Death of a Dream

Get up, Adam Taliaferro kept repeating to himself. Get up!

The Penn State freshman cornerback had just made a helmet-first tackle and, as he pleaded for assistance and his arms flailed uncontrollably, his body felt glued to the ground by an unknown force.

Help was coming. Penn State's trainer ran onto the wet Ohio State football field and held Taliaferro's head. Wayne Sebastianelli, the Penn State doctor, was right behind him. Sebastianelli calmly started giving Taliaferro stern, lifesaving instructions. "Concentrate on me, Adam," Sebastianelli said. "Focus on my eyes."

"Help me up," Taliaferro said.

"Do not move," Sebastianelli cautioned. "Do not try to get up. Do not move your head from side to side."

This scene took place during the waning minutes of a one-sided Ohio State victory. No one cared about the score — or that it would become the most lopsided loss in Joe Paterno's 35 years as Penn State's coach. Players held hands. Most knelt and prayed. Some cried.

"Stop rolling your shoulders," Sebastianelli said firmly but gently as he tried to alleviate the fear in Taliaferro's chocolate-brown eyes. "We need to keep you still."

Ever since he was six years old, Adam had known that he would play in the NFL someday. That was before he became a New Jersey high school football sensation, before he earned a full scholarship to play for Penn State's highly distinguished football program. But now, as he lay on the ground, there were more important issues concerning the quiet and lovable 18-year-old. None concerned the NFL.

"I couldn't feel anything except my head and face," Taliaferro said later. "I didn't know what I had done to myself. It felt like my whole body was broken."

Taliaferro, a sleek and speedy 5'11", 183-pounder, had just tackled a 231-pound running back; the violent impact had caused his neck to snap backward. Though woozy, his first instinct told him to pop off the ground like he had done thousands of other times. Get up, he told himself as he stared at the sky while prone on his back. Mom is watching on TV, and you know how she gets. Get up and show her you're OK. Show Dad, Alex, and the millions of people watching across the nation, too. Show the 98,124 fans at Ohio Stadium that this is just a minor setback, that you can walk off the field and give a polite wave for their support.

Taliaferro didn't remember the hit. All he could remember was waking up on the ground. Waking up and asking for someone to take his hand and pull him up. Waking up and wondering why, for the first time in his life, he had no control over his body's movements. His arms were flapping back and forth in front of his face, and he couldn't stop them.

To those who were watching on national TV, seeing Adam's arms move seemed like a positive sign. What they didn't know was that it was involuntary movement, that Adam wasn't able to move his fingers, that he had no feeling in his hands or legs.

Back in Voorhees, New Jersey, an upscale suburb located 18 miles outside of Philadelphia, Taliaferro's parents and his 14-year-old brother, Alex, watched the scene on their big-screen, family-room television set. Until that day, either one or both of his parents had attended every one of his football games since he was six years old. This was the first game they had ever missed. And now, when Adam seemed to need them most, they were helpless, 512 miles away. Watching from the comfort of their cozy, two-story home. Watching and answering frantic phone calls from friends and relatives. Watching and pleading and praying as Adam was given medical attention on the field — and a commercial, a damn commercial, interrupted their only connection with their soft-spoken, strikingly handsome son. "I wanted to jump through the TV set and be there with him," said Addie Taliaferro, Adam's mother.

When Adam played football in high school, Addie was so terrified that her son would be injured that, after watching the first quarter, she would retreat to the parking lot and sit in her car. It was her sanctuary, her way of coping. She would sit in the front seat, roll down the window, and listen to the public-address announcer give accounts of the game. "Fifty-five yard run! Touchdown, Adam Taliaferro!" The announcer's voice would echo around the stadium, around the parking lot.

It was a soothing sound for Addie. Not so much because her son had scored, not so much because he had broken off another long run, not so much because Eastern High was headed toward another victory. It was soothing because her son had not been injured on the play.

Addie could picture that oh-so-contagious smile as he crossed the goal line. She could picture him graciously hugging the linemen who had thrown the run-springing blocks. She didn't need to watch any of it. All she needed to know was that her son was safe, that he was in one piece. And if she could just sit in her car and think positive thoughts while opposing players were trying to snap her little boy in half, well, her Adam would be protected. "It was just so quiet and peaceful in there," Addie said.

There was no peace, no quiet, no comforting words from the PA announcer as the Taliaferros waited for the commercial to end and the camera to zoom in on their son on September 23, 2000. It was a day that changed Adam's life. A day that changed the whole family's life. A day that some frightening words, no matter how hard they tried to deny them, became a daily part of the family's vocabulary. Words like quadriplegic and paralysis.

At Ohio Stadium, those devastating words started to filter into some people's minds as Adam was given medical attention. In the meantime, four commercials that took a total of a minute and 30 seconds were shown to the rest of the country. When the commercials ended, Adam was still down; he was having problems breathing as he listened to the doctor's instructions in front of a packed, church-quiet stadium.

"Stay still and stay focused. Do not move." The words were especially difficult for Sebastianelli. He had developed a close relationship with Adam in the few months they had known each other. He had treated him for a dislocated thumb, which required surgery in the preseason, and they had developed a bond.

It was easy to develop a bond with Adam. He was so humble, so sincere, so polite. He wasn't the stereotypical football superstar. This is someone who worked as a nurse's aide as a high school senior, someone who had to be coaxed by his high school English teacher to miss a class so he could accept an award at a football banquet, someone who was an honor student and a model citizen, someone with "a fantastic smile and calmness and humility to him," Sebastianelli said. He fought back tears...