September 3, last year

I never intended to spend my thirtieth birthday in agony.  Searing.  Soul crushing.  Excruciating pain.  Especially in front of a stadium filled with fans, and not fans of my team, I might add.

Diego Gallardo, Oakland’s chubby third baseman, collided, cleat first, into the inside of my right knee as he slid home trying to beat my tag.  After the collision, his body bowled over the same leg.  The audible gasp of the crowd was the last sound I consciously remember before my awareness of the gravity of the situation settled on me.  The pain registered, and then began the blur of activity around me, first and foremost, Diego rolling his fat ass off me.  I can’t prove it, but the arrogant look on his face as he untangled himself kinda made me think he did this on purpose.  His push off my injured leg to help him stand let me know he damn sure did.  At least he didn’t beat the tag.

I knew I wasn’t going to die from this injury, but I feared it was a potential career killer, which probably explains why when my life flashed before my eyes, it was filled with the last eighteen years of my baseball achievements – playing catch with my dad, traveling to the little league world series, winning the state championship in high school, college signing day, playing my first college game, getting called up to the minors my senior year, hitting my first professional homerun, receiving rookie of the year, breaking too many records to count, getting named to the all-star team every year of my pro career, winning four professional homerun derbies.  But the flash that puzzled me was the pair of eyes that kept popping up, ones I hadn’t seen in person in almost eight years.  Why?

Getting carted off a field, no matter how serious the injury, is still a humiliatingly humbling experience.  Our trainers and the other team’s medical staff didn’t even bother assessing me in the locker room.  I went straight to the hospital, complete with police escort. 

Next was a mix of X-rays and MRIs and morphine.  Normally I refuse drugs, but the friggin’ genius who invented that stuff needs to be kissed.  I was seriously thinking of becoming an addict.  However, when morphine courses through a body, the brain doesn’t really process necessary or important information, which explains why I didn’t register the prognosis right away.  I vaguely remember talk of a cracked fibula, meniscus tears, patellar dislocation, ruptures of MCLs, ACLs, PCLs (I swear sometimes they just string together letters to make it sound more serious.) and surgeries with grafting of tissues.  Gah.  All this time in the hospital, I never once fully registered the dire nature of my situation.  Yeah, morphine rocked. 

When left alone in my drug induced haze, I kept seeing the eyes.  Greyish-greenish blue, with a hint of gold flakes, they were unreal, almost ethereal.  Except they were very real.  I had looked into those eyes almost every day for damn near two years.  I secretly loved those eyes.  My uncontrolled brain kept conjuring them, making me think of her.  The girl to whom they belonged.  The girl who never belonged to me.  Painkillers, although great for physical pain, suck when it comes to keeping repressed memories, well, repressed.

A week and three surgeries later, I was roused out of the haze I’d lived in since the “accident.”  The first thing I did?  Ask to watch the replay.  I had to prove that fat fucker did this on purpose. 

Jeremy Fike came to check on me at home after my second surgery.  He was the team’s head ATC, and I considered him one of my closest friends.  What was it about me always befriending the athletic trainers for my teams?  

“You want to see the tape?  Why would you want to watch that?”  Jeremy shook his head.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Nate.  It’s pretty ugly.” 

“Fuck that, Jer.  I gotta see it.”

“Look, Nate Dog, I know you say he did this on purpose.  And I believe you, I do.  But the tapes are inconclusive.” 

“Inconclusive?” I asked, not masking my outrage.  “How?  He fucking round housed my knee cleat first and then rolled on it.  It has to be obvious.”

Jeremy sat down in the chair next to the couch I hadn’t moved from since I got home and ran his hand over his head.  “Look, the League looked into it.  They found no proof that he did this on purpose.  The bastard looked smug, yes.  But they don’t fine for smug looks, Nate.”  He sighed.  “In fact, they tried to say you blocked the plate.”

“I fucking fielded the ball!”  I pounded my fist on the pillow next to me.  “What the hell?  You can’t be charged with blocking if you are fielding the ball, and I got the out, which means I had it in my possession.”

“I know, Nate.  I know.”  He rubbed his head again.  “The Skipper went to bat for you, even the owner got involved.  But they ruled it an accident.”  He smiled.  “If it helps, some of the sports talk radio guys have been blowing up the phones about it.  And the fans boo Gallardo every time he takes the field for an away game.” 

“But he still gets to take the field.”  I closed my eyes and sunk back on my couch.  “My career may have ended, and he still gets to play.”  I gritted my teeth.  “You don’t understand how much that fucking sucks.”

Jeremy sighed.  “Don’t think like that.  You have to believe your career isn’t over, Nate.”

I looked at him trying to see any evidence that he didn’t believe what he said.  “You sure about that?  They basically rebuilt my entire knee.  You telling me you think I can come back from this?”

The pause he gave before replying to me was my answer.  I closed my eyes again for fear that I might actually cry.  I haven’t even cried since my dad died, and that was in private.  Yet here I was fighting stinging eyes.  Pathetic, I know, but my career was everything.

“Look, Nate.  This isn’t an easy or predictable injury.  But I know you.  I’ve seen guys with less commitment to this game come back from worse injuries than yours.”  He stood.  “Is it going to be easy?  No.  But I know you can do whatever it takes.”  He sighed and rubbed his head again.  “You probably won’t be catching though.  I know it’s your position.  But if you want to play the game, you may need to train for another one.”

“Jer, I have been a catcher since I was eight.  It’s where I belong.”

“Well, all that squatting will be hell.  You aren’t as young as you used to be.”  He patted my hand.  “I’m just giving you something to think about.  Remember Biggio went from catcher to second to outfield.”  He smiled.  “You need to be flexible.”

I clenched my fists.  “I don’t know, man.”

“Nate, the only person I know who loves this game more than you is my Nana, who is your biggest fan, by the way.  You got the heart.  You breathe baseball.  You are more dedicated to this sport than anyone I’ve ever met.  And now, you will have to put that dedication to work.”

“That’s the plan.  I will not let that fat fucker take me out of this game permanently,” I growled.  I took a minute to calm my breathing before I asked my next question.  “How long do you think it will take?”

He blinked.  “Hard to say.  Six months maybe?  But for now, you need someone to help you out at home.”  He sighed again.  “You think your mom will…”

“No.  I can’t ask my mom to move to L.A. for me.  She just remarried.”

“I know your mom.  You won’t have to ask.  She’ll just do it.”  He smiled again.  “Well, is there anyone else?”

Her eyes flashed again, but that bridge was effectively burned.  I closed my eyes trying to block them from my conscious mind.

“I can move back home.  My brother lives in my house back in Houston.  He can help.  He owes me for letting him live there rent free during the season.  And my mom can help during the day so she doesn’t have to move here.”

“And you can hire some hot live-in if need be.”  He laughed at his own joke.  “Once that hairline fracture heals, you will need to start physical therapy.  I won’t lie – It’s going to be intense, Nate.”

“No bullshit, Jeremy.  What are my chances?”

“On a chance of a one-hundred percent recovery?  I’d be looking for a miracle.”

Miracle it is, then.