The Shortstop (16 page)

The stands are less than half full, most preferring to watch the game from the air-conditioned comfort of their homes. Who could fucking blame them? And then there’s Annie, as loyal as ever, sitting in this stifling heat to support me. I tried to convince her to stay home. I don’t expect her to be at every game. Stubbornly, she refuses to miss a home game. Even in this hell, she watches me proudly, not at all affected by the horrific conditions.

Distractedly, I glance up to where she sits as the pitcher takes a minute to talk to the catcher. She catches my eye and smiles. I have to be here, but she doesn’t. Yet she chooses to be, just for me.

The pitcher walks back to the mound. The catcher gives him a signal, and he accepts with a nod. He throws a change-up, and the batter hits it right at me. It’s a routine ground ball, easy play.

I slide to my left, waiting for the ball to reach me. I’ve done this a million times in my life. I can make this play with my eyes closed. I can do it in my sleep.

Scooping the ball on a short hop, I pivot my body to throw the ball to the first baseman. My cleat sticks to the hard clay on the base path, keeping my right foot facing forward while my right knee turns with my body.

A snapping halts me in my tracks.

The pain is immediate, excruciating. It’s centered behind my kneecap and stuns me, stealing my breath. My right knee buckles, sending me face first into the dirt. Forgetting the ball, forgetting the play, I drop pathetically in a heap, gripping my knee with both hands. The pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Time stands still as I writhe in an attempt to stop the pain. Tears blur my vision.

The silence that suddenly engulfs the stadium is deafening. I can’t hear a thing except for my whimpering and heartbeat. Behind closed eyes, I can see everything I’ve worked so hard for vanish into a dust cloud as if a tornado appeared from nowhere. The unthinkable blanks my mind. Bile rises from both the pain I’m enduring and the reality of what I’m losing in a blink of an eye. One minute, I’m on top of the world, living my dream. The next, I’m numbed on the inside because even in my state I know that in an instant everything just changed. Even through the confused haze that takes over my subconscious, there are two things I know for sure.

I know that I’m injured. I know that my season is done.

Annie

At first, I think he just tripped. Why would I think anything other? Quint has made that play more times than I can even count. The ball didn’t take a bad hop or an unexpected turn. It was a normal hit.

There is nothing normal about the way Quint fell and is now two-handedly clutching his knee. It feels like minutes before anyone begins to move toward him. Of course, it’s only seconds because when his coach, his pitcher, his catcher, his teammates finally start running to him, it all happens in slow motion. Every move they make seems sluggish.

My eyes remain trained on Quint. If he’d just look up at me, make the eye contact that instantly connects us, then I know he’ll be okay. He’ll get up and dust off and resume his job, his dream, and his passion. When his eyes never find mine, and minutes start ticking by as he remains on his back with a crowd around him, my optimism evaporates into thin air. With my evaporating optimism, so does a visual of Quint in his uniform playing his position. This is not good.

The stands are sparse with fans. The weather kept them away. Those who are here stand immobile, staring at the man who holds my heart. I stand holding his, hoping and praying it’s not hurting as badly as mine is. That’s a ridiculous hope. There isn’t a doubt that his heart is splintering in his chest with each breath he takes, with each passing moment.

When they finally have him on the move, heading for the dugout, I bolt from my seat. With my access pass clutched in between my sweaty fingers, I run toward the door that led me to the tunnels the night of his first game. Chuck has the door opened and waiting before I even reach him. He waves me in, concern etched all over his pleasant face. I can’t even thank him. The golf ball-sized lump in my throat won’t allow me to do such a normal thing like speaking.

I hear the commotion before I see it. It comes from one of the opened doors in the tunnel. When I reach the doorway, a security guard stops me instantly.

“I’m his fiancée,” I pant pathetically. He studies my pass and waves me in.

My feet stop moving. I freeze in my tracks at the sight of him. He lies on a table, his coach on one side and two men on the other. His uniform is cut away from his ankle to his thigh. His kneecap ballooned to double its normal size. But what has me frozen in shock is the way he stares at the ceiling, tears rolling down the side of his head, his one fist clenched over his head and the other over his heart.

The men around him are throwing out medical terms and possible courses of action to follow. One of them is on the phone with the orthopedic surgeon acting as mediator. The team’s medical assistant joins us, immediately hooking Quint’s knee up to an icing apparatus.

I’m not sure if Quint senses my presence or if he hears my sobs when he turns his head and stares directly into my eyes. The despair I see in his eyes cripples me. The light that I usually see there is gone. His eyes are flat, cold, and angry.

“Call my dad,” he says, emotionless.

Nodding frantically, I quickly dial his father’s number and step aside to speak to him.

Before I even say hello, Mr. Lawson says, “Annie, how is he?” It’s no surprise he already knows that Quint’s been hurt. When his schedule prevents him from attending a game, he’s watching or listening to it at home.

“I don’t know. The doctors are looking at him now. They think he tore his ACL,” I repeat what I’ve heard them say, although I have no idea what it all means.

“Okay, okay. He can heal from that,” he says into the phone. The way he vehemently says the words makes me feel he’s trying to convince himself. “I’m on my way. Can you pass me to someone?”

I walk back to the table where Quint is being examined. “Mr. Lawson would like to speak to you,” I say directly to the doctor who’s hovering above Quint’s knee. He takes the phone and repeats what they feel the problem is.

I feel like a fish out of water. I have no idea what to do. He hasn’t reached for me. He hasn’t called me over. In addition to the barrage of emotions I’m feeling, rejection seems to be the dominant one that’s rearing its ugly head. It’s not fair for me to feel hurt. This isn’t about me or him or us. This is about his knee, his future, and his career. Yet, the sinking feeling that dominates above all the others won’t shut off.

