Chapter 23 Nola
NOLA
The scene plays out in slow motion, much like a movie sequence.
My brain can see the end from the beginning, but it still has to run its course at a snail’s pace.
The team’s mascot, the Seafarer Steelhead Salmon, has made his way over toward third base, near the team’s dugout, trying to excite the crowd when the inning drags on.
“Get ready, Max!” she eagerly shouts, sitting on the edge of her seat, watching the guy on first get in position to steal.
We follow the pitch. The Armadillo batter connects, and the ball sails into centerfield. I’m still cognizant of where the bee is, for Emma’s sake, and I watch as it heads toward the giant salmon, who’s turned to take in the action on the field. Somehow, the bee makes it inside the costume.
As Max and the shortstop engage the Armadillo player in the pickle, the Steelhead goes flailing onto the field, shaking limbs, pulling the headpiece up just enough to let the bee out without giving away their true identity.
As this plays out, Max is oblivious. He’s focused on the task at hand: tag the opponent out before he makes it safely to third, end the inning.
I watch him get the ball. In what should be a final play, he turns right into the mascot, bounces off the costume, and loses his footing.
He goes down hard, right onto the back of his head.
Emma and I stand as the general manager runs out, yelling for players to escort the salmon off the field and checking his downed player with the athletic trainer.
The short stop and second baseman crowd around, making it impossible to see what’s going on, and my breath hitches.
Max is still. Too still. The umpire joins them.
Soon, with vigor, they wave over the team doctor, who runs out on the field.
There’s an uncomfortable murmuring through the stands.
In the past, when I’ve been to a sporting event and an athlete’s gotten hurt, it’s been unnerving, but I’ve never had a personal connection to the injured.
Being the fake wife in today’s incident brings a new sense of stress to what’s happening.
I immediately envision the worst-case scenario: a coma that leads to his death.
Just because that’s how Elliott met his end doesn’t mean Max is going to have the same fate.
It’s not even the same situation. Lots of players get hurt in sports and they’re fine. Max will be fine.
Emma looks up at me with wide, nervous eyes, and I force myself to stop catastrophizing.
I wrap my arm around Emma and give her a smile. “He’s going to be okay, Em. I’m sure he just got the wind knocked out of him.”
Foam finger and hot dog forgotten, we watch as they continue to assess Max, kneeling over him.
From what I can tell, he’s awake and alert.
They’re checking his pupils. A minute later, they help him up and he hobbles off the field with help, to applause from around the stadium.
Even though Max looks out of it, he takes the hat off his head and wearily waves it in thanks.
In the most uncharacteristic move of my parenting life, I leave Emma with a security guard and rush to the clubhouse, bursting into the room.
The team doctor and athletic trainer are running a series of initial tests on Max.
Another guy, who I’m guessing is from management, yells, “You’re not allowed to be in here. ”
This does not land well with me. “When you can keep your mascot off the field in the middle of a game so my husband stays safe, I’ll follow your rules. Until then, don’t.”
“She’s yours, Hutch?” management asks.
I absentmindedly twist my silicone ring and calm myself down. Reactionary Nola historically hasn’t won me points with Max, but then a small, proud voice responds, “Yes.”
Elation washes over me that despite his accident and my rule-breaking, he’s still willing to call me his. This time I know he means what he’s saying—I am his. He’s not speaking for appearances’ sake and under different circumstances, I’d tackle him with kisses.
Management motions me over to where Max is seated, and I put my hand on Max’s thigh while I provide my own evaluation.
I know nothing about the medical field other than how to dispense meds that are clearly labeled, but I need to see with my own eyes that he is okay.
I give him a once-over, front and back, then check his pupils, which are glassy, and he winks at me.
His uniform is worse for the wear. He seems stable.
Again, my assessment is sorely lacking any kind of actual medical knowledge.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“What’s the plan? Do I need to take him to the ER?
” I look at the team doctor, having no idea of the procedure following this kind of thing.
Emma was not a daredevil child, which I’ve always been hugely grateful for.
I know he’s not the first player to ever get a concussion, but then again, no other mascot-third baseman run-ins come to mind, so this is probably new territory for all of us.
