I walk through the training complex – something I’ve done numerous times before – and mourn the fact that I’m not here to play ball.
Normally, when we come here, it’s after a three-month hiatus. When we walk through the front gate, elation washes over us at the thought of getting back into the game. But now, I just shake my head and hope that come next spring, I’ll be one of the players making this walk.
Five months. I have five months to regain the use of my arm and hand. I guess I was lucky to get injured late in the season instead of early on. Lucky. Yeah, not a word I’d use to describe my life in the least.
I hear some commotion beyond the fence to my left and go over to peek through one of the slats. The Hawks’ single-A minor league team is practicing on the complex field. My heart hurts – actually hurts – knowing I can’t be out there. And even if my elbow and nerve damage heal, who knows if I’ll ever be able to pitch like I did before. I’ve seen plenty of guys with injuries less severe than mine come back from rehab only to be different players. A lot of them end up being released from the team.
I’m not worried about that yet, however. They can’t release an injured player.
I back away from the fence to stop torturing myself and continue my walk through the complex. I get stopped by a few people. Most of the organization knows me by sight. I paste on a smile as they wish me well.
I open one of the double doors that leads to the physical therapy building and curse loudly when it touches my injured elbow. I can’t even open a fucking door properly.
“Can I help you?” a woman calls out from a desk in the corner, clearly perturbed at my choice of words.
I shrug an apology with my right shoulder as I make my approach. “I’m Brady Taylor. I have an appointment.”
She looks at her computer. “Yes, of course. We already have all your information. Please have a seat over there and Rylee will be with you shortly.”
I walk over to the drab brown couch and sit down carefully so as not to jostle my arm. I look around. It’s not as if I’ve never been here before. I’ve been here for five years in a row, ever since I was drafted by the Hawks and quickly moved up through the ranks. We all go through some sort of rehab during spring training so I’m no stranger to this place.
Rylee. I try to think of who he or she is. I’ve met most of the athletic training and PT staff, but the name is not familiar.
A door opens and a petite brunette walks through. “Mr. Taylor, I’m Rylee Kennedy, your physical therapist.”
She offers me her hand as I stand up. I shake it, noting how small it is and I wonder how this tiny person is going to work on a big athlete such as myself. “Uh, nice to meet you, Rylee.”
She sees me assessing her and laughs. “Don’t let my size fool you, Mr. Taylor, I may not be able to carry your weight, but I sure as hell can help get you back in tip-top shape.”
I like her already. She’s spunky. And direct.
“It’s Brady,” I tell her. “And I’m not sure anyone can get me back in tip-top shape.”
She motions toward the door and I hold it open for her as we walk through.
“I’ve read your file. I’m aware of your injuries. And I’ve worked on a lot of players with nerve damage before. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.” She smiles at me reassuringly. “Let’s go into the room on the right for your evaluation.”
As she goes through my chart and tells me what to expect over the next few weeks and months, I realize Rylee is stunning. Petite and athletic looking, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had been a cheerleader or a gymnast back in college. Although her hair is in a ponytail, I can see that it’s very long with loose waves at the ends. For a second, I allow myself to imagine pulling the hair tie out and letting her long locks flow over my naked body as she tugs on my dick.
Then the reality of why I’m here hits me once again and I realize that nobody is going to be tugging on my dick except me for quite a while. I won’t even be able to fuck properly with only one arm.
“Are you getting all this, Brady?” she asks with a scolding furrow of her brow.
Damn, she caught me daydreaming. Why do I get the feeling this woman is going to put me through my paces?
“Yeah, uh … start small and easy with the fingers and wrist. No elbow work for two weeks.”
She tries to suppress her smile. “So you were listening?”
I laugh at her calling me out. “I’m a fantastic multi-tasker, Rylee.”
She rolls her eyes at me before asking about my pain level. Then she positions my uninjured arm several different ways and takes measurements. Then she tests the strength of both my hands by having me squeeze her hands.
