Baseball in early August is hot and messy. The thermometer claims it’s 110 degrees on the turf today. I sweated through my shirt long ago, and I struggle to keep my fingertips dry enough to grip the ball. I’ve warmed up and currently wait for the arrival of the first batter in the bottom of the fourth inning. I’m pitching to the top of their lineup and anxious to place a couple more strikeouts on my stats.
With the batter in the box, I step on the white rubber, looking to my catcher for the sign. He signals for my fastball, but I shake him off. It’s too predictable—he’ll be looking for it. Next, he signals slider; I nod. I come set, take a deep breath, wind up, and pitch. The ball sails, floating low and outside. The umpire signals strike. I fully expected the batter to swing at that pitch. He’s usually a sucker for my junk pitches.
Next, the catcher signals for my curveball, and I deliver a beautiful pitch barely crossing the outside corner of the plate. The umpire signals ball. I turn my back before mumbling a few choice words. That was a perfect placement across the corner—definitely a strike. I school my features while bouncing the rosin bag in my hand. I’m calm and unaffected when I face the plate again.
Fastball. Yes, now I’ll give him the fastball he’s expecting. Get ready, batter. I’m going to burn it past you. The official yells strike in a long, drawn out tone. My catcher signals, and I nod. Let’s do it again. This time, the batter catches a bit of my fastball, sending it foul into the stands behind him. When my catcher signals for the third fastball in a row, I smile devilishly. Time to send this batter back to his dugout. I send the ball flying across the center of the plate.
As I bend at the front of the mound, watching my pitch, in the blink of an eye, the ball soars back to me. One second I’m in front of the mound, the next I’m lying on my back atop the mound. It takes every ounce of my energy to will my eyes open as my sluggish brain attempts to process the situation. I see my coach and several players standing like pillars above me. With their help, I rise to a sitting position. I raise my glove, realizing there is something inside it. I pull the ball out with my left hand and raise it for all to see.
I vaguely hear my teammate yelling, “He caught the freaking ball!”
It doesn’t register—I can’t process the meaning of his words. The world spins around me, and I feel drunk. I inspect my left hand. Wasn’t there a baseball in it a moment ago? I remove my glove, still looking for the ball. Frustrated, I place my hand on the right side of my face. It’s wet. When I pull my hand away, I find my fingertips red. I pinch them together, watching the red liquid coating them. My vision blurs, and my stomach roils.
Beside me, my coach and trainer’s mouths move, but I don’t hear anything. Slater extends his hand to me, and I take it. Stan and our short stop assist me in walking to the dugout. I faintly recognize the crowd cheering. They pass me off to the players in the dugout who assist me to the locker room. I groan loudly as the entire right side of my face throbs in pain.
Next thing I know, I’m on an exam table with a much-too-bright penlight shining in my eyes. Then, a jackhammer assaults my jaw.
“Easy,” I yell, pulling my face away from the doctor’s fingertips.
I nearly barf as my world spins out of control with my movements. Several sets of hands assist me in laying down on the table. It seems like everyone speaks at once, and I can’t understand any of it. A commotion swings my eyes to the door.
Madison
“Get up. Hamilton, get up,” I beg with one hand on my heart and one on my baby bump. I watch, frozen in horror, as he lies on the mound, nearly motionless. Moments pass as if they’re centuries. When he finally sits up, I release the breath I didn’t know I held in.
“He’s moving. He’s okay,” Delta soothes, standing at my side and slipping her arm around my back.
“I need to go to him,” I say, covering my mouth. I glance over my shoulder at Liberty playing with Aurora on the floor near the back of the suite. She’s oblivious to the events on the field.
“Go. I’ll keep Liberty with me until I hear from you,” Delta offers. “They’ll take him to the training room by the locker room.”
I dart out the door, jogging through the hallway. Crap! The training room is on the third base side; I’m going the wrong direction. I stop to gather my wits. Elevator. I need to take the elevator down. It doesn’t go fast enough. This has to be the slowest elevator in the world. When the doors open, I scan the packed concourse in search of an usher. I spot a woman in a gold, “Event Staff” shirt and rush over.
“My husband...” I struggle to speak through my ragged breathing.
“Are you in labor?” She panics.
I shake my head. “My husband’s a player. He just got hurt on the field. I need to get down to the locker room. Can you help me?”
She places me back in the elevator, swipes a keycard, then presses a button, and I’m lowered below the stadium. When the metal doors open, a body-builder type in the same “Event Staff” shirt blocks my exit from the elevator.
