Page 30 of Pucker Up
Dad saluted. “See you there, Dr. Swanson. As he rolled up the window, I caught a glimpse of myself. I wasn’t a doctor yet,but the idea of completing my master’s and then a PhD was something I’d always dreamed about. Hearing my dad call me Dr. Swanson had left me grinning like that kid at Al’s when he met Ace.
My stomach churned. I wasn’t hungry, I was nervous. This study was the last piece I needed for my thesis. My father had recruited ten of his players, and I was about to meet them. Dad hadn’t given me the final list of the players he’d approached, but I had a strong feeling that at least one Bailey was on the list.
I strolled to one of the side entrances and punched in the code. Nothing could transport you to another world better than the sense of smell, and the chlorine, rubber, exhaust from the Zamboni, sweat, beer, and popcorn, whisked me back in time. I loved the gross medley of odors because they brought me back to my childhood. Even though this was a national league stadium, it smelled the exact same as every other arena. I lingered in the lobby, checking out all of the trophies and pictures of Toronto Tigers from years past, going all the way back to the 1930s.
My phone chimed and a text from my dad popped up onto the screen.
Ready for you, Dr. Swanson.
I took off my jacket, and in the reflection of a trophy case, I checked to make sure I hadn’t sweated through my blazer. I adjusted my shirt collar and quickly polished my glasses on the tail of my shirt.
“Here we go,” I whispered to no one.
When I reached for the door, a zap of static shot through my fingertip. Recoiling, I clenched my pointer finger with the other hand. Wary, I tapped the handle hoping that the shock had sucked all of the static charge out of my body. “Phew.” I let out a breath of relief when the metal didn’t attack me again. Only thistime, instead of a shock, an image popped into my mind. Ten men, sitting on plastic chairs, dressed in various workout garb flashed on the inside of my eyelids. Most of them looked bored, some looked pissed off, like the dark-eyed man at the end of the row, Gideon. At the other end of the ten men sat Ace.
Squeezing my eyes, I shook my head, like a kid shaking an Etch A Sketch, hoping the vision would fall apart. My imagination was getting away from me. I took one more second to compose myself before pulling the door open with confidence. I wasn’t sure how long my mouth gaped open before my dad invited me into the room. The vision I’d just had was identical to the scene in front of me. Ten men, anchored on each end by a Bailey brother, the pissed-off looking one on the far left, and the goofy blond one with the crooked smile on the right.
“Gentlemen. This is Professor…” He paused. If I had the last name as the coach, a few of them might put two and two together.
“Goldie,” I filled in the dead air. “You can call me Goldie.”
“This is Professor Goldie. She is writing a paper for the university. You’ve all been hand picked to participate in this study. It is voluntary, but you will still have to agree and sign some waivers.”
Dad handed me a stack of papers that must have been drawn up by the team’s lawyers. I had my own release, but it seemed wise to be covered on both sides.
“Thank you, Coach Swanson.” I took the stack of papers and turned to face the team. Scanning the lineup, I made eye contact with each of the players, with the exception of Ace. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I was already nervous, and now I felt my tongue start to betray me. The stutter I’d kicked in third grade seemed ready to come back for an encore performance sixteen years later.
“I’m a master’s student at the University of Toronto and I am writing a paper on concussions. Specifically, concussions in athletes. Apparently, a few of you have had your bell rung once or twice.”
A couple of smiles spread down the line of players. Speaking their language was going to help, and I’d stolen that line directly from my dad. If they didn’t trust me, getting them to open up about the emotional impacts of being slammed into the boards one too many times was going to be tricky.
“What do you need from us?” The low voice belonged to Gideon Bailey. He crossed his arms and seemed guarded.
“I’m going to need each of you for three sessions. We are going to do some brain monitoring and I’m going to ask you some questions. That’s it.”
“Will it hurt?” the guy sitting next to Gideon asked.
“No.” I couldn’t help but smile. The dude who got bashed into the boards by two-hundred-pound players skating twenty miles an hour was worried about pain. “It’s purely monitoring. We’re not doing any experimentation.”
The big guy next to Gideon relaxed, but they guy next to him raised his hand.
“Yes?” I pointed to him and felt like a kindergarten teacher.
“Do we get paid?”
Dad clapped his hands. “You’re not getting paid, but the team is making a donation to the school on your behalf. You will get a tax receipt.”
I didn’t realize that Dad had arranged this compensation. Gratitude filled my body, but I stopped short of tearing up. I couldn’t let the players see any kind of connection. “The study is going to provide guidance to the minor leagues in how they deal with traumatic brain injuries. You will be helping out all the young players following in your footsteps. We might even makesome correlations that will be helpful to any of you, should you experience any more konks on the noggin.”
The smiles were back. Maybe the stuffy professor act wasn’t the way to get through to these guys. I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to look at the end of the row. In my vision, Ace was wearing a Toronto Tigers warm-up jacket, had his hat on backwards, and was wearing blue shoes. I was thrown off enough by his presence in that room, but if he was wearing the same thing in my vision, I would be train-wrecked.
After explaining the methodology and timing for the study, it seemed like most of the players were on board. My shoulders relaxed, and my nerves had mostly calmed down, so I gave myself permission to let my eyes drift to Ace. My heart pounded against my rib cage so hard I could hear it in my ears. I was speaking, but I couldn’t hear what I was saying. I hoped that it was intelligent, but I had gone into autopilot.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My heart thudded louder as I scanned down the line of players. Ace’s eyes met mine and the thumping turned into a whooshing. I grabbed for the table as the room felt like it was tilting on an axis. Ace’s hat was backwards and he was wearing a Toronto Tigers workout jacket…my eyes tracked down his body. I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw the black Adidas.
I wasn’t like my mom, and that wasn’t a “vision.” The room came back into focus and someone was talking about Traumatic Brain Injury and hormones. That someone was me. “We’d be thrilled if all of you would participate.” My voice sounded confident.
