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He takes me in, crossing the room toward me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes, then nods. “I’m heading up to the stadium. Walk with me?”
Hoping that’s a good thing, I say, “Sure.”
Our walk is a mix of silence and small talk, talking a bit about the weather, last semester, and winter break.
He leads me down a corridor, to the players’ area, ending up in the dugout.
My stomach twists again, but in the best way. Just being here sends a rush of excitement through me. The thwack of a ball hitting a glove draws my attention out to the field where one of their starting pitchers—Andy, I think, is his name—is throwing. The pitching coach walks out to the mound and says something to him. Andy rolls his shoulders, then delivers another. They do this several times, with Andy getting more frustrated with each throw.
“That why you’re here?” I ask.
Coach M nods. “His throwing has been off, and he can’t seem to get a handle on it.” He turns to me. “What about you?”
“Well, his throwing is probably better than mine,” I joke. Even though the words hurt.
“You wish you were out on the mound?”
“If I could pitch the way I used to, hell yes. But my hand sure as hell hasn’t gotten any better and I haven’t exactly been conditioning myself, either.”
“You needed time,” he says, appraising me.
“I wasn’t—haven’t been—in a good place. Trying to leave this part of me behind—it’s not working. And my hand still hurts.” I shake my head at myself, angry at how long I let myself flounder and wallow in my mess.
“You told me the therapy you were getting for your hand wasn’t working. What kind of therapy did you go to?”
I shrug. “I don’t know… basic PT and OT.”
He shakes his head. “For an injury that affects how you play, you need therapy that works at things from that angle.” He pulls a card from his wallet and hands it to me. “This is the PT center that works with all of our athletes. They have a small affiliate here on campus and one of the head PTs is an adjunct professor here. Call them and tell them I sent you.”
“I thought stuff like this was only for athletes.”
He grins at me and smacks my shoulder. “Like I said, tell them I sent you.”
“Thanks.”
He nods and we both look out at the field. I watch the guy throw another bad pitch and groan. His stance is slightly off, but more importantly, he’s releasing at the wrong angle by just a hair. You might not be able to see it from every position, but I can see it from here. I want to go out there and help him fix it.
Coach shakes his head. “Yeah. He’s been pitching for shit lately. Season hasn’t even started, and he’s already off his game.”
“Think it’s all mental, or could it be physical? Has he had any injuries?”
Coach’s lips pull into a flat line. “Nothing serious, far as I know. Why do you ask?”
“Watch him. His footing is off a bit. And then—yeah, there it is again—his release is slightly at the wrong angle. The worse he pitches, the tighter he gets. It makes it worse.”
I turn to look at Coach M, who is gaping at me. “You saw all of that? From here?”
I shrug. “I’ve always been good at seeing the problems that pitchers and hitters have. I used to work with the younger guys on the team. You heard of me before I applied. I’m guessing you’ve heard about Jamie Henderson?”
He looks at me, eyes wide. “Kid’s already a draft contender after his senior year.”
I nod proudly. “Yeah. I’ve been working with him on finesse and timing for years. He’s got so much raw talent. I’d be shocked if he didn’t go all the way to the majors.”
Coach nods and a half smile creeps on his face. “So, you still want a to be a part of my team?”
Swallowing all my pride, I say, “I’d like to be.”
“You free Friday morning, say around ten?”
