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As soon as Ublan crashes into me, I know something is wrong.
The benches clear, it takes ten minutes to restore order in the game, and then the next time Ublan is up to the plate, Smitty hits him on purpose. That clears the benches a second time.
By then I’m in the training room getting ready to be transported to the hospital.
My shoulder is toast. My right hip is jacked. My right leg is messed up.
It doesn’t matter that the league took action against Ublan. A fine and suspension… woo-hoo.
That’s the injury story, okay?
And, yes, it does have to do with the pushing an elderly lady in front of a car story.
Which - for the record - is complete bullshit.
I had been rehabbing at a local place right in the city, pushing myself as much as the doctors and trainers would allow. And even after hours, I would be in the pool, working on stretching and movement and all that.
See, the worst part of some injuries is that they aren’t bad for everyday life. I can walk, talk, drive a vehicle. I can function normally. But when it comes to baseball stuff, I’m not there yet. As much as I want to be.
Plus, the warning had been very serious. It was better to take some time off now and let things heal… one wrong hit and I’d be going under the knife for surgery and that would end the season for me. Or possibly end my career.
Being in town and being visible made me a target for reporters and fans.
Not that I mind at all.
I answer the questions I can as truthfully as I can.
As far as the fans go, if you walk up to me and you’re a decent human and you’re not going to ask me to sign fifty items that will end up on an online auction in a few hours, I’ll give you the time of day.
With kids? I always make time for kids. No matter what.
You can look up the stories.
Playing a doubleheader and getting out of the stadium around midnight and there’s a dad holding his two little boys in his arms as they’re sleeping. Waiting for me for hours. You’re damn right I pulled over and got out of my SUV and walked over to the dad. I even got to wake up the boys, which was a treat to see their little faces light up when they realized they had dozed off and now Cutter Buckley was waking them up.
That’s how it should be for the kids.
So here I am walking out of the front door of the local gym where I had been swimming.
I’ve got two reporters - or bloggers or influencers or whatever fancy term people have for themselves online now - in my face, asking how I’m feeling. Asking if I’m going to come back this season. Then one guy has the balls to ask if I’m worried the team will trade me. That even injured I’m still worth a handful of assets. In other words, package me up and ship me off for some younger players, prospects, or draft picks. As though I’m old and washed up.
Which, hey, in baseball terms… in terms of professional sports… I get it.
Nobody plays until they’re sixty-five, then retires and moves to Florida.
My days of being in my twenties are long gone.
Hell, my days of being in my thirties are starting to creep toward their finale.
This reporter is on my nerves. So I ignore him.
That’s when I spot the kid and his grandmother.
Grandma has a walker and she’s nudging her grandson to talk to me.
“We waited here all this time, Jake,” she says. “Go talk to him. Or I will. I’ll tell him how cute he is!”
“Gram!” Jake growls. The kid blushes.
