I have that nightmare again: faceless pitcher, feet stuck in cement…. I don’t even get back to sleep, but at least that gives me plenty of time to think. Friday morning, I come downstairs wearing an ACE bandage on my left wrist.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” says Dad.

“What did you do?” says Mom. “Are you all right?”

They’re both busy getting ready for work, but the sight of my lame one-handed wrap job has changed everything. They’re like two birds sitting on their perch one second and flapping all around their cage the next.

Except you don’t have to lie to birds.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound upset. Upset but brave, which is the ridiculous part. “Yeah, you know, in practice yesterday.”

The less I say the better, not just because it means the less I can forget and get wrong later, but because I feel awful saying it.

“No, sport, we don’t know,” Dad says, looking at Mom.

“Yeah, yesterday, I just…”

They’re still watching, waiting.

“…in the field,” I offer.

Still watching.

I exhale. “Yeah, I dove for a liner. Total dying duck … shouldn’t have done it … glove kind of turned over on me…”

By the time I reach that last one they’re coming out almost as questions: Glove kind of turned over on me?

“OK,” says Dad, meaning either I’ve said enough or I’ve said too much, and he knows I’m lying.

How can he think I’m lying, I think, trying to muster some outrage. Can’t he see the bandage? I’m just trying to think like I would if this was real. Which I really, really wish it was.

“Do we?” my mom begins, and then she seems to make up her mind. “We’re going to the hospital.”

Dad looks over at her. “Really?” he says, but his expression says: I’ll barely make it to work on time as it is.

“I don’t care, Stephen,” she says. “Our son is hurt.”

And it isn’t an answer as much as a minefield. First of all, Mom only uses Dad’s real name when she’s serious. Like, seriously serious. Usually it’s honey or something like that. And if she does use his name, it’s usually Stevie. But he got the full Stephen this time. And then the way she said our son, like he might have forgotten…

“It’s nothing,” I start, trying to back things down. “I mean it’s not nothing, but…”

I trip over the double negative and stop, trying to figure out what I just said.

“Seemed to be handling that Big Mac pretty good last night,” Dad says, looking at me. Is it getting hot in here?

“I’m right-handed?” I offer lamely.

Dad frowns.

“It stiffened up overnight!” I blurt out, speaking as fast as I think. Maybe faster.

His expression turns more neutral. That does happen.

I push the elastic bandage out toward him, like Nax extending a hurt paw.

“It does look a little swollen,” says Mom.

That would be the sweatband I put under there.

“What does Coach say?” Dad says finally.

“Well, Coach Meacham says I probably just need a few days.”

This is my big move, my checkmate-I-win move. Because Coach Meacham is on the volunteer fire department, so he has first-aid training. I think he’s even “certified” or something. Anyway, it seems to work.

“So, no doctor?” Mom says.

I shake my head no, as firmly as possible. Can you imagine, Dr. Redick, standing there with his long white coat on? Unwrapping the bandage, ready to add yet another injury to my long list of bruises, cuts, and sprains, and finding a slightly swollen … wristband? I wouldn’t be the first person to die at that hospital, just the first person to die of embarrassment.

“A few days?” Dad says.

There’s a long pause. Everyone is thinking it.

“The game’s on Saturday.”

“Yeah,” I say, exhaling loudly. “Just supposed to see how it feels tomorrow morning.”

“Well, let me get some ice for it,” Mom says.

Just like that, they’re back to their morning routine. I take my ice pack and a pack of Pop-Tarts in my “good” hand and head for the TV room. I can hear them still talking about it as I walk away.

“Guess that’s why he was so upset last night,” Dad is saying.

“You took him to McDonald’s?”

I know it’s horrible, but it’s something I have to do. Because as bad as it felt to stand there at the plate yesterday, freaking out, basically peeing myself — and then getting drilled for my trouble. Well, that’s how good it feels knowing that I won’t have to do that again, in front of half the town, tomorrow.

And then there’s the nightmare. I’ve had it twice already. I don’t want to have it a third time — or a tenth.

And you might be thinking, well, why not just quit, then. And, whatever, give me a break. I’ve been playing for half my life. It’s not the kind of thing you can do in one quick step. It’s not like ripping off a Band-Aid, OK?

Nax comes up and nuzzles my leg. He’s wiping his cruddy eye on my pants again but also hoping for some Pop-Tart. He tips his snout up and licks the bandage on my left hand.

“Ow,” I say. “Careful, boy.”

Great, I just lied to my dog.