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I nod. “So I still have to take a leak with my good arm. Got it.”
Dr. Ramos shakes his head, chuckling softly.
“And what are the limitations on exercise and baseball-related things that Bishop might want to start trying again?”
I turn, narrowing my eyes at my dad. I didn’t ask that question because I didn’t want to know.
“Exercise is fine as long as you’re not using your wrist. Walking, running, a seated bike at the gym, but I’d hold off on any batting practice until after our next meeting. I want you to work with the physical therapist first, get at least a bit of your agility back before you start putting so much pressure on it.
My nose wrinkles, and my dad pats me on the shoulder.
“I know, it’s not ideal,” Dr. Ramos says, his smile understanding. “But you’re doing great, Bishop. It’s just one month, and then you should be able to get back out there and hit the ball to your heart’s content.”
Twenty minutes later, we’ve said goodbye to Dr. Ramos, collected a packet of information we’re supposed to provide to my new PT, a guy my dad worked with in town when he had knee surgery a few years back, and begun our drive back to Cedar Point from Sacramento. I could have met with Dr. Neman in town, but my surgeon in Portland recommended Dr. Ramos and urged me to see an orthopedic surgeon throughout the length of my recovery for more specialized knowledge.
“Sorry to burst your bubble back there,” Dad says as we hop on the freeway. “But I knew where your head was going to go the minute you got home, and it’s always better to have more information than less.”
I know he’s right, but I’m still feeling a little sour about it. When I had my surgery, I had a picture of what my recovery would look like. In my head, I’d be out of my cast in a month—which turned into six weeks—but then I’d mostly be free to do whatever as long as I was working with a PT. Clearly, that’s not the case. Five pounds of weight is practically nothing—not even a gallon of milk—and I’m just feeling disappointed that I have another month of my wrist and hand being mostly useless.
I mess with the Velcro straps on my brand-new brace. At least I’ll be able to take this off so I can shower. Wearing a plastic bag over my arm has been a pain in the ass.
“How has it been, helping Rush coach the Pirates?” Dad asks, drawing me out of my pity party as we blaze east along the freeway, toward the mountains. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“I’m not really sure yet,” I say honestly. “The kids all really love baseball, which is great, and I think I’m doing a good job giving them advice and stuff. But…I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” he prods.
“Well, there’s this one kid—Justin—who is just…so filled with attitude. I’ve worked with him one on one a few times, and each time he’s basically told me to take my advice and shove it up my ass.”
At that, my dad chuckles, and I join him, the story funny in the moment even if the reality feels slightly less amusing.
“It’s not funny,” I say, even though it kind of is. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
This time, my dad barks out a laugh. “I don’t know what it’s like?” He’s incredulous. “I have five children, Bishop. Five. You think I don’t know what it’s like to have a teenager look at me like I have no fucking clue what I’m talking about?”
I try to hide my grin. “Okay, so maybe you do.”
“Maybe,” he grumbles, though he’s still got a teasing lilt in his tone.
“Got any advice?”
He glances at me then, surprise on his face, before his eyes return to the road. “Well, tell me a bit more about him, about this…Justin kid.”
I take the next ten minutes to tell my dad what I know, all about Justin’s talent: his big swing, how fast he can run, the way I’ve seen him take angles for the ball. The kid could probably play any position he wanted if he would just put his nose down and focus.
I also share the attitude. The sour way he talks about his teammates. The anger I see boiling beneath his skin sometimes, when he’ll chuck his bat because someone said something he doesn’t like or he fouled a ball.
“I’ve been thinking about the way Coach G used to approach me. He was pretty stern. Maybe that’s the way I should come at Justin?”
“Let me ask you something. Why do you think Coach G being really hard on you worked?”
I try to think back to the times when I was difficult or causing problems. “Probably because I never took anything seriously,” I say, chuckling under my breath. “Like everything was a big joke.”
“Exactly. He was trying to get you to be more serious, recognize your potential, focus yourself and your more…playful energy.” He pauses. “This Justin kid sounds like he’s got more of an angry edge. Do you think being intense with him will work?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly. “I’m kind of getting to a point where I’m out of options.”
“You’re never out of options,” my dad corrects. “Just out of ideas.”
