“Mine,” was all he said as he kissed my forehead. “Forever.”
Traded
Three weeks later …
Today marked six weeks since I’d broken my fingers. Cassie wanted to come with me to meet with the team doctor for moral support, but I told her I needed to do this alone. It had nothing to do with me wanting her there or not, but more to do with the fact that she couldn’t do anything about the diagnosis.
If my fingers were healed, then that was great. But if they were still f**ked up, she couldn’t make them better, and I needed time to process that. This was the kind of thing a man went into alone and then thanked God, or whoever, that he wasn’t alone when he came out. Cassie was great about it, completely understanding. But then again, my girl always had been.
She wished me good luck as she walked out the door for work, and I promised to call her as soon as I knew anything.
Nerves twisted inside my gut as the possibility of my career being over hung above my head like some sort of metaphorical rain cloud. I could barely eat or think of anything else as I hopped up on the exam table.
“How you feeling?” the doctor asked, all nonchalant, and I wanted to strangle him for attempting small talk with me at a time like this.
Unwilling to respond, I gave him a curt smile and a head nod instead. It was immature and unprofessional, but if he didn’t get this cast off my arm and give me a prognosis, I was going to throw up all over his stupid shiny shoes.
He grabbed a weirdly shaped contraption and started to cut through my cast. Peeling away at the layers, he gently removed it. Waving off the rank smell that accompanied it, I grumbled an apology.
“Comes with the territory, Jack. No one can go six weeks without washing an area of their body and have it smell like roses,” he explained.
He clearly didn’t know my wife. I’d bet she could. She could do anything.
I looked at my arm, which was wrinkled and pale from being holed up for the last six weeks. I had to stop myself from hitting it to get the natural coloring to return. Holding my arms up side by side, my normally strong arm looked diseased and wasted.
“How long until it looks like my hand again?” I asked the doctor.
“That’s all normal too. Now, let me see how your fingers look.” He reached for my hand and asked me to straighten it. They were sore and underused.
“That’s great, now make a fist.”
I did as he asked, fisting my fingers into the palm of my hand. Every movement felt foreign. And weak.
I was not used to being weak.
“It all looks good. The bones healed nice and straight. With about a week or so of rehab, Jack, you should be back on the mound, depending.”
“Depending on what?” I asked sharply.
“No, no.” He waved a hand in apology. “I just meant depending on how you feel, strength-wise. Everyone heals differently,” he said and I exhaled.
“Can I throw today?” I asked, determined to heal as soon as possible and get back on the mound where I belonged.
“I don’t see why not. Just take it easy.”
I fired off a quick text to my girl.
Hand looks good. Everything healed well. Off to see how it feels.
My phone beeped out a response before I could put it down.
So relieved. And so thankful. Good luck, babe. I love you.
I walked into our private indoor batting cage and grabbed a ball. Palming it, I slowly wrapping my fingers around the seams in a curve-ball grip. I couldn’t hold it as tightly as before, but I wasn’t worried. One hundred percent healing would come with time. With my heart in my throat, I pulled my arm back and released the ball, not trying to pitch it, simply warming up.
It didn’t feel the same. My grip was weak and my fingers lacked the sheer strength they had a mere six weeks ago.
After winding my way back into the doc’s office, I asked him, “Should I do strength exercises first? Get my finger and hand strength back?”
“Absolutely,” he said as he tossed me a sponge-like ball. “Squeeze this.” I did as he asked and he smiled. “Good. Now do that multiple times a day, but don’t overdo it. No more than ten reps and no more than five times each day. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but trust me. Also, make sure you flex your fingers and press them against something flat, like your table at home.”
“All right, Doc. Thanks.”
For the next week, I did as the doctor ordered, and each time I threw the ball at the field, I felt more and more like my old self. My hand felt good and when Coach clocked me, I threw between ninety and ninety-one consistently. Not as fast as before, but still fast. He removed me from the disabled list and told me I’d be closing out the next home series.
I couldn’t wait to throw again. Or get in my full uniform. While I was hurt, I only had to wear my sliding pants and a pullover. I wanted to be dressed in full gear again.
Sunday afternoon, the stands of Shea stadium were packed, an almost sold-out crowd, I was told. There was something about an afternoon game in the summer. Everyone wanted to be there, watching our nation’s favorite pastime.
When I took the mound, the cheers were deafening. I’d been missed. Thank God I’d been missed; I missed them too. The fans, the cheers, the stadium, the smell of the food cooking and the freshly mowed grass around me.
Stepping onto the mound, I scooted the dirt away from around the front edge with my toe, making a small divot. I kicked my cleat hard against the white rubber before turning to stand on it. It was crazy, but I’d missed the way my feet felt on the springy step.