Ten Years Later

Early March

My gaze is intensely focused, watching as the pitcher on the mound of dirt checks the runner on first base and then throws a fast ball toward home plate. Me and him? We’ve faced each other twenty times, and I’m batting about fifty percent. He’s one of the few in the league who’s stumped me, one who has my utmost respect, and the one I want to beat more than anything.

When he rears back to throw again, I take my practice swing, imagining the bat connects with the leather covered baseball, that it goes over the fence, and I’ve defeated one of my foes. Instead, my teammate strikes out to the annoyance of every fan behind me.

“Batting third, Center Fielder, Slater “Savage” Harlow!”

The roar of the crowd is deafening. I’m a fan favorite and have been since I was called up from the minors. Even in Spring Training, people come to see me. It’s not cocky when it’s the truth, and I’m the real fuckin’ deal.

When I get to the batter’s box, my eyes connect with his. Every single person I face when my feet plant in the dirt, I stare down. There’s no way in hell I want any of them to know they intimidate me. The first pitch is a ball, second is a strike, and the third one is a fuck up on his part. It’s huge as it comes to me, in what seems to be slow motion. As I situate my body to send this ball over the fence, I plant my foot down and turn into the swing. As I do, my cleat catches on something, and chances are, I’ll never know what.

Instead of feeling the vibration of the bat making contact with the ball, I hear a loud popping and feel an explosion of pain in my right knee. It’s a kind of pain I’ve never felt before, which is saying something. I’ve played injured more often than I care to admit. I fall to the ground, holding my knee as the bat drops, and the crowd silences.

The trainer runs out, making me release my leg. “Let me see, Slater, let me get a good look at it.”

I’m rolled to my back. As I feel them manipulating my limb, I open my eyes wide, looking up at the cloudless sky. I’m gulping deep breaths of air, trying to calm the pounding of my heart, the pain radiating through my entire body. Sweat is gathering on my brow, starting to pour down my face. This is a pain like I’ve never known, and I’ve known pain before. Emotional and physical.

Closing my eyes I say a silent prayer before I open them back up again. The sky calls to me and I try to calm myself as I take in the blue color. The day has been perfect, until this moment as I hear what are the worst words to ever come out of a trainer’s mouth.

“Slater, I think you’ve torn your ACL. We’re going to transport you to the hospital to get you checked out. We’ll call your agent and have your parents fly in to meet us.”

Just like that, the picture-perfect day, and my second MVP season in a row, is over.

As I make my way into the conference room for our Monday meeting, I see a group gathered around a laptop, watching something on the screen.

“There goes my fucking Fantasy Baseball team.” One of the guys from downstairs throws a piece of paper onto the table.

“How long is he out for?” Someone else asks as I work to get my space set up.

“They said the rest of the year,” the first guy who was bitching about his fantasy team grumbles. “Which ya know, I hope he can come back and I’m sure the Bandits hope he can come back, but I’m fucked.”

When I hear the Bandits, my ears perk up slightly. That’s the team my ex-fiancé plays for. I want to ask them which player they’re talking about, but there’s another part of me that knows I shouldn’t care. We left that situation ten years ago, and I’ve never looked back.

“Who was it?” Another member of their sports squad comes in, carrying a coffee. “I caught the tail-end of it on the news this morning but didn’t hear which player it was.”

“Savage,” he groans. “The star of my league.”

And just like that, my stomach drops and my hands start to shake. If he’s out the rest of the year, he’s done something bad. We’re in March, he should have only been in Spring Training.

The meeting passes in a blur, and when I get back to my desk, I do a quick search, pulling up the first video. I watch, admiring the way he looks, the man he’s grown into, not able to help the slight smile spreading across my face. He made it, no matter what the obstacles thrown in his path, he made it. Then I watch in horror as his knee turns a way it most definitely shouldn’t, and he collapses to the ground. In the video, you can hear him scream, hear his moan, and it kills me. Shutting off the screen, I wipe tears from my eyes, surprised at the emotion this is bringing out in me.

“Malone, we need to see you in the main office.” I glance up to see one of my co-workers at my door, motioning for me.

Little did I know that was the meeting that was going to end my career, just like Slater’s injury ended his season.