by V.K. Sykes
Nate had barely glimpsed the ball before it knocked him on his ass. For just a split second, his head was turned away from the plate as the momentum of his delivery carried him almost off the mound. Then he heard two almost simultaneous noises. First, the crack of the bat, so loud it seemed to be right in his ear. And second, the sickening thud of the ball smashing into his left shoulder.
Instantaneous pain overwhelmed him, and he collapsed onto the infield grass.
Jake was the first to reach his side, then the catcher and the third baseman. Maybe two seconds later, the two trainers were on their knees, leaning over him, and then the manager. Jake shooed the other fielders back to give him room.
Nate groaned as Jed Jones, head trainer, gingerly touched the throbbing shoulder. The other trainer yelled across the diamond for the stretcher. Suddenly, Nate’s face was in full shade as the umpire’s rotund figure hovered near him, blocking the sunlight.
He gritted his teeth. Sweating and flushed, he just wanted to get off the field before he had to cry out with the pain and embarrass himself in front of his teammates and forty thousand fans. It took forever to get him onto the stretcher, or at least it seemed that long. Jake’s calm voice kept telling him to breathe deeply, and that everything would be all right. His friend’s steady reassurance helped him keep it together.
But by the time they got him into the clubhouse, the pain had become so gut-wrenching that Nate’s vision started to blur. He still wanted to scream, but vowed he’d die first. As soon as the trainers had lowered him gently onto an examining table, the team doctor, Joe Morehouse, palpated the shoulder and collarbone with probing fingers. Nate groaned and glared at the doctor.
“Ever heard of an x-ray, Doc?” he snarled through clenched teeth. “They’re a great invention.”
“Ha ha, smart guy,” Morehouse said. “It can’t be too bad if you can still make lousy jokes.”
Two or three minutes later, a pair of paramedics arrived, one pushing a yellow gurney.
After a whispered conference with the doctor, the paramedics lifted him onto the gurney and strapped him down at the waist and thighs. Morehouse pulled a vial and syringe out of his bag, pushed Nate’s undershirt up a couple of inches, and injected something into his upper right arm. Nate hoped to God it was a big-time painkiller.
The trip to St. Luke’s Hospital seemed really fast, but by then he’d lost track of time. Whatever the doctor gave him had dulled the pain and made him dozy. Even the incessant noise of the ER made little impression.
The x-rays didn’t take long, whether because he was getting priority treatment or because the injury was so bad, he couldn’t tell. But even doped up, shifting his body around for the technicians hurt like hell. When they were finally finished, he collapsed on the gurney with gut-wrenching relief as a porter wheeled him to a bed in the urgent care section. Exhausted by the pain and the drugs, he’d almost fallen asleep when Morehouse pulled back the curtain and stepped in, x-ray films in hand.
“You’re in luck,” the doctor said. “No fractures. You’ve got yourself a hell of a deep bone bruise, but no breaks, so no surgery. You should be able to pitch again in a few weeks.”
In luck? Nate’s shoulder felt like a cannonball had smacked into it. “I’m not feeling all that lucky right now. And exactly how many weeks is a few?”
Morehouse shook his head. “You know that’s impossible to tell. You need to give it a good rest, and see how it goes. We’ll get you into the aquatherapy pool as soon as you’re up to it. That speeds up the healing.”
Frustration clawed its way past the fuzzy feeling in Nate’s head. “Damn. I was having my best season, and now it’s probably down the tubes. And the team’s going to lose me for what…at least six or seven starts?”
He sure wasn’t about to say it, but he also couldn’t help thinking how the Dodgers would react to the news of his injury. It obviously wasn’t career-ending, but they wouldn’t be happy. His trade value, and his contract leverage, had probably taken a hit along with his shoulder.
“Well, stewing about it is not going to help it heal any faster,” the doctor said. “I don’t think it’s all that grim. You could be back in a month. Maybe even less if you’re disciplined about the rehab.”
Fuck. A month. Practically a lifetime in a baseball season. “What else can I do to speed it along?”
“Just do your physio religiously, get lots of rest, try to eat clean. You know what to do. You’ll have to wear a sling for a few days. I’ll give you a prescription to help with the pain. And there’ll be lots of pain at the start, so make sure you take what I prescribe.”
“Great,” Nate said grimly. “In that case, some more of that stuff you gave me in the clubhouse would be appreciated.” Not that there was much chance he’d get more of the high-octane painkiller Morehouse reserved for special occasions. And Nate didn’t want to mess with that stuff in the longer term, anyway.
“You’ll get what you need. Look, I’m going to head back now and report to the GM. Somebody will be here in a few minutes to tape the shoulder and fit you with the sling. Then you’ll be able to go.”
Nate sighed and held out his right hand for Morehouse to shake. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate everything you’ve done,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it.