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I have to glance away.
My gut churns and I play it off as lack of food, but deep down I know better. It’s regret. Anger. Longing.
My sport. The one I had to give up after one bad play. One split-second decision took it all away.
Just like that.
“Here ya go,” the old man says, setting the hot plate in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say, snapping myself out of the memory. Wiping my clammy hands on my pants, I grab a fry and pop it into my mouth. A bottle of ketchup and some mustard are pulled from the cooler behind the bar and set in front of me. I load up my burger with condiments, squirt a big glob on my plate, and dive in.
As I eat, my eyes return to the television. I can’t help it.
The old man hangs around, resting his elbow on the bar and relaxes, watching the game. By the time I’m halfway through my burger, he asks the question I’ve always dreaded. “You miss it?”
Glancing his way, I see his eyes still focused on the TV. But I know he’s talking to me. Besides the fact that I’m the only one on this end of the bar, I’m probably the one former pro ball player in the joint. “Yeah,” I answer honestly.
The man nods and turns his hazel eyes on me. “Name’s Lucky,” he says as he extends his hand.
“Sawyer,” I reply as I shake his hand. “But you probably already figured that out.”
He shrugs before standing up and turning his attention back to the bar. “Holler if you need anything.”
I nod before returning my attention to my burger, which he lets me finish in silence. My mind drifts back to the game, but not the one on TV. I relive the hit over and over again, like some horrible instant replay. The crack of the bat. The line drive that sails straight down the third baseline. The dive. The landing. The catch.
The pain.
It was like nothing I had experienced before, shooting straight through my body, hitting every nerve ending. I wanted to puke, but was afraid to move. The replays showed the dive on every sports show for the next two weeks, following the story through every surgery and every hospital visit. They stayed with me until that moment I was cut from the team.
Now, here I sit, in an old bar, watching my team play without me.
My food settles like concrete in my belly and the beer isn’t helping much either. Pulling a twenty from my wallet, I toss it on the bar, throw a wave at Lucky, and head back out into the warm August night.
My past trailing closely behind me.