I place my hands on his arm, attempting to push through as I speak. “My husband is Hamilton Armstrong. He’s hurt, and I’m on my way to be with him.”
His arm doesn’t budge. I suddenly have the urge to pee, so I place my hands on the bottom of my belly.
“You don’t have a security pass,” he grunts.
“I’m Madison Armstrong,” I state. “My husband is Hamilton Armstrong.” I lift my suite pass on its lanyard as if it might prove my statement. My temper, as well as my desperation, skyrocket. I point, my index finger millimeters from his nose. “Don’t think that because I’m pregnant, I won’t knee you in the balls and poke out both your eyes,” I spit.
“Madison,” a male voice calls from a few feet away.
I leave my finger near his nose as I turn to find a man in an expensive suit with a name badge signifying him as the Assistant GM standing nearby.
“Let her through,” he orders the guard.
Immediately, the beefy arms lower, and the security guy backs away. He resembles a dog after its nose has been rubbed in pee. I throw my shoulders back as far as a pregnant woman can as I pass him. The suit signals for me to follow as he guides me through the maze to the training room. I quickly waddle over to Hamilton’s side.
“Hey,” he greets as he attempts to sit up but hands hold him down.
“He needs to lie down,” the team doctor informs me.
“Honey, listen to the doctor. I’ll be right here beside you.” I caress his arm as I speak.
“I’m going to inject a numbing agent so I can stitch you up. Then, we’ll transport you to the hospital,” the doctor states with the syringe in hand poised near Hamilton’s jaw.
I lean over my husband to get a better look at the doctor’s work. Hamilton raises one hand to my tummy, and he murmurs to the baby in its close proximity. Next thing I know, his hand slides to my backside, and he squeezes my butt.
“I can’t wait to tap this,” he states, loud enough for the entire room to overhear.
My back stiffens, and my face flames. I’m sure he didn’t mean for all to hear him. I keep my eyes downcast, not wanting to see their reactions.
“All done,” the doctor states, helping Hamilton to a sitting position. “Now, let’s get you to the hospital for a CT Scan.”
I can’t help myself; I need more information now instead of later. “What will that tell us?” I ask the doctor.
“I apologize.” The doctor looks directly at me. “Hamilton has a concussion. He lost consciousness for a while from the impact he experienced on the field. The CT will look for any fractures to his face or the back of his head. It will also reveal any swelling or bleeding on the brain.”
My eyes widen. I didn’t even think it might be that severe. My heart races, and tears well in my eyes.
The doctor moves to my side. “I don’t anticipate either of those outcomes. During my assessment, I didn’t find anything that led me to believe we should stress.”
Is he trying to calm the pregnant lady by telling me what I want to hear, or is he telling me the truth? I guess I will find out soon enough at the hospital.
“How are the two of you holding up?” the doctor asks at my side, indicating my bump.
“We’re good,” I inform him.
“May I check your pulse?” When I nod, his hand quickly finds my pulse point. Pleased with my numbers, he nods.
The Assistant GM informs us an SUV waits to drive us to the hospital. As the team doctor and Slater, our friend and team trainer, follow him to the door, Hamilton announces, “We’ll be out in a couple of minutes. I need some alone time with my sexy wife.” He tries to wink at me.
His hands begin groping me as his mouth latches on to my neck. I push him away, not believing his behavior. Hamilton sways as if he’s drunk. Slater quickly moves to his side, as does the team doctor. They lift him under his shoulders as they help him to his feet and escort him through the door. I follow behind.
On the way to the hospital, Hamilton continues with his attempts to flirt suggestively and fondle my body. In the close confines of the vehicle, all the men hear and see it all. I bat away his hands while I beg him to stop. He’s acting like a horny 16-year-old.
As if feeling my embarrassment, the team doctor further explains Hamilton’s condition. “A concussion affects how the brain works. It may affect memory, speech, balance, and coordination.” He turns toward us in the backseat. “Symptoms include headache, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, balance issues, blurred vision, ringing ears, confusion, poor concentration, sensitivity to light or noise, and personality changes.”
With his final words, his eyes lock on mine. Is he trying to tell me Hamilton’s horniness is a symptom of his injury? Could it be permanent?
“Some become aggressive,” he continues. “Some yell or become angry. It’s temporary and further proof of his concussion.”
Looking to my husband, I notice he stares off into space, not aware of our conversation. His head and shoulders swirl a bit. Unable to control his movements, he reminds me of a bobble head. The severity of his concussion slowly settles in, and I worry about the length of his recovery.