INTRODUCTION: WHAT BREAKING MY NECK TAUGHT ME ABOUT CAPITALISM
How could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads?
—Plato1
I was flying through the air, upside down, when everything I thought I knew about winning and losing shattered.
I'd gained one hundred yards and bagged eight tackles in the first half—numbers that made even my non‐football‐fan dad, the Reverend Roy Swan, beam with pride. Things were going well. Then the call came, in the third quarter: “student body left.” As tailback, I took the pitch and followed my blockers downfield, 195 pounds of determined muscle. With one tackler left between me and the end zone, I timed my leap perfectly—or so I thought.
Running at full speed, my foot caught a shoulder pad as I leapt over two falling players. Instead of floating gracefully into the end zone, I flipped completely, my body rotating in the air before all my weight came crashing down on the crown of my head. The sound of my vertebrae crushing against each other echoed through me and out across the field. That moment in October 1980 ended everything I thought I knew about my future.
Lying motionless on a hospital gurney in New Jersey, the fluorescent lights burning overhead, I felt numbness creeping through my fingers and toes. As my mother wept beside me, medical staff whispered to each other. Their verdict: a single smashed vertebra, plus three dislocated vertebrae lodged against my spinal cord. Paralysis from the waist down. ...
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