Page 90 of The Fall Classic

He works for the Firebirds organization and primarily works with guys in the Majors, but he also travels to the different farm teams, giving the best prospects the mental help they need to move up.

He’s probably in his early sixties and peers at me over his reading glasses. “I understand you leave tomorrow?”

“Thursday,” I say. “Flight’s at six.”

“AM or PM?” he asks.

“PM. Does that matter?”

“Only if you like sleeping. I love sleeping.”

I snort, and he gives me a pleasant smile. “Have you thought about what you want to be working on today?”

“Yeah,” I say, not looking at him. “I’ve met someone and I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of not knowing the difference between holding on to her because I like her so much or holding on because I’m me.”

He nods. “When you’re talking about that right now, what are you noticing?”

I hate this exercise. Like I don’t overanalyze every thought in my head enough, I also have to overanalyze my body. Experience has taught me I can’t be glib about it, though, so I sit and let myself feel it all. “My chest feels tight. Kind of fluttery. I have a hard time swallowing. There’s a pit in my stomach. My hands are cold.”

“Your hands?” he repeats.

“Yeah. It’s all the cliché crap.”

“Cliché how?”

I look out at the field, not focusing on anything but the green of the grass. The crisp, clean lines. “Every song about falling in love, about missing someone. You know.”

He nods again. “On a one to ten scale, how strongly do you feel it all?”

“Probably a six.” The lump I can’t swallow tells me it’s more like a seven, but six is already dramatic enough.

“Thank you. I’m going to help you find a brain spot now, and your only job is to notice how it feels.”

I settle into the chair, plant my feet, and let my hands rest on my knees the way he’s taught me as I put on headphones. Gentle ambient tones play over the headphones, panning back and forth from one ear to the other as Dr. Chang holds his pen up at the edge of my visual field, sweeping slowly until I feel a tightening behind my ribs.

“There,” I say.

“And up and down now,” he says, the headphones muffling his voice. He moves his pen vertically. “Let me know where the feeling is strongest.”

He goes up, and there’s nothing. But when he starts going back down, I brace myself.

The tightening intensifies until I feel choked.

“There,” I say again.

It’s low, a little to the left of seven o’clock. It’s always this same stupid spot. Dr. Chang never asks me what’s there; he simply holds his pen and I stare at the end and pay way too much attention to my body.

We sit like that for a long time.

A really long time.

After I don’t know how long, Dr. Chang asks, “While staying on that spot, what are you noticing?”

“That tightness in my chest.” I keep my eyes on the spot. “And in my hands. They’re cold.”