Everett's recovery: 'a gift from God'

Rick Maese

March 9, 2008

BUFFALO, N.Y.

Standing in line, they fidget in place, goose-necking over the large crowd and anxiously fingering their cell phones - one text message reads: "You'll never guess who I'm about to meet." They rehearse their lines with good reason, because what exactly are you supposed to say when you reach the front of the long line?

Sorry you'll never play football again? Congratulations on walking? I prayed every morning and every night, and you're living proof that miracles exist and because of you, I'll never quit at anything ever again?

The line winds through the bookstore and there, sitting at a table, is former Buffalo Bill Kevin Everett, who inspired tears of worry when he lay motionless on a football field and later, when barely three months had passed and he was again walking, tears of relief.

Six months have passed since Everett's backbone nearly snapped in half, and this book-signing event in a chain store marks the first time his fervent followers are seeing him up close.

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By the time Bills fans finally get to him, though, it doesn't matter what they've rehearsed. The words are lost, stolen by awe, trepidation and sheer amazement, and replaced by a silent, gaping smile.

"I've never had this much attention," Everett says later.

The worship certainly isn't reserved for his football accomplishments. Everett's final career numbers: two receptions, 4 yards. The first game of the 2007 season was the last of Everett's career. On the opening kickoff of the second half, in a game against the Denver Broncos, Everett collided with another player, his head just an inch too low, and in the process suffered a fracture between the third and fourth vertebrae of his spine.

No, they're here to see a miracle. A man who some thought might not live, who others thought might not walk, and who most everyone certainly couldn't envision back in Buffalo, moving about, shaking hands and scribbling his autograph. They all want to tell him, from the grandfathers to the granddaughters, how Everett's perseverance - his miracle - has inspired them.

The miracle man

One after another, Everett signs copies of his biography, Standing Tall: The Kevin Everett Story. What these Bills fans don't realize is that though he's able to sign his name, his fingers are numb. He has no idea how tightly he's gripping the pen. He just signs. One after another, after another. He's unsure whether he will ever regain full feeling in his fingers, and tying his shoelaces can be strenuous. Buttoning his shirt is a chore. Writing his name requires concentration. But the opportunity to do these things is a gift. I ask him what he thinks a miracle is.

"A blessing, a gift from God," he says.

He appreciates everything because he knows how fleeting it can all be. When he collided with Domenik Hixon, Everett fell to the field. It was like a switch had been flipped. His mind was working, but everything else had been turned off. Everett thought his respiratory system was failing him, and breathing "felt like I was sucking air through a coffee straw."

And yet, today, six months later, he walks. A miracle man. Those aren't my words. That's what Oprah Winfrey called him on her show last month. I don't know what a miracle is. Is it something that defies reason? Or merely explanation?

Can Everett credit both God and doctors? Is the fact that he walks today a miracle of faith or a miracle of science?

"Both," Everett says.

What continually impresses me is Everett's demeanor. There's not a hint of remorse or regret. At 26, he essentially had spent a lifetime preparing for one thing: to play football. Now, as he is starting over, he refuses to allow his story to become one of despair or disappointment.

I tell Wiande Moore, Everett's college sweetheart, that I'm simply amazed at the upbeat attitude Everett and everyone around him has maintained. There must have been some bad days in there, though.

"No, not really," she says. "We just stayed positive."

Everett interrupts. "Let's quit with the lies," he says. "I was sad, depressed. I couldn't go on ... "

I quickly realize I had inadvertently asked some version of the same question three times.