for the Bengals – Bills game on Jan 2, 2023, and I wasn’t watching it live. But another game that I watched live impacted me to the point that I still feel in my body today what I experienced 34 years ago. As I reflect on my experience of that game, a traumatic moment, and waiting, my hope is you can also slow down and reflect on traumatic moments you have experienced as well.
******
Tasting Victory
“WHO DEY?”
Shouted someone.
“WHO DEY?”
We chanted back.
“WHO DEY think they gonna beat them Bengals when they play in the jungle?”
As we chanted, we jumped up and down. On one hand over our heads as we had seen the Bengals holding their helmets as they huddled up and then jumped up and down before game time. The sea of 4th and 5th and 6th graders in the lunchroom at Cottonwood Elementary rose and fell like waves of orange and black.
We chanted. Shouted. Until our voices reached the crescendo.
I say, NOBODY!
My entire body pulsed with energy, rippling through my arms, torso, and legs. I was sure I could run the ball into the end zone at that very moment.
YES! This was it. This was our moment. This was my moment. I could taste the thrill of victory.
Unleashed from all the rules like “Don’t Talk in the Halls.”
Unleashed from the straight rows of lunch tables. Unafraid of the scowling looks of teachers when we would rush to sit down and knock a table off of where it was supposed to be.
Gone was the annoyance of the bully David who would crush our fun and reduce us to whispering mice scurrying around when he would insult us “You guys are a bunch of dicks.”
Gone was the terror of Mika, the girl from Hawaii, who since 3rd grade, whenever I glanced and saw her long flowing black hair and would feel the need to think of words to sweep her off her feet but could never think of the right thing to say.
Everything seemed to stop.
When the chant was finished, I heard cheers. Yelling. Screaming.
Then felt a pain in my side as Jeremy tackled me knocking me and David into the tables next to us where some girls sat eating. But as Ms. Perry came over to do – I don’t know what she thought—perhaps to break a fight, we quickly got up and assured, “No, no, no look, it’s okay. We’re all fine.”
A few moments after the mayhem, someone started the cheer again.
“WHO DEY!” “WHO DEY!”
Waiting
A few days later, my mom, dad, brother, and sister jumped into the car and went to our church’s evening service. I didn’t want to go. The protest seemed pointless, so I wore my Ickey Woods t-shirt over some typical Sunday clothes as a statement.
The clock moved painfully slow that hour. The silence was painful. It was always painful.
I just wanted to stand up. I just couldn’t stand it. The constraint and the hushed voices seemed such a contrast to the unfettered burst of life that I felt watching the Bengals. My knees bounced up and down. Maybe the silence wasn’t as painful that day. I played and replayed scenes in my mind—sacks, catches, runs, breaking tackles … nearly jumping out of the pew as these images passed through my mind’s eye.
Injury
Sometime after the first half, our family got back home. Our living room TV sat on a set of shelves surrounded by books, games, and photo albums on all sides. There was a large glass window on the wall next to the TV, which opened out to the front yard. When it snowed, the sun rays glistened off the snow, and on a day like the Super Bowl Sunday, the window view would change from picturesque winter to black night, to the opaque white color of the shades when my dad would pull them down. It was well after dark by this point.
I remember watching Bengals Nose Tackle Tim Krumrie’s leg flopping to the ground after dislocating his knee.
“No!” “No!” it can’t be. The nauseous feeling reached my throat. The same feeling I had gotten when my own body experienced trauma–from a hard fall to a broken bone.
Crushed. As I watched replay after replay, I fought back tears.
We were supposed to win. If the mightiest among us had fallen, we were doomed. With each replay, it seemed that the pit in my stomach sank deeper and deeper – almost like his leg breaking was foreboding that the entire team would crumble under the strength of the mightier 49ers.
******
35 Years Later
I’ve tasted victory. In sports matches that I’ve watched and that I’ve played in. And I’ve tasted victory in other areas of life too.
I’ve experienced the agony of defeat. The loss of walking off the court after my last competitive basketball game ever. The agony of watching those that I love while they suffered during the covid pandemic, wishing longing for my kids to not be in quarantine. And I’ve witnessed others too—a friend who lost a spouse to death. A friend whose marriage ended in divorce.
I’ve experienced trauma in my own body. One time took place on an (international) football field in Pogradec, Albania when I herniated a disc in February of 2002. The tingling pain. Numbness in the big toe of my right foot.
And I’ve waited. Often, I felt like I was in agony waiting. I waited for months after injuring my back, hoping something would make me feel better. I waited during my wife’s first operation for minutes that seemed like an eternity. She was three months pregnant with our first child and the doctor had just said, “We have to operate even though we know what it will mean for the fetus.” Months later, I had to wait again during another operation—this time anticipating the arrival of our baby girl into the world. Both times, it was like agony for me.
Invitation to wait even especially it’s hard
Henri Nouwen has said, “Active waiting is waiting that pays attention, is fully present to what is really going on, even when to all outward appearances, nothing is going on.”
Instead of waiting, I often pull out my phone. I text someone. I watch a YouTube video. Or I get productive and do something. Anything to get my mind off of what I don’t want to have to wait for. Whether I am in physical pain or not, it can feel like agony to wait. Yet the more present I remain as I wait, the more significant and meaningful the experience of waiting becomes.
Yesterday while talking with a friend facing a challenging situation, he said, “I want to have clarity.” Then he added, “That’s what I want. I’m not sure that’s what God wants.” .
I recently talked with someone waiting for a spouse to return to their marriage.
I know someone waiting for healing from cancer.
And as of today, Damar Hamlin’s family is sitting and waiting.
What about you – What are you waiting for right now?
And what does it look like to actively wait when your waiting feels like agony?