Chapter 22 #2
Stop. You don’t know anything yet. Nobody in this room knows anything yet.
“Any numbness in your fingers? Tingling?”
“No.”
“Tightness?”
“Yeah. It’s tight along the back of my forearm, into my wrist and knuckles.”
He presses his fingers into the muscle again, then lets go.
“Good. Based on the exam, I think we’re looking at a low-grade extensor digitorum strain rather than a ligament injury.”
I exhale loudly in relief.
“But I’m not guessing past that,” he adds. “We’ll image it in the morning and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
I nod and start doing the math on what this could mean while the pitching coach is telling me we’ll look at tape tomorrow and see if we can figure out what went wrong.
Then he goes back to the game, leaving me alone in the training room with the hum of the ice machine in the corner and a whiteboard that lists another player’s PT schedule.
I want to call Georgie.
I hop off the table and go straight into the locker room. I get as far as pulling up her name before I stop myself. What am I even going to say? Hey, something might be wrong with my arm, we won’t know until tomorrow, so could you spend all night too worried to sleep the same way I will?
Handing her my fears won’t help anything; it will multiply them, instead.
I like her too much to dump this on her. Or should it be that I like her enough to include her in my downs as well as my ups?
I start massaging my forehead, and my right arm twinges at the movement, making me grumble shake my arm out.
The game’s still going, and I should be out there with Lucas and the guys, not texting my almost girlfriend.
I’ll figure out what to tell Georgie tonight—probably around 3 AM, when I definitely won’t be sleeping.
***
I lie in the MRI machine before the city’s even fully awake and run through Dr. Chang’s breathing exercise: in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four.
This is nothing like the sensory deprivation tank.
I’m aware of every part of my body, can feel where my shoulder blades meet the hard plastic of the table as it slides into the tunnel, can hear the whirring and clunking of the magnets so loud it feels like my heart’s going to fall out of my chest with every clang.
The breathing helps take the edge off, but each clunk of the machine bumps me out of my calm.
If this injury is serious, what will that look like? A year off? Surgery? Coming back different, if I come back at all?
Somewhere in the middle of this absurd spiral is a smaller, even dumber thought: How do I tell Georgie?
I don’t want to tell her over the phone.
I want to see her face. Which doesn’t make any sense, because either way she’s going to hear the same words, but it matters to me anyway.
I hate the idea of dropping bad news on her doorstep and then leaving.
Like her dad did.
So maybe not that dumb after all.
The orthopedist is back quickly with the results, thankfully.
“Great news,” he says, showing me the scans as if I have any idea what they mean. “The image is consistent with a low-grade strain in the extensor digitorum, and it matches what you described during the exam. Ligament’s clean. No tear, no fraying, nothing on the images that worries anybody.”
The team doctor claps his hands. “What are we looking at for rehab?”
“I think you’re safe to put him on the fifteen-day injured list,” the orthopedist says.
“First week is complete rest from throwing. After that, assuming he’s pain-free, start a progressive return-to-throw program,” and the two start talking about me like I’m not here, which is fine, because all I can think is …
Fifteen days.
“Where will I rehab?” I interrupt, looking from doctor to doctor to Joe.
“Anywhere.” Joe shrugs. “Mullet Ridge probably makes most sense. The staff already knows you.”
“Great. When do I leave?”
Joe gives me an assessing look. “Are you excited to leave or excited to come back?”
“I just want to get it started. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I’m back on the mound,” I say, my knee bouncing under the table hard enough that Joe glances down at it. “That is, assuming the roster spot—”
“Isn’t going anywhere. Stay out of your head, Fischer. You’re on this team through the playoffs. This doesn’t change anything.”
“Thanks, Joe,” I say.
“You meet with Marcus this afternoon to look at video so you can find out what happened and never do it again, all right? That’ll be all the thanks I need.”
***
Watching tape with Marcus, I’m anxious the whole time. Georgie must know something’s going on, because there are already rumors flying on Bleacher Report and ESPN, and she sent me a text this morning asking if I’m okay.
I told her I was mostly fine and that I’m still waiting for more info.
It’s wild that this could make sports news at all. It’s more a testament to how badly people want to see the Firebirds win (or choke) than it is about me.
But it’s still insane seeing my name talked about on the most popular sports channels in the country.
“Right here,” Marcus says, freezing on a frame that looks like the one before it. “Look at your wrist.”
I don’t see it at first, but he has a clip from April up on another screen, both frozen at the same point. And there it is. My wrist was locked stiff the whole way through in April, and there’s a small roll at release in the new one.
“You’ve loosened up your delivery the last month or so,” he says. “Which is good—you’re not fighting the pitch anymore. But your wrist hasn’t caught up yet. Some of what used to happen in your grip is leaking into your forearm instead.”
“So it’s fixable.”
“Completely. Your arm’s fine. You need strengthening work in that wrist extensor before we ask it to do this again.
That means eccentric loading. Building the tissue back up right instead of just rest. I’ll talk to your pitching coach in Mullet Ridge.
This is good news, Fischer. We’ll talk to travel and get you in Mullet Ridge tomorrow.
But in the meantime, let’s get you in with the trainers for ice and some light massage. ”
I know he’s still talking, but my comprehension took a nosedive the second he said I’ll be in Mullet Ridge tomorrow.
I pat my wallet in my front pocket, thinking about the Meant to Bean patch in the zipper pouch. And I think about a certain promise Georgie made me about when I return—
Tomorrow.
I’m in Chicago—the place where I grew up, where my entire family is, where I’ve wanted to be all year—and all I can think about is how excited I am to get back to Mullet Ridge.
To get back to Georgie.
Tomorrow.