It was the last game of the season. One of those days in Kansas where the weather could fool you by appearing sunny and warm when peeking out the window of your house, but then immediately feels cold and windy as soon as you walk out the door—one of fall’s cruel jokes.

We layered up anyway, knowing how these afternoons could turn. The kind of day where your hot chocolate goes cold too fast, and the bleachers feel like they’ve absorbed winter overnight. Still, the energy was high. The boys were fired up, pads clapping with every warmup drill, coaches shouting encouragement over the wind. You could tell they wanted to end the season on a high note.

My son jogged out with the rest of his team, helmet tucked under his arm, a slight bounce in his step like he always had before kickoff. I remember thinking how confident he looked. Strong. Ready. We had no idea that in just a few plays, everything would change.

Their middle school team was undefeated, and today they would be playing against Shawnee Heights Middle School, the only other undefeated team in town. It was a true “unofficial” championship game and the boys were excited and hoping to come away with a victory.

My son had never played tackle football before. He played flag football a few years back in elementary school, but at that age, even though his size suggested he would be a defensive linebacker, he quickly became the quarterback of the team as he was the only one who could accurately throw the ball down the field. This year though, he had tried out and made the A team, happily lined up on offense to play center. I silently breathed a sigh of relief. The center, I thought, was a pretty safe position. Hike the ball to the quarterback, then just block with the rest of the offensive line….right?

Once he mastered the art of hiking the ball just right so the quarterback could execute the proper play, he quickly progressed and became a dominant force on the O line. But not only did he play well, he also became a great teammate. Football wasn’t just about the game—it was where friendships were forged and camaraderie was built. After-school practices, Thursday night lights, and bus rides home with friends turned into memories stitched together by laughter, grit, and the kind of tired that only comes from giving it your all.

He found his people out there on that field—kids and coaches who had his back, who pushed him to be better, and who celebrated every hard-earned yard together. It wasn’t always easy, but it was real. And in a season that would be cut short in the most unexpected way, those moments became the foundation he’d lean on through everything that came next.

Shawnee Heights was a great team. They were fast, gained yards quickly, and ran the ball well. Our defense couldn’t catch them, and our offense’s only hope was to hail Mary it down the field and hope for a great catch near the endzone. To be honest, the events that happened that day overshadowed the score, and I don’t remember exact numbers, but I do know we were definitely losing.

The offense took the field once more, my son hiked the ball, and the quarterback ran the ball hoping to get lucky and gain some yardage. The other team surrounded the quarterback and tried to take him down. My son and the rest of the O line were pushing the pile in a futile attempt to get the ball further down the field.

That’s when it happened.

I didn’t actually see it. After that play, one player remained down, motionless on the field, while another frantically waved for the coach to come over. My dad, standing quietly beside me, said, ‘That’s Konnor.’ And in that moment, the weight of what that might mean began to sink in.

After all the times I’d told him he could play—as long as he didn’t get hurt—those words came rushing back to me like a cruel echo. It had always been the condition, the quiet deal we made: play hard, have fun, just please stay safe.

I began making my way down from the stands, heart pounding louder with each step. As I reached the bottom, the coach was already walking toward me. He had a strange look on his face—not panic, not calm, but something in between. That look alone told me what I didn’t want to hear.

His voice was steady, but his eyes gave him away.
“His leg is broken,” he said gently, sympathy written all over his face.
“But he’s okay—he’s in good spirits and staying strong.”

I nodded, trying to steady myself, trying to breathe. All I could think about was getting to my son—because no matter how tough he was acting, I knew this moment would change everything.

The next few hours were a blur, an ambulance ride, waiting to see the ER doctor, and a million x-rays later and I had the news no parent ever wants to hear.

The diagnosis was a broken tibia and fibula. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning to insert a metal rod into his leg, a painful but necessary step toward recovery.

As the days passed and the pain started to fade, one thing remained constant—all he could talk about was when he’d be cleared to play baseball. Football had been his first love this season, but baseball was always his home, the sport he knew inside and out. He never once let the injury take away his focus. Through the frustration and the healing process, it was always about the next chapter—getting back on that field.

But this story isn’t about discouraging kids from playing football. It’s about resilience. It’s about a young athlete who, despite the pain, never once thought about giving up on his dream. It’s about a kid who got back up, kept pushing forward, and set his sights on his next goal: returning to the game he loved.

Months later, as this year’s baseball season approached, my son had more than just physical strength in his corner—he had the kind of mental toughness that came from overcoming adversity. The road to recovery hasn’t been easy, but it shaped him in ways I couldn’t have imagined when I first saw him lying on that field. And as he’s getting ready to step back onto the baseball diamond this season, ready to play again, I can’t help but think, this is just the beginning.

It has to be.

Because he’s my comeback kid.