Green Bay - Somebody, quick, snap Nick Collins back to reality. He's smiling and won't stop smiling. The Green Bay Packers safety stares off at the Fox River, refreshed and blissfully oblivious.
His season was over in Week 2. His career could be over. And here he is laughing, loving life.
As an icy gust of wind sweeps through, Collins points toward patches of ice forming on the river. "No," he laughs, "you never get used to winters here." But this is his home. On injured reserve, he never abandoned Green Bay. Donning a red shirt that reads "By Any Means" - in bold, black letters - you just know. Nick Collins isn't done yet.
"I feel great. I feel normal. I feel like I could go out there right now," he said.
This is the calm before the storm, the waiting period.
Three months ago, Collins had cervical fusion surgery to repair a bulging disc between his C3 and C4 vertebrae. A bone graft was taken from his hip and put in his neck. He had the surgery with one purpose in mind - to play football again.
Soon, in one or two months, he'll learn more. Doctors will examine how much his neck has healed and outline the risks.
The doctors. His wife. His four kids. The team. Collins will take input from everyone. And then, it's his call.
"If everything's good, then we're going," he said. "If (doctors) say there's a slight chance of something, then that's it."
Quickly, the 28-year-old intercepts his pessimism. He doesn't muddy his conscience with doomsday scenarios. He rarely contemplates this looming decision. It'd be counterproductive. Instead, Collins is in team meeting rooms and on the sideline during games. He's rehabbing regularly. .
And at home, he's finally a full-time dad. That's what will make the decision difficult. Collins wants to be healthy for his family, for the long haul. So, for now, Collins stays upbeat.
"For myself to get down, that means I'll get lazy and not want to do anything," Collins said. "I'd start thinking I don't want to play again. I don't want that mind-set. I want my mind-set to be always positive and just keep going and make as much progress as I can and go from there."
Optimism was empty on Sept. 18. That day, his wife was in shock and his 4-year-old son cried in horror. When Collins suffered his neck injury at Carolina, his family had no clue how bad it was. Collins was on the ground, three trainers hovered over him and the broadcast faded into a commercial break.
The suspense was surreal. Hysteria overtook the Collins household.
So many times on TV, Collins saw these injuries. Player A leads with his head into Player B and lays motionless on the ground. For seconds, for minutes.
"You're just hoping they get up," Collins said. Now, he was the victim. Panthers running back Jonathan Stewart leapt into the air and Collins' head scraped across his thigh. His whole body went numb. The sensation was "crazy." It was "ironic." It was "different."
But it was never painful. His family never knew, but Collins felt zero pain. He never blacked out at all.
On the ground, Collins said he saw Stewart running and yelled, "Get him down! Somebody get him!"
Once trainers flipped his body over, his feeling returned. A half-hour later, a team doctor filled in Nick's wife, Andrea Collins. She heard her husband's distinctive laugh inside the ambulance and knew he was fine. This wasn't like some neck injuries. Collins' spinal cord didn't twist in a life-threatening way.
Collins was walking and talking and laughing. He took the team flight back and many teammates assumed he was fine. He wasn't. The next day, coach Mike McCarthy asked Collins if he wanted to deliver the news himself and he did.
"Everybody was a little shocked," Collins said. "That was probably one of the hardest moments of the whole thing. Guys were just looking like, 'For real? Stop playing.' They saw me up and moving around. I had a neck brace on but they said, 'You're moving around. What's really going on?' So . . . I think . . . that was 'ahhh,' what can I say?' "
Not much. The whole injury seemed fluky - shouldn't there be some pain, some damage? Instead of asking questions, Collins never dipped into mourning.
Frank Cammisa of New York performed a successful surgery on Collins 11 days later and he moved on. He accepted the injury. No "Why me?" melodrama.
And instead of retreating to Gainesville, Fla., he stayed in Green Bay. Sticking around would allow Collins to help and convince him he'd return again. It's a mind game.