She stares me down. “Don’t hold back on me, Brady,” she says, nodding to my right hand. “I can take it. I need to have a good baseline on both your hands and arms, not just your injured one.”
I squeeze harder with my good hand, but I still hold back a bit. She’s just so small.
“If you underestimate me, it will only hurt your recovery.”
I give her all I’ve got, squeezing hard with my right hand and not being able to squeeze much at all with my left.
“That-a-boy,” she says, finally accepting that I tried my best. But I don’t miss how she has to shake her hand out and flex it a bit and it makes me feel bad.
My eyes automatically drift to the ring finger of her left hand, noticing how it’s free of matrimonial hardware. Not that it matters much, but it reduces the likelihood of hassles. I hate hassles.
She must follow the movement of my eyes because she quickly uses the hand to close her laptop before she gets up and opens the door. “Let’s get started then.”
She leads me out into the main PT room that looks somewhat like a weight room. One of the walls is lined with training tables for patients to lie on. In the middle of the room, there are all kinds of machines including treadmills, stair climbers, and shoulder presses. There are weights and rubber balls of all sizes. There is a wall with carabiners attached to bands of different colors. There are pulleys and levers and switches. You name it, if it exists in the world of rehab, they have it in this state-of-the-art facility. It’s why they send us here.
We do have a rehab facility back home with most of this stuff, but it’s smaller and is for minor injury rehab and day-to-day stuff. As pitchers, we basically rehab every day that we play. But here, they rehab all four Hawks teams, from the single-A team that is based here in Tampa, to the double-and-triple-A teams in Tucson and Las Vegas. Basically, if you’ve been sent here for rehab, it’s mission critical. If you’ve been sent here, all bets are off.
If you’ve been sent here, the odds of getting back in the game are reduced dramatically.
And everyone knows it.
Including Rylee Kennedy.
She directs me to sit in a chair and she pulls up a rolling stool next to me. I look around the room and see a few other people. A guy who looks familiar from when I was here for spring training is working on someone. And a young woman, probably a PT intern or an athletic trainer, is observing them.
Rylee hands me a squishy stress ball and asks me to squeeze it, watching me closely as I wince when I do.
“Does that hurt your elbow or your hand?”
“Both, but mostly my hand.”
“Your elbow pain will decrease a lot this week and next. And while some nerve pain could be present until it regenerates, it will subside – although numbness, tingling and a burning sensation will persist.”
“Wonderful,” I say, squeezing the ball with less intensity than a goddamn baby.
She hands me a resistance hand grip – a device that looks like an oversized clothespin. “Try this.”
As a pitcher, I’m no stranger to this exercise. Some guys will sit around and squeeze these to strengthen their hands whenever they watch television. I take it knowing I won’t even be able to get it to budge.
She covers my injured hand with hers when she takes it back from me. “It’s okay. You’ll get there. This is only day one. I don’t expect you to be able to do all these things.”
She has me flex and extend my wrist which are both very hard to do to any degree. Then after a few more failed attempts at other exercises, she hooks me up to a TENS unit. I’m no stranger to this, either, and she doesn’t have to explain that its purpose is to deliver electrical stimulation above and below the injury to help reduce my pain.
“We’ll do ten minutes today,” she says, opening her laptop to record some notes as the intensity of the stimulation increases to a certain point and then works back down before starting again.
“Are you writing in there that I grip like a girl?”
She laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Brady.”
I laugh with her, enjoying her smart-assery while at the same time trying to hide the true depth of my emotional pain.
“I know we didn’t do much today. It will be like that for a few days, but if you want manual therapy, we can do that after the TENS.”
I raise an eyebrow at her suggestively. Manual therapy – it just sounds so filthy.
She rolls her eyes, obviously reading my dirty mind. “Massage, Taylor.”
I don’t let my eyebrows fall.
“Oh, my God, do you want a damn shoulder rub or not?” she asks.
I laugh again. “Yes, Rylee Kennedy, I’d love a shoulder rub.”