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Prologue
Cathleen Mulligan
When I was a little girl, I didn’t dream of being a dancer or an actress, I dreamed of being the first female professional baseball player. Given the way I grew up, it’s no wonder, really. I have five older brothers. Baseball was always the Mulligan family pastime.
Every day after school I played with my brothers and some kids from down the block. Then I got good at it. Really good at it. When it came time to pick an after-school activity, baseball was the only logical choice.
My parents, Ed and Rita, had a hard time getting the little league board to get that I wanted baseball not softball, but when they did, man I set records left and right. In ninth grade, I tried out for the JV team and made Varsity instead. For years, I’ve done nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe baseball. I’m smart but not super smart. My parents have six children and baseball is the only way I’m going to college. I am not even sure I want to go to college, but I need the option. My brothers each play a different professional sport.
My mom got pregnant when she was fifteen. My dad was sixteen. They got married the day mom turned eighteen. Fabian is the oldest at forty-two, he plays football for Tampa Bay now, though he is set to retire when the season is over. George is thirty-five and plays soccer for Montreal. Kenny is thirty-one and is a professional golfer who has the green jacket, which from the little I understand about golf is one of its highest honors. James is twenty-eight and plays hockey for Pittsburgh. Gregory is twenty-four and plays basketball here in Boston. Henry is twenty-two and is a wrestler at Georgia Tech. It’s safe to say, sports run in our veins, but I have been having trouble concentrating lately. I can’t focus on anything for too long. I get debilitating headaches that knock me on my ass for hours, sometimes days at a time. I have been chalking it all up to nerves, but I knew this morning something was wrong.
Really wrong.
I just need to get through today’s game and then I’ll tell my mom. She’s a nurse. She’ll know what to do.
Today is the day. Once my headache finally went away, the nerves set in. This is the biggest game of my high school career and as a senior, it feels like more. It’s all so final. I am graduating in less than a month and I can’t believe we made it this far. The Raiders have made it to the championship game and my scholarship is on the line. My coach told me there were a few scouts in the crowd and I get even more hyped up. They are all interested in me. I get that I am a rarity in baseball, but I really do just want to play the game and play it well.
As I take the pitcher’s mound, the headache I had when I woke up this morning suddenly comes back in full force. My knees almost buckle, but I stop myself from falling. My eyes blur in the sunlight as I take my mark and try to locate the catcher to see what he wants me to throw, but I can’t see him. I lob the ball as hard as I can in the direction of the batter’s box, but before the ball even reaches the batter, I scream in pain, my knees hitting the ground.
When I wake up, at least I think I’m awake, I can tell I’m in the hospital because of the incessant beeping noise above my head. I cautiously lift my hand and realize my eyes are open, they just aren’t working. Like at all. It’s like my eyes are still closed. I can smell my mom’s signature perfume and hear her sniffles. I have to force myself not to panic.
“Mama, what’s going on?” I ask. My throat is dry and raspy, but the panic is there. I can hear it and I know my mom can too.
“Baby, it’s going to be okay,” she says from beside me.
“I can’t see anything. How is it going to be okay?” When she doesn’t say anything, I continue, “just tell me, please.” Right now, the not knowing is killing me.
“I’m calling the nurse,” she says weakly.
“Mom, I’m scared.”
“I know, but we’re gonna be right here with you every step of the way.” The way she says this statement makes my stomach sink and for the first time I think that I am going to die.
“Mom, tell me what’s going on right now,” my voice ratchets up several notches. I am in full blown hysterics.
“Baby, the doctor can explain it better, but you have two retinoblastomas. One in each eye. They didn’t show up before. Your white blood count is barely elevated, but it is elevated. They think they caught them in time,” she says softly. I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest.