Deciding that pain is causing his atypical behavior, I stand closer to run my fingers through his soaking wet hair. Without looking at me, without turning toward me, he simply reaches for my other hand, and it’s only then that I know that he needs me.

“Quint, what’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?” one of the team doctors asks.

Through gritted teeth, he says, “Eleven.”

“It’s more than an ACL. It could be torn ligaments or a meniscus, maybe even a fracture.”

EMTs fly into the room, immediately transferring him onto a gurney and securing him for transport. The team doctor ends the call with Quint’s dad. “Okay, let’s move him.”

Do I follow? I have no idea what to do and no one is offering that information. I need to be there for Quint. “What hospital?”

“Columbia,” his coach offers. Once I’m given the information, I bend to kiss Quint’s lips gently.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

He nods but otherwise says nothing. As I stare into his eyes, I see something I’ve never seen before—fear…and that scares me more than anything.

I’m in my car in record time. Quickly I redial my future father-in-law’s number. When it goes to voice mail, I fill him in on where they’re taking Quint and that I’m on my way there. My nerves are so frazzled that I decide to call my mom. Aside from Quint, she can calm me down better than anyone.

“Mom,” I say when she answers. The tone of my voice leaves no doubt something is wrong.

“Annie, what happened?” she asks with concern.

Through sobs, I fill my mom in on what happened at today’s game. She immediately tells me to stop crying, that Quint needs me and to be strong for him. After pulling in a few shaky breaths, I agree over the phone that she’s right. I need to control my emotions for his sake. Speaking to her was just what I needed. With a promise to keep her posted, I feel a bit better by the end of the call. Next call is to Daphne.

I allow her three seconds before stopping her normal ballbusting ways by saying, “Quint’s been hurt.”

“I’ll be there today,” she responds without hesitation.

The ride to Columbia is filled with more phone calls. Mr. Lawson, Ava, my dad, Billy, each call is either a recounting of events or reminders to be strong for Quint. Everyone in his life knows what this is doing to him.

The rest of my ride is spent praying. I don’t bother asking for God to make him okay. The damage is done, and tragedy has already hit. What I ask for is for Quint to recover from this as quickly as possible…both physically and mentally.

This has been the longest day of my entire life. Surgery is not happening until the swelling goes down. That could take weeks. Weeks of Quint sitting around doing nothing but waiting will torture him.

His surgeon, team doctor, and dad just filled us in on his diagnosis. He now knows it all. His injury is far worse than any of us could have imagined. He has a torn anterior cruciate ligament or ACL, a torn meniscus, torn ligaments, and a fracture. Just one of those would have him out for the season; they fear, with the combination, he may be out much longer than that. No one uses the word permanently, but that reality hangs threateningly in the air above us.

He asked them all to leave, not wanting to hear any more.

As they continue to discuss the MRI results without him, he’s being sedated for his pain. I’m trying desperately to keep him focused and optimistic. He sits staring into space as I hold his limp hand or stroke his hair. He hasn’t looked at me or spoken to me, and it’s killing me.

“Babe, do you want me to turn on the TV?” I ask pathetically. He shrugs noncommittally. Maybe I can find a movie to distract him. Reaching for the remote, the first thing that pops on is ESPN
with a picture of Quint in his uniform flashing on the screen. Hastily I switch the channel, hoping he wasn’t paying attention.

“Put it back,” he spits out angrily.

My heart pounds as I flip back to the last station.

“
Well, we can assume his season is over. Let’s all hope he’ll be back next year.”

“For those of you just tuning in, New York Yankees’ shortstop Quint Lawson was injured earlier today in their game against the Twins. A spokesperson from the team said Lawson is at Columbia Medical Center. His orthopedic team is discussing MRI results. We’ll keep you posted as new updates arrive.”

“What a waste. That kid had a Hall of Fame title in his future
.”

The other sportscaster nods his head in sympathy. “
Hopefully that shortstop’s appearance in the pros wasn’t just one short stop toward a permanent DL list
.”

“Turn it off!”

With shaky fingers, I hit the off button.

He turns his head, staring at a spot on the wall.

“They don’t know, no one knows what this means yet. Babe, please don’t get discouraged. You need to stay positive.”

He yanks his hand free from mine and levels me with an icy glare.

“Really? Stay positive? Why didn’t I fuckin’ think of that? How do you suppose I should stay positive? Huh? Why don’t you fuckin’ enlighten me, Annie?”

His tone is bitter, hateful. Even when we’ve fought, I’ve never heard him use that tone of voice with me. Even during our most heated arguments, I’ve never seen such animosity in his eyes. I need to keep reminding myself it’s the situation he’s angry with, but it’s hard as hell to sit here and see him act like this, especially toward me.

The one thing I could always count on was our connection… If he was livid with me or if I was furious with him, our connection never wavered. There’s never been a time in our relationship where I felt disconnected from him.

Until today… I haven’t felt my connection to Quint all day. He may as well be a stranger lying in that bed.

My Quint would realize he was taking his frustrations out on me. My Quint would apologize and ask me to be patient with him. This Quint continues to glare at me as if I took a sledgehammer to his dreams.

I can handle it. I’ll take whatever he dishes out. I’ll be his punching bag.

He stares at nothing, while tears slowly roll down the side of his face. Wordlessly, I reach for his hand to replace it between both of mine. Surprisingly, he doesn’t pull away. I may not be able to control our emotional connection, but by touching him I can assure we don’t lose our physical connection. As long as I sit here, I’ll be touching him in one way or another. As long as I sit here, I’ll be praying that my Quint breaks through and resurfaces before permanent damage is done.