By the top of the fourth inning, my world is narrowing to a single, white-hot point of agony in my right shoulder.
It started in the second, a dull, throbbing ache after I had to fire a snap-throw to first to catch a runner leaning. By the third, it felt like someone was driving a rusty nail into my rotator cuff every time I brought my arm back to transfer the ball. Now, with the Nashville shortstop on first and two outs, I’m certain he’s looking to run.
The next pitch is a slider down in the dirt. I block it with my shins, the ball bouncing perfectly in front of my chest, and I scoop it up in one fluid motion. I pop out of my crouch, driving my legs toward second, unleashing a throw that should catch him by two feet. The moment the ball leaves my fingertips, a blinding, electric shock of pain sears through my shoulder.
My vision goes gray at the edges. A choked gasp catches in my throat, and my arm drops instantly to my side, completely dead. The throw sails three feet wide of the bag, bouncing into center field as the runner slides in safely. I don’t even look at the play. I just drop to one knee behind the plate, my left hand clutching my right shoulder, trying desperately to breathe through the white-hot nausea rolling through my stomach.
“Batter up!” the umpire calls, entirely oblivious.
I force myself to stand, my teeth clenched so tightly I can hear them grinding in my skull. I retrieve my mask, my right arm hanging like a piece of lead, useless. I manage to get through the final out of the inning by simply giving the pitcher a massive target and praying he doesn’t throw anything I have to stretch for.
When I stumble back into the dugout, I try to regroup at the far end of the bench, leaning my weight on the water cooler as I guzzle down cupful after cupful so the guys don’t see me wincing. I attempt to lift my arm to hang my mask on the hook, and the stabbing pain returns.
“Jake.”
My eyes meet my father’s, and he nods toward the far side of the dugout, urging me to follow. His eyes narrow on my shoulder the moment we’re semi-alone, then he flits his gaze to mine.
“Don’t ruin your career over pride.”
I rub the sore spot and swing my arm around, biting my tongue to keep myself from emoting how I truly feel.
“I’m fine.”
“Stop.”
He places a hand on my chest and glances behind him, making sure we’re not being watched. His attention comes back to me, and he shakes his head.
“Listen to your body. I watched you drop your slot three inches on that throw to second. How bad is it?”
“It’s just tight,” I lie, bile rising in my throat. My heart is hammering inside my chest. This cannot be happening. Not now. “It’s probably just the humidity. It’s heavy today. I just need some ice and some heat rub between innings. I’m fine. The Texas scout is right behind the screen, for Christ’s sake. I have two doubles this series. If I pull myself now?—”
“If you throw another ball with that shoulder in that position, you’re going to tear something you can’t fix with an ice pack,” he interrupts, his eyes blazing with a protective warning.
I exhale and nearly fucking cry. He’s right.
“I spent twenty years watching catchers destroy their careers because they were too stubborn to admit they werehurting. You think those scouts want a guy who throws from his ear because his joint is full of bone chips? You’re done for the night, Jake. We’re calling the trainer.”
I shake my head in protest. “Dad, please. If I go on the injured list now, I’ll get dropped from the top of the order. I’ll lose my starts. The momentum is gone. Everything Campbell did, the press, the spotlight . . . it doesn’t mean anything if I’m sitting on the bench in a sweatshirt.”
“It doesn’t mean anything if you’re working a forklift in Sweetwater next year because your labrum is shredded, either.”
Our eyes lock for a brief moment, and I have nothing to say in return. He’s right. He knows I know he’s right. He knows this is killing me. All of it.
He doesn’t wait for my approval. He simply turns toward the training room door at the end of the tunnel and shouts, “Doc! Get out here. Jake’s shoulder is done.”
My stomach drops into a bottomless pit. I lean against the concrete wall, my right arm throbbing so hard I can feel the pounding in my head.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on the training table, the team doctor’s cold fingers pressing into the anterior deltoid while I try not to scream. He moves the joint through a series of resistance tests, each one sending a fresh wave of agony down my spine until I’m dripping sweat onto the vinyl padding.
“I don’t think it’s torn,” he says, pulling off his latex gloves with a sharp snap that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. “We’ll know for sure when we get back to Sweetwater, but as far as I can tell, you’ve got some bicipital tendonitis and massive acute inflammation in the subacromial bursa. You’ve been redlining this joint for weeks, Jake, and that snap-throw tonight was the breaking point.”
I stare at the floor, my hands gripping the edge of the table. “Can I DH? I can still hit, Doc. I don’t need the shoulder to drive through the ball.”
“Absolutely not,” the doctor says, his tone final. “You are on a strict ban from catching or throwing for the next two to three weeks. Minimum. No throwing. No baseball activities. You’re going to be on a heavy regimen of anti-inflammatories and physical therapy twice a day before I even let you think about putting a glove back on. And that’s all if the images say so.”
Two to three weeks.
The words echo in my head, loud and destructive. Twenty-one days. In the minor leagues, three weeks is an eternity. It’s enough time for three different prospects to get called up over your head. It’s enough time for the scouts to forget your name and move on to the next kid fresh out of college who doesn’t have “McKinney legs” and a busted shoulder.