The team doc makes a few notes on his tablet and looks up. “You can take him home tonight and keep an eye on him. I’ll text you what to watch for and how to help him recover.”
I nod but think this is completely inadequate care. The man just bounced off a giant foam and fabric fish, for crying out loud. Max speaks up, asking the important question. “When can I play again?”
“At minimum seven days,” the doctor replies.
Max throws his head back with a frustrated grunt and then winces from the impulsive movement. “Things were just starting to come naturally again. I’ll be back to square one if I have to sit out for a week.”
The man who tried to kick me out of the clubhouse takes off his baseball cap and scratches his head. “I know, Hutch. Trust me when I say I’m sorry but rules are rules. We need you to heal up so you don’t miss the regular season.”
“Your age makes me a little more concerned, if I’m being honest.” The doctor looks at Max. “If you were one of our newbies, I’d feel confident in clearing you in seven days. As it is, I’ll reevaluate you in a week and see if I can okay you to play or not. You took a hard hit.”
The clubhouse goes silent while Max swallows the news—the nice way of saying his second chance at baseball might be over two weeks into spring training.
Sitting in the corner wearing half a costume, the headpiece on the bench next to him, is a younger guy with sweaty, curly hair.
A renewed sense of fury courses through me. “You!”
The bite in my tone makes him jump and I’m glad it does.
I don’t like seeing my people hurt, put out, or unfairly treated, and I get that accidents happen—Elliott died in an accident—but this was avoidable.
The game was in play—how does the team mascot not understand their only job is to stay out of the way?
“I’m so sorry,” he says to the whole room. He looks it, too, but I’m not backing down.
“Are you allergic to bees?” I ask him, taking a step closer to where he sits.
“No.”
I take another step closer. “So you weren’t in a life-or-death situation?”
“No.” He shakes his head.
“Then what I’m hearing is you’re a wuss.”
There’s a throat-clearing behind me from management that I choose to ignore, and I look to Max, who gives me a small smirk. Without breaking eye contact with me, Max says, “My wife’s the best, isn’t she?”
Once Max is cleared to leave, I go find Emma at the security post where I left her. She’s eating a box of Cracker Jacks and talking the security guard’s ear off about the many creatures she hopes to see while hiking the Superstition Mountains.
“What about mountain lions?”
“Yep,” he says. “It’s uncommon to see one, but they’re there.”
“Well, we have those in the Boise Foothills,” she says, unimpressed. “Tarantulas?”
“Yep, got those too.”
“They’re kind of creepy.”
“Hey, Em, it’s time to go.” I walk up to her and ruffle the top of her head. “Were you good?”
“Yes.” She bats her eyelashes at me with the grin of an angel and I don’t buy it.
“Good news—the guy who stole third was tagged out at home on the next play and then Larsen hit a triple and then Bowman hit a single to bring him home. We’re winning.
” She hops down from the guard’s stool and shakes the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I thank the security guard profusely, and we walk toward the park’s entrance. “I know you were excited about hiking but we might have to save that for another trip, okay? Max is supposed to rest for a week and I need to keep an eye on him.”
She puckers her lips in disappointment. I know it’s because she bragged to all her friends about being able to see the cacti blooms when it’s still deep winter at home, and I add, “He’s really upset about the way things went today and I need you to not make him feel bad.
Remember, you still have a large pool all to yourself . . .”
“And an outdoor movie?”
“I bet we can make that happen.”
“And cookies and cream ice cream?” Small price to pay for the change in plans.
We find Max out front and are taken by golf cart to his car.
Once he’s loaded, we find where I parked my rental, and I throw our luggage into his trunk.
Both passengers are quiet as I follow the GPS to Max’s place.
The new-build stucco is even cuter in person and the small palm tree is the perfect touch in the front yard.
It looks exactly like the PowerPoint. I love it immediately.
We park in the garage and Emma helps me carry everything in.
The downstairs is an open concept with the living, dining, and kitchen. There’s an office near the front door and a guest bath. I spy the pool off the living room just as Emma does, and she lets out a long ‘wooooo.’
“I’m putting on my swimsuit right now!” She disappears up the stairs with her suitcase and lets out a louder yelp. “And I’m never going home again!”
I glance at Max with a raised brow. “What’d you do that’s such a hit?”