It had taken Natalie a long time to calm down. Bill didn’t know what to do except to hold her, to reassure her, and tell her over and over it was not her fault, and that he loved her. They had cried. He had apologized for hurting her, a part of him wondering if this was his fault. He asked her to stay with him for the next few weeks if it was okay with her mom.
Jake was giving Natalie a ride home. Bill watched them walk away, taking deep breaths as he held in his feelings, chills shaking his neck and shoulders. Bill felt rage, wanting to strike out against the cards he had been dealt. He wanted to punch someone or something, then chilled with the realization the offender was dead already. Bill didn’t know enough, he didn’t know what to do, and he didn’t know how to fix it.
Doc was in and out of the room, on the phone with Coach Jackson, but sticking close.
Bill waited until he was off the cell.
“Doc, what’s it going to take for me to play professional ball again?”
A miracle, thought Doc Jensen.
“Bill, I reviewed the x-rays. The surgical procedures were excellent. The cracked hip will heal but may never be as strong. Same goes for the cracked vertebrae. But the big problem is the type of leg fracture and the pins. Your leg will never be as strong. You won’t be able to run and pivot. If you tried, your leg could shatter and you would be in serious trouble. If you can’t run or spin quickly you can’t play at the professional level. You will never again have the pitching mechanics you had before the accident. In my opinion you shouldn’t try to play ball again… ever. I’m sorry, Bill.”
Bill stared at him. “Can you give me some time?”
“Sure. What a mess, and all because of a drunk driver!” said Doc angrily. “I’ll go grab coffees and bring them back here. Do you feel like a bite to eat, a sandwich maybe?”
Bill’s eyes were filled with anguish and Phil had seen the look before. The look of shredded dreams; either from injury, or age, or marginal ability, and that pain for players was worse than most divorces. Athletes were never ready to feel their vitality stripped away, their invincibility stomped upon and shoved down their throats; cold, bitter, choking bricks that oftentimes never digested. Bill looked worn; his hair unkempt and matted, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, his skin almost gray. His breathing was labored, and frequent spasms of pain reflected on his face.
“No, thanks, Doc.”
“My God,” Bill said under his breath. What am I going to do now?
Rubbing his forehead with his hands, Bill started driving his knuckles against his skin, then moved onto his temples, bruising skin, and furring up his hair. His hip was on fire, and it felt like knitting needles were twisting into his back. The red button offering welcome relief was inches away, but he let the pain stab him, over and over. Finally, Bill felt sick to his stomach, and the flesh on the side of his head was red and abraded. He pushed the button for the pain pump, momentarily wishing he could just push it until he didn’t wake up.