THAT JAMES FOWLER kid was a darn good receiver, wasn't he?

Yeah, he showed good hands. Was tough in traffic. Plus, he had a knack for making plays in the clutch.

Wonder what happened to him? I haven't seen his name all season.

Maybe he transferred? Maybe he just stopped playing football?

If only things were that simple...

Fowler, now a 6-1, 220-pound senior, still attends George Washington High. And he'll be playing Saturday afternoon, 3:30 start, at Northeast's Charlie Martin Memorial Stadium as the Eagles meet Northeast for the Public AAAA championship.

Don't look for Fowler at tight end, however. Search for him among the grunts. He'll be easy to spot, because of a pad on his left forearm the size of a small country.

Though he pines for the glory that formerly came with serving his team at a skill position, Fowler, now a guard and linebacker, knows he's lucky to still be playing at all. Matter of fact, he's fortunate to still have that arm. Maybe just to be here at all.

"Five more minutes, he might not have made it," coach Ron Cohen said. "I tell his dad, he should kiss him every day."

Last April 30, at a friend's house, Fowler tripped and put his arm through a glass table. The damage was extensive.

Even now, after three surgeries (two of subtance, one for cleaning), his hand is more like a claw. Hold out your hand, face up, and start to make a fist. Stop about a third of the way through the process. That's where Fowler's fingers are pretty much stuck.

There's an ugly, jagged, still-pink scar on his forearm. Ironically, its shape pretty much resembles a goalpost and it runs all the way from just short of the elbow to the wrist.

Before practice yesterday, Fowler held out the arm and Cohen handled the preparations. Lots of tape. A plastic cast over that. Padding to cover the cast. One last coating of tape.

"Put this in the paper," Cohen said. "For the people who say I never do anything."

Fowler laughed right along with his coach. All these months later, he's trying his best to get through a still-tough situation, and every bit of levity helps.

Nonetheless, the flashbacks never quite go away.

Ask James Fowler how many stitches it took to close his wound and hear him say, "Hundreds. I don't know. Three hundred? Five hundred? They probably couldn't tell me because they lost count."

He pointed to the inner part of his left thigh.