Page 49 of Mom Ball

If it’s close to twelve here, that means it’s close to eleven at home. Or Apple Cart. Technically I live here too.

I pull my phone from my back pocket with the hand that isn’t stinging from voltage lines. Yep. It’s ten ’til eleven. Timothy’s first game is going on right now.

I bite my thumbnail and groan.

“Are you all right? Need me to turn it down?”

“Huh?”

Shelby nods toward the machine.

“Oh no, it’s fine. I remembered somewhere I needed to be.”

She laughs. “Practice?”

“Yeah, but not mine.”

Her face contorts with confusion.

“The machine is fine, thanks.”

“It will cut off in ten minutes. Dr. Trenton should be here by then.” She takes her hand off the knob and half smiles before making her way to the next guy.

I wiggle my hand, then uncurl my fingers. They’re almost asleep. Using my non-dominant hand again, I get on Facebook.

I don’t have an account. There are a few fan pages dedicated to me or the Braves as a whole, but Nate Miller as a personal profile doesn’t exist. However, Mom is a very active participant.

Anne Miller is my pseudo when I want to stalk people for fun. Or in this case, check to see if anyone posted about the kids’ game.

She’s still logged in on my phone from the time she borrowed it to check Jim Vann’s live weather radar.

Sure enough, she’s friends with Morgan. I know Brooke isn’t on Facebook, as I’ve checked many times in the past. I check again for the heck of it. Nope. Might as well click on Morgan.

She has nothing about this particular game, but does appear very active on Facebook. Mostly complaining about people leaving trash in the Pig parking lot and how tired she is all the time.

“Nate.”

Dr. Trenton’s voice startles me, and I drop the phone. He picks it up and hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I pocket the phone quickly and realize the machine has stopped. Shelby walks over and starts unsticking the cords.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks.

“Much better.” I put on an optimistic face.

“Much” might be a stretch, but I’m hoping he will give me a clean bill of health.

“Let’s see.” He stands behind me and waits until Shelby pulls the last cord and rolls the machine away. “Stand for me.”

I stand and try not to flinch when he digs his fingers into my shoulder blade. He mashes around a few minutes, then starts our routine of stretches and pulls. I go through the motions, relieved there is minimal pain.

“Much better than the last visit.” He slaps me on the shoulder and grins.

I don’t even move under the pressure. My cheeks hurt from smiling so widely. “You think I can start training soon?”

He draws in a breath and picks up my chart. Then he makes some notes and looks at me. “I think you can slowly integrate heavier weights and some pitching to see how your arm reacts.” He holds up a hand. “Nothing too heavy. I’ll write up a plan and we can Zoom in between visits.”

He scribbles some more notes and talks to himself, then writes a little more. “I suggest speaking with your trainer about a revised workout.”

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