He's in the cold tub, in the pool, getting massages and lifting weights. Collins can't press dumbbells above his head but is trying to strengthen the muscles around his neck the best he can. It's all important; it all keeps him involved.
About once a week, Collins pops into the safeties' meeting room to offer advice. He tries to help without being intrusive.
On game day, he's on the sideline. His advice is specific. Collins' playmaking ability didn't click overnight. The 5-foot-11, 207-pounder had only four interceptions in his first three seasons.
Gradually, homework paid off. He earned Pro Bowl berths in each of his next three seasons, picking off 17 passes. Attention to detail, studying tendencies, living in the offense's huddle became his greatest weapons.
So that's how he helps out current starters Morgan Burnett and Charlie Peprah.
"To have a veteran guy in your corner takes the pressure off you," Burnett said. "It makes you feel comfortable to go out and make plays…He tells us to trust our eyes, trust what we see. Trust what you see and go ahead and make a play on the ball."
In Green Bay's 45-38 win at San Diego, Collins called both interceptions returned for touchdowns. Peprah's 40-yarder for a score? "Told him that was coming." Tramon Williams' 43-yarder? "I knew that slant was coming."
Then again, one injured player can only do so much. Collins' loss is felt weekly. The Packers are allowing 289 passing yards per game, 31st in the NFL.
"Trash, garbage yards," Collins calls it. He says the secondary is performing just fine. But his acumen cannot be replaced. At times, communication problems have dogged the secondary. Other times, the players miss Collins' makeup speed. He erased coverage breakdowns.
Watching from afar can be stressful.
"I wasn't there last week, but I was at the house saying, 'Here comes this play!' It's kind of crazy," Collins said. "I'll go in sometimes and watch film, but the majority of the time, I don't try to disturb those guys. I'll let them focus. But I'm sitting there - haven't watched much film - and I can sit there, know the formation and say, 'Here it comes. Here it comes.' "
Sure, Collins remains a presence at Lambeau Field, but for every film session, there are at least five diaper sessions.
"It's nonstop," Collins said.
Collins first learned how to change a diaper at 13 years old, for his baby niece. Now, he's a diaper aficionado.
His fourth child, Nash, was born five weeks ago. Collins also has a 7-year-old daughter, Jenajah, and two sons. Nicholas Jr. is 4 and Nmar'e is 2. Collins admits he had been a distant dad. He missed milestones - their first steps, their first words, their first day of school.
Now, time has slowed down to a crawl and Collins couldn't be happier. There are never any conflicts with their soccer games. In the morning, he genuinely enjoys seeing his kids get on the school bus. His football career on pause, he's appreciating fatherhood.
"I've been playing this game for so long; I missed out on so much," Collins said. "It's an opportunity for me to just catch up on some of the activities that they're involved in. You just think about all the stuff you missed out on and say, 'Wow.' "
Cornerback Jarrett Bush sees this change.
"This has given him time to spend with his family, which is obviously everybody's priority," Bush said. "He's playing with his kids and that's quality time. It's quality time."
Yes, Collins has envisioned a life beyond football. He has already been contacted about a potential coaching career. Collins said his old high school (Dixie County High School in Florida) and college (Bethune-Cookman) both reached out.
He listens. He processes. He tells them to hang on.
When judgment day arrives, Collins knows he'll probably be nervous. But it's not time to move on yet, not time to exhale into a reflective state. He fights the urge.
Nearly every day, somebody on Twitter sends Collins a video of his interception returned for a touchdown at the Super Bowl. That still frame of the free safety knelt down on the Cowboys Stadium turf - arms outstretched, head tilted upward - could be his lasting image. His legacy.
He reached the apex of his profession. Why risk anything?
Sitting down, fiddling with his headphones, Collins pauses. It's not time.
"I still feel that I'm a young man with a lot to offer to the game," Collins said. "Once I get back, I'm just going to let it go."
Tyler Dunne wrote: