“So whataya say, Doc?” Nerves rattle around as Dr. Kimble continues to manipulate my shoulder without talking. The little noises he makes to himself as he moves it here and there only add to my anxiety.
After his examination is done, he takes a seat opposite me. And fuck if I don’t suddenly feel the need to throw up. A doctor facing you is never good. The whole needing to get on eye level to break the bad news is bullshit.
“I’m not sure, Easton.”
“What does that mean?” My heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest.
“It’s healing on par with what I’d expect of it and the amount of days you’re out from your surgery date . . . but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that your shoulder has suffered significant damage.”
“I thought you fixed it during the surgery.”
“I did, but sometimes what happens in surgery isn’t always how the body wants to heal.”
There’s a buzzing in my ears. My head grows dizzy. “What are you saying, Doc?”
“I’m saying it’s repaired, Easton. I’m saying with the proper rehab, you could report to spring training next year and hold your own. But with every ball you throw, you will risk permanent damage.”
“I don’t—”
“Let me finish.” I nod and try to swallow over what feels like a baseball lodged in my throat. “Like I said, you can return. You can have a killer season . . . but the question is how much longer will it hold up? You need to think long-term here about your health and your life.”
“Baseball is my life.” I can hear the desperation in my voice.
He nods and the deliberateness of it tells me it’s a practiced move. Patience. “I understand that, son. But you need to think of ten years from now. You’ll be mid-thirties. You need to ask yourself now if you’re okay living with an arm that doesn’t do what you want it to then. Hold your wife. Play with your kids. Carry the groceries. That’s a good forty years you’d have to deal with a damaged shoulder.”
“That’s bullshit.” I reject his words immediately and shove off the medical table and pace to one side of the very small room and then back. “You’re saying that to scare me. To make sure I’m cautious. It feels the same now as after I had the first surgery.”
“And look what happened to it after that.”
“It’ll be fine.” It has to be. And even though I say the words, the break in my voice betrays the conviction in its tone.
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m letting you know the true ramifications to a shoulder that’s been injured twice.”
“But it’s not a definite.”
“No.” He chews on the word. “But it’s my job to let you know the possibilities when you play a position that uses your arm more than any other position on the field. You play a full game. Throw the ball back after every pitch and even though the pitchers change, three possibly four times per game, you remain behind the plate. Your shoulder bears the biggest brunt of any player out there.”
“So what if I don’t catch anymore?” The simple thought causes panic to close my throat. It’s the only position I’ve ever known. It’s my position. It’s the one that controls the game. “What if I played first base so I didn’t have to throw as much?”
“That would be up to you.” His placating tone is like listening to fingernails on a chalkboard. I want to cover my ears and close him out.
“I could still play for ten years and my arm could be perfectly fine.”
“You could, and it possibly could.” His eyes say so much more than his mouth, though.
“Then why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s my job to tell you the truth.”
I stare at him while disbelief and anger slam around inside me as I reject every single thing he’s telling me.
“Fuck that, Doc. I’m playing. I haven’t clawed my way back tooth and nail over two blown cuff surgeries to just lie down without giving it a good fight.”
“Okay.” He draws the word out only serving to irritate me further. “You have a lot to think about during the coming months.”
“Are we done here?”
“Apparently.”
Fuck that.
Fuck him.
I’m playing. No doctor is going to tell me how my arm is supposed to feel when I’ve been the one playing with it my whole life. I know my body better than anybody. I’m the best judge of if I can play or not.
But with each step, each corner turned as I walk through the city to clear my head, the anger morphs into disbelief.
I hit the sports complex, Little League fields all around me. Teams of all different ages are practicing in the afternoon heat. There’s the clink of the aluminum bat. The laughter of kids. The stern reprimands of coaches.
The disbelief begins to shift into understanding.
And I don’t want it to.
My feet slow down, and I begin to take in my surroundings. I’ve been here dozens of times. I’ve sat on my grassy knoll in left field and watched games and practices while I’ve cleared my head, but for the first time, I really pay attention.
To my left a dad does some kind of silly dance to make his daughter laugh before tossing the ball to her. She misses it, scrambles after it, and then when she throws it back, sends it sailing wide of him. But as he jogs after it, repeated praise is on his lips. How strong her arm is. How she’ll be a great third baseman someday with that kind of strength.
There is no pressure. No expectations to live up to. Just a dad and a daughter playing catch. Bonding. Spending time together.
To my right is a team of older boys, junior high age. Three dads run the practice. Their instructions are a little harsher than the dad and his daughter but every single word is positive. I continue to watch them as they practice making double plays. Over and over.
My feet have stopped moving. I don’t want to sit in the outfield today. I want to sit right here, in the middle of this. Things I don’t remember experiencing with my dad but know I want to experience with my kids someday.
Kids?
What the hell am I thinking? I never wanted kids.
You never wanted Scout, either.
But the more I stand in the center point of four fields flowering off around me, the more I realize there is life after playing baseball.
There are things I want to be able to do.
It’s top of the ninth.
“You have a big decision to make over the coming months, Mr. Wylder.”
Full count.
Do I want to take the chance?
Bases loaded.
Or do I want a future where I can participate fully? Throw my kids up in the air. Make love to my wife in whatever position I want with two healthy arms. Work in the yard. Play catch with my son. Or daughter.
The pitch is thrown.
I look at everything around me. So many things out of focus before are now becoming crystal fucking clear.
What are you going to do, Easton?
I’m scared shitless. I have months to decide. Nothing is concrete. The love of my life may have shifted from a sport to the hint of possibility.
Strike out?
Am I just being a pussy?
Or swing for the fences?
Then again, I might not be.
And hit a homerun.
I tug my hat lower and look around again. Take it all in. The bitterness I felt earlier at Dr. Kimble is still there. The panicked feeling a constant tickle on the back of my neck.
I pick up my phone and stare at it a few minutes, scared to fucking death to make this call.
I hit send.