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I make sure my equipment is on right and motion to Bently to start when he’s ready. We throw a few practice throws to one another and then I motion for him to meet me halfway.
“You ready for this?” I ask him. His throws are off, wild even. His posture is too rigid and he looks like he’s about to throw up. He’s sweating already and we haven’t done anything.
“I ate some bad sushi last night. I went out with that chick, Sicily last night and I spent the latter half of our date in her bathroom. It was a horrible night.”
“Man, why didn’t you say anything to the Skipper?”
“You don’t call in sick on the tie-breaker game, man. You know that shit.” Bently pulls his cap off and wipes his brow.
“Go into the dugout. Yak your brains out and then get your ass back here. Drink some more Gatorade and shit. Put on the stone face and let’s get this shit done.” I direct.
“We’re gonna do this shit, right? This could be out last game together.”
“Go throw up and let’s stop acting like chicks. We’ve got a fucking game to win, and then we’ll do each other’s hair and paint each other’s toenails.”
“Fuck you Gun.”
“Love you too buttercup. Now go throw up.” I direct him, pushing his shoulder in the direction of the dugout.
I watch him disappear into the tunnel and then reemerge a few minutes later. He’s wiping his mouth and looking a little bit better.
“You gonna last?” I ask him.
“Let’s do this shit.”
“That’s my boy.”
The game starts in standard fashion with a few pop up balls and some strikeouts to get the innings rolled over. I’m stepping up to the plate in the top of the fourth, digging my cleats into the warning track as I flex my fingers and unstrap my gloves on each hand. I pick up the bat, twist the grip, tap the plate once, and get into position.
The ball flies past me, and I barely move an inch. Wicked fastball, but it’s not what I like to hit.
The next ball comes right at me, and I jump back to avoid contact and blow out a breath.
The next pitch is a curve ball, but I don’t notice it until the very last milli-second when the ball makes contact with my elbow until I am down on the ground in excruciating pain.
The roars of the fans, the shouts from the dugout as I clench my teeth and force in a breath.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The sharp stabbing pain is going up from my elbow to my shoulder, to my neck and to my jaw. I drop the bat, fall to my knees and clutch my elbow, even that movement proving to be painful. Tears sting my eyes and I feel that my heart is pounding out of my chest.
I hear nothing, no fans chattering or shouting. I don’t hear anyone’s footsteps as they come to my side. I don’t hear any of the questions that the team doc is asking of me., but I see his lips moving and I blink a few times before I can hear the doc telling me to breathe.
His voice is faint and soon it is clear, along with the roar of the crowd.
‘“Reynolds, I need to examine your elbow. Son, please? Release your elbow?” He says carefully.
Slowly, I release the grip on my arm and inhale a shaky breath.
Just the touch of the doc’s gloved hand sends the sensation of razor blades along my skin.
“Fuck! Shit! Fuck!” I say through clenched teeth.
“Watch it Gun. Don’t do anything to get you fined.” Bently says in warning for using profanities.
“Fuck that man. I feel like I’m dying. This is the worse funny bone feeling a person can ever have. Holy shit!” I seethe through my teeth throwing my head back in sheer pain.
“I don’t want to take any chances; we need to get an X-ray. You’re out of the game Reynolds.” Doc says with finality to the Skipper.
