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Crouched in the on-deck circle, Del studied the opposing pitcher as he loosened up before the home half of the second inning. Darin Langley was a tall, whippet-thin right-hander trying to break into a crowded Boston rotation. The gun had him topping out at eighty-nine mph in the first, but the rookie had fanned two Twins on well-disguised changeups.
Sweat dampened the crooks of the gloved fingers curled around the handle of his bat. Just one-for-ten over his first four spring games, Del yearned for a hit so bad the ache resonated from his gut up through his chest down his arms and into his callused palms. Even a noisy out would feel good. He hadn’t made solid contact since jumping on a hanging curve in the opener, and he had lined that straight into the first baseman’s mitt.
Langley’s final two warm-ups were sliders, which he telegraphed by lowering his arm fifteen degrees. Del would let those go and sit on his mediocre heat. He strode toward the plate as the Boston catcher fired down to second base. The umpire stepped around in front of him and bent to sweep the plate, flicking his whisk broom back and forth to expose the neat black edges pitchers coveted.
Pawing at the dirt with his back foot, Del dug himself a hold. He had tinkered in the cage earlier with a slightly more open stance, but it didn’t feel natural now and he reverted to his customary setup. He watched the pitcher rock back into his motion. Langley maintained the high slot. Fastball? No, it was the change. Del clutched twice and straightened from his crouch as the ball broke down below the bottom of the zone.
The righty followed up with the breaking ball, giving it away as Del had forecast by dropping his release point. Long before it bent into the dirt near his back foot, Del had dismissed it. Ahead now two balls, he anticipated the fastball. This wasn’t the place for Langley to outfox him. His guess proved correct, the pitch straight and middle-in. Del attacked it, barreling the ball and driving it deep into right center, his swing so true he barely felt the contact.
Head down, he tore out of the box intent on extra bases. Ben Montville danced outside the first-base coaching box windmilling his arm and screaming, “Dig two! Dig two!” Del cut the base perfectly, his spikes churning a rainbow of red clay in his wake. He snuck a glance toward the wide expanse of green he had so neatly bisected. The right fielder scooped the ball as it rebounded from the fence and pivoted to unleash his throw to second. A good toss would beat him. Del shifted into a gear he rarely reached, his open hands knifing the air as his arms pumped in time with his legs. Mind blank, eyes greedy for the bag, he failed to recognize the searing pain in his left hamstring when it first struck. Within two strides he could no longer ignore it. He grimaced and slowed to a skipping jog for his final approach. Ahead, the shortstop straddled the bag in anticipation of the ball from the outfield. Del debated whether to try to dance around him or simply surrender until the throw skipped off the lip of the grass and kicked away toward the third-base side of the sack, drawing the fielder with it and allowing him to pull up and shuffle the final few steps to safety.
Holding the base with his right foot, Del leaned forward to stretch his leg. A second wave of pain coursed up through his hammy and into his buttock.
“You all right, son?” the second-base umpire inquired.
Del squatted and felt the tightness growing like a knot in the back of his leg.
“No,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“Time,” the ump called, lifting his hands over his head.
Del removed his helmet and summoned to the dugout with his left hand. Bear Lupin climbed out and rambled across the infield.
“What’d you do, Del?” the trainer huffed as he reached the second-base cutout.
Del shrugged and bent down to massage the sore spot. “Just tightened up on me all of a sudden.”
“Let me see it.” Bear pushed Del’s hand out of the way and pressed on the hamstring. “S’that hurt?”
Del pinched his lower lip between his teeth and nodded.
Bear turned and waved toward the Twins dugout. Ty Lopes, a non-roster invitee who had been sharing time at first with Del, emerged.
“I can still run,” Del said.
“Don’t be a rockhead, you barely made it this far. Let’s move inside so I can get a better look at this.”
Del held his hand out low to the approaching Lopes, who slapped it as he jogged past.
“Nice poke, baby,” his replacement said.
“Thanks.”
“You all right?”
“I’m fine. Nobody out. Be smart out here. Don’t get me picked off.”
As he turned back toward the dugout, Bear leaned into him, drawing Del’s left arm around his beefy shoulders. “Keep as much weight off it as you can. I got you.”
Del focused his eyes on the basepath as he hobbled toward the bench. His cleat marks in the dirt pinpointed the injury; halfway up the line his extended strides gave way to shorter irregular touches. Now he was leaving a new trail of full right footprints paired with the tip of his left shoe, with Bear’s big paws to the side. As they passed first base he glanced up and realized the crowd of just over 6,000 was standing, applauding his effort. He had expended so much energy blocking them out this spring. Throat clenched, he half-heartedly lifted his batting helmet to acknowledge the spectators before stepping gingerly down into the dugout.
“You’re falling apart, kid,” Jorgens chuckled as he took Del’s right arm to assist him down the stairs.
“It’s nothing,” Del replied. “I’ll be back in there tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Bear said. “Come on. Let’s go take a look at that bad boy.”
The burly trainer steadied him through the dugout and into the tunnel. The click of the cleats on Del’s right shoe echoed as they stepped off the distance to the clubhouse, the carpet muffling the last thirty feet to the trainers’ office. Del unbuckled his belt and slid his uniform pants floorward, then lay face down on the examination table. Bear pressed his thick fingers into the back of Del’s thigh to probe the muscle.
“What’s cooking in here?” Dr. Stone’s voice came from the doorway.
“Ummm.” Bear continued massaging the hamstring. “Pretty good pull, I think. Maybe a tear. I can’t tell for sure yet.”
“I got this one,” Dr. Stone said. “Get on back out there.”
The doctor pulled a pair of latex gloves from the box on the counter and worked his hands inside, letting the wrists go with a loud snap. He ran his middle finger up Del’s hamstring, triggering a shiver down his leg.
“Mmmm-hmmm,” Doc mumbled.
“What?” Del asked.
Dr. Stone kneaded the injured area softly in response. “Mmmm.”
Del twisted his head around to get a better view, propping himself up on his right elbow. A moment later Dr. Stone pressed firmly on the pull with his thumb, generating a sharp, burning pain that made Del jump.
“That hurt?”
“Yes,” Del replied through clenched teeth.
“I think our friend Bear was right. There might be a small tear in there. I need you to roll over.”
Del rotated onto his back, his stocking feet extended toward the physician. Dr. Stone placed one hand below Del’s heel and the other on top of his thigh and began slowly raising the leg.
“I’m going to straighten you up here. Tell me when it hurts.”
Del nodded. When his foot climbed just above the doctor’s head, he winced. “Right there.”
“Mmmmm.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Two to four weeks.”
“Two to four weeks?”
“Best guess. Could be longer. Probably won’t be any sooner. You’re going to need to stay off it completely for a few days.”
“Am I gonna be ready for the opener?”
“I don’t know, Del.” Dr. Stone smiled. “We’ll do the best we can.”