Short Story

A Pitch, a Pain, and a Problem

“1,2,3,” I thought to myself. I imagined my arm going up and around to the rhythm of those numbers. But imagine was all I could do. I longed to actually pitch as I sat on the bench at practice with a brace wrapped around my shoulder and arm. I looked over at Izzy, who was warming up on the side while the others fielded balls. That was where I should be; getting ready to pitch balls to the team during the second half of practice. I definitely did not belong on the bench, yet here I sat. It all went downhill about a week ago while I was at pitching practice. As my arm cam around in the pitch I felt something snap and I was suddenly in immense pain. This incident was quickly followed by a trip to the hospital. They informed me that I had torn a tendon in my shoulder and would not be pitching for a while. Also, surgery was going to be needed to repair the damage. So now, with this joyful knowledge swimming around in my head, I sat watching Izzy and her rudimentary pitching skills. I was in a horrible impasse and I deplored it.

“Ok, bring it in everyone,” Coach yelled out. I watched as the team hustled over into a huddle around Coach Johnson. I stood up and slowly made my way over. Being ‘crippled’ exempted me from the whole hustling thing, although I really just thought they should come form the circle around me. I listened as Coach talked about the big game on Thursday. He was going on about how our fielding really needed to be infallable because there would be more hits off Izzy’s pitches. This, of course, was a nice way of saying “Sorry Izzy , but Alex is a way better pitcher than you and brings a lot more to the team.” I could see Izzy knew this by the expression on her face. I took a secret satisfaction from this. Once Coach finished talking and he sent people out to their assigned positions, I lethargically made my way back to my seat on the bench. After starting up the drill, Coach Johnson came and sat down next to me. “So the doctors say you’re out for the season?” he questioned.

“Yup,” I answered, annoyed.

“But you’ll be back out next season, right? We’re counting on you,” he said nervously. I was only a sophomore and essentially the only pitcher. I was a pretty good asset to the team.

“Probably,” I said. “The doctor is saying it depends on how my surgery goes. If it doesn’t heal correctly, I may not be able to pitch, or play, anymore at all,” I explained to him. Saying ‘probably’ was actually a little sanguine. The truth was my doctor had told me it was a tricky operation and I only had a 50% chance of my shoulder completely healing. Personally, I was feeling a little pessimistic about it, but why should I bring down poor old Coach? I guess I was in a pretty good mood; must be taking too many painkillers.

“Well hopefully everything goes ok then,” he said a little more relaxed this time.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, “thanks.” He got up and returned to overseeing the drill. He immediately started calling out corrections and moved onto the field to demonstrate. Soon practice ended and the garrulous team filed into the locker room to change. I didn’t stick around to talk to my teammates. I felt relegated. I just walked down to the parking lot and luckily my dad was already there to pick me up. I got in the car and we drove home.

At home I didn’t bother doing my homework, I wasn’t going to be in school for the next couple days anyway. My surgery was tomorrow and I was getting a little nervous. Every time my parents would mention the surgery and try to make sure I wasn’t nervous, I maintained my philegmatic tone and act like it was no big deal. I didn’t want them to think they needed to baby me about it. I could take care of myself. I went to sleep pretty early because I had to get up at 6:30 to be at the hospital for 7:30. In the morning, I remained calm. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I kept telling myself. I knew deep down this was true, but I was very afraid that something would get screwed up and I would never be able to be a softball pitcher again.

“Alex,” my mom was calling from the front hallway.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I yelled back. I got off my stool, dropped my cereal bowl in the sink and went outside to get in the car. We soon pulled into the parking lot of the hospital and went inside. We told the receptionist that we had arrived and she told us the doctor would “be right with us.” Of course that was a lie, we waited for an hour for Dr. Lane to finally see us. I’d always been confused by why doctors were allowed to make people wait forever. I mean when somebody doesn’t go right when the light turns green, or people don’t check out of CVS fast enough, people throw a fit. But doctors make you waste far more of your time and get paid tons of money for it, yet no one openly complains. The strange world we live in. Well once Dr. Lane finally got around to seeing us he brought us into a small room. He went over the procedure for just about the millionth time, and explained the risks and benefits (which were all pretty obvious). When he was finally done, he brought us down the hall to the operating rooms. We went into one and there were a couple nurses waiting. They handed me a robe to put on. I went to the bathroom, put it on, and then returned to the room. They had me sit on the table then lay down. The nurses were very genial and helped me to calm myself. By now my parents had gone back to the waiting area. I laid down on the table and became latent. They put a mask over my mouth and nose and told me to count backwards from 10. Everything slowly went black and then there was nothing.

At some point in the future I woke up. I say this because when I did wake up I had no idea how long I’d been out for. It could have been days, years even, and I wouldn’t have known. It was a strange feeling. When I opened my eyes I saw my parents sitting across the room. When they noticed I was awake they were all smiles. They were suddenly asking me questions. How did I feel? What’s the last thing I remembered? They also said that Dr. Lane would be coming back soon. Sure enough, within 5 minutes he was opening the door to my room. He walked over and started checking things. He asked me how I felt and I told him I was fine.

“Well the surgery went very well. Better than we expected actually,” he explained. “Although there is still a chance it doesn’t completely heal the way we want it to. In two weeks you’ll need to start physical therapy and then you can come back for an appointment in two months.” My parents and I listened and they took down recommendations for physical therapists. After they were done, Dr. Lane left and my parents and I talked.

At this point all I really wanted to do was go home. And the next day that’s exactly what I did. I went home and essentially laid on the couch for the rest of the week. I watched a lot of T.V., but what I was really thinking about was my next doctor’s appointment. I needed to know if I was going to be able to pitch again. Not knowing was more than I could handle. During the following week, I returned to school and I went to my softball team’s games and practices. I watched them lose to inferior teams because of Izzy’s pitching, and it drove me nuts. But I stayed compliant with Dr. Lane’s orders, and I started physical therapy during the next week. I always assumed that because physical therapy was helping you that it would make you feel better too. I was wrong. Turns out, even though it’s ‘helping you’, it’s extremely painful. But I persevered and soon enough it was time for my appointment.

As my parents and I entered the doctor’s room and sat down, I filled with trepidation. If I couldn’t pitch, or play sports anymore, I didn’t know what I was going to do. Dr. Lane entered the room and asked me how I was doing. I told him I was good. He examined my shoulder and then moved me to a room down the hall so a nurse could take an x-ray. As my parents and I waited for the results, my mind was racing with thoughts. What would I do with all my time if I couldn’t play sports? Would this affect my college choices? I had always planned on a softball scholarship. Before I could finish imagining the worst, Dr. Lane re-entered the room.

“Well Alex, I’m happy to tell you that you are having a successful recovery” This one sentence completely assuaged my racing thoughts. “You’ll have to continue your physical therapy, but from what I’m seeing, you’ll be pitching again by next season.” I was suddenly elated. I wanted the next 10 months to fly by. This excitedness was pretty much the first emotion I’d really shown through this whole ordeal and my parents looked shocked. I simply smiled at them.

10 Months Later

“Are you sure you’re ready?” my dad asked me nervously.

“Yes I’m sure,” I told him, “Anna told me I could start pitching again whenever I wanted and I want to now.” Anna was my physical therapist and I had almost tackled her when she gave me the ‘ok’ to start pitching again.

“Ok,” my dad said nervously “but please take it easy.”

“I will, I will,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.” I slid my glove on and it fit, well, like an old glove. I reached down and picked up my softball and snapped it into my glove. It felt just like it always had. I turned sideways, lifted my arm and brought it down in a half butterfly. It was such a rush. It felt right. And in that moment I knew I was back where I belonged.