Page 66 of Switch Pitching

I grab my bat, my knuckles white as I step out of the dugout and head to the plate. My walk-up song ends without me even paying attention, and I dig into the batter’s box. Their pitcher winds up, and I can see the tension in his posture.

The first pitch comes in fast. I swing hard, sending the ball hurtling down the first base line, but it curves foul at the last second. Gritting my teeth, I step back into position.

The second pitch comes and I let it pass, the ball snapping into the catcher’s mitt with a loud thunk. The umpire calls it a ball, and I exhale while resetting.

Dave is fidgeting, ready to run. It’s time to focus.

The pitcher winds up again, and I can tell he’s trying to psych me out, but I’m not taking the bait. My eyes stay glued to that ball.

He releases and I tense up. This is it.

I swing with everything I’ve got. The bat connects and the vibration shoots up my arms, but I’m already running. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the outfielders scrambling as I round first base, but they’re too late. The ball drops down and I shoot a quick glance back to see Dave tearing down the baseline toward home.

With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I dash toward second base, the roar of the crowd deafening. The outfielders are still trying to get the ball back in, but we’ve got this. Dave makes it home, and I skid to a stop at second, breathing hard. It’s over. We won. I’m already racing toward the dugout, and I jump through the door that leads to the underbelly of the ballpark.

James is in the clinic, sitting on a padded bench with his shoulder wrapped in ice and his wrist bandaged. He glances up as I approach, and there’s a tired but relieved smile on his face.

“Nice hit,” he says, swiveling his head away from the small TV in the corner of the room.

“Thanks, but let’s get you home.”

A voice booms behind me. “Not so fast.” I spin around and see Blake, the team’s head medic, standing in the doorway with a tablet under his left arm.

Blake strides over and pulls out the tablet, his expression serious. “Before you go anywhere, I need to give you the rundown,” he says, looking between me and James. “It’s not great news, I’m afraid.”

My stomach drops. I glance at James, who’s already tensing up, his good hand tightening around the edge of the bench. “What’s the damage?” James asks, his voice shaking.

Blake sighs, swiping through x-ray images. “Well, the good news is that your shoulder should be fine. Just some bruising, and with some rest, it should heal up in a couple of weeks.”

That sounds promising, but Blake’s tone tells me there’s more coming.

“The bad news,” Blake continues, his eyes locking onto James, “is your left hand. The impact of the fall and the way you landed on it, well, your middle finger is broken and the rest of them are bruised.”

James closes his eyes and exhales a soft breath through his nose. I can see the frustration building, the way his jaw clenches. “How bad are we talking?”

Blake glances down at his notes again, then back at James. “It’s bad enough that you’re going to be out for a while. We’re looking at several weeks, maybe more. It’s going to depend on how well the bones heal, but with where we are in the season, there’s a lot to consider.”

I can see where he’s going with this, and I don’t want to hear it. But James does. “Say it, Blake,” he spits out, “Please.”

“You’re likely out for the remainder of the season. There’s a chance you could be back for the playoffs if the team makes it, but it’s a slim chance.”

The words land, and I can see James taking it hard. He stares down at his bandaged hand. “So that’s it,” he mutters. “I’m done.”

“Not done,” Blake says. “Just benched for now. We’ll do everything we can to speed up your recovery, but you have to take it seriously. No rushing it, and no pushing yourself before you’re ready.”

James doesn’t say anything, his face molded into an expression of frustration and disappointment. I don’t know how he’s keeping himself calm. It’s hard for me to keep the lump in my throat down, and I’m not even the one who’s injured.

Blake takes a step back. “I’ll give you guys space. But James, we need to get you to a hospital tomorrow for more scans. I’ll email you the details tonight, and we’ll set up a recovery plan afterward. For tonight, sleep on your back and give yourself as much room as you can.”

At that, Blake turns and heads out of the clinic. I squeeze James’s good shoulder, trying to figure out what to say, but I come up with nothing.

“This sucks,” he says. He sounds strained, like he’s holding back tears. “I can’t believe this is how it ends.”

“It’s not the end,” I reply. “You heard Blake. It’s possible you could be back for the playoffs.”

“Couldbe, but what if I’m not cleared? What if this is it?”

“Then you come back next season and you kick ass.” I try to sound encouraging, but James sees right through me. There’s really no amount of false confidence that can cover up the extent of his injuries. This stuff has the potential to end careers, even if the recovery process is managed perfectly.

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