CHAPTER 18

Pop and Nellie caught up with me in the waiting room.

“So this is what it’s like to be a celebrity!” Nellie said. “There were cops at the door to keep the TV guys from crashing the hospital.”

A half hour later Lisa came through the doors. “Hey, Trip,” she said and gave me a hug. “How are you doing?”

“I guess the question is ‘How is he doing?’” I said.

“Not to me,” Lisa shot back and put an arm on my shoulder.

We had probably been there about two hours when a guy in blue scrubs with blood all over them came out of the ER. His nametag said Chris Williams, M.D., and underneath that Neurosurgery.

“Costas?” he said, looking around. I waved.

“Is Julio Costas your father?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Dr. Williams. The EMT said your father was hit by a baseball, right?”

I nodded.

“He’s still unconscious, but his vital signs are good. We x-rayed his skull, and he doesn’t seem to have any fractures. So right now he’s up in radiology getting a CT scan, so we’ll know what’s happening with his brain. I’ll check back as soon as I have something more to tell you. Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Is he going to live?”

“So far I don’t see why not. What we’d be worried about is any bleeding or swelling in his brain. The CT will give us a lot more information.”

After another hour I finally said, “Guys, Lisa, this could be a long time. You don’t have to. . .”

They just looked at me and shook their heads. “Forget it,” Lisa said.

 

. . .

Around hour four Dr. Williams reappeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “This place is crazy tonight. The CT scan on your father was negative. He probably has a concussion, but with rest he’ll be better in a while as long as he takes it easy.”

“So he’s conscious?”

“Getting there. He’s coming to very slowly.”

“Can I see him?”

The doctor looked at his watch. “Give him about two more hours. He’s in a private room and resting comfortably, but we want to keep an eye on him a little bit longer.”

Exactly two hours later I was at Dad’s bedside. He reached his arms up as far as he could without straining the IV tube, and we hugged. He had a bandage on his forehead where he’d been hit and the beginnings of a black eye. But he was smiling.

“How are you feeling, Dad?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” he said. “No one should know better than you what a hard head I have. You know, the last thing I remember was standing by the dugout talking to Wash. What really happened?”

I told him that someone at batting practice had pulled the ball and it had hit him.

“Do you know who hit it?” he asked.

“It was me, Dad.”

He looked at me for a moment, and then suddenly laughed so hard I was afraid he’d hurt himself.

“Isn’t that something?” he said. “After all we’ve been through lately?” Then he got serious. “Look, son, I need to tell you I’m sorry.”

“Why? I was the one who—”

He held up a hand. “When I started to get my senses back, I don’t know, instead of being in a fog it was like I was seeing more clearly than ever. And I saw an old man who was trying to turn his son into himself.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“Trip, you told me over and over that you were tired of baseball. And I just wouldn’t hear it. It was my way or the highway, right?”

“It’s okay, I . . .”

“I was not respecting you, Trip. You are old enough now to make some decisions about your life, your future. I’m proud of you, Trip, baseball or not.”

I didn’t know what to say. But he went on.

“So I’ll keep supporting the Runners. Coach Harris knows what he’s doing. Between the two of you, you can decide whether you play.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’m proud of you too, you know.” We hugged again.

“You know,” he said with a smile, “you’re a pretty good singer.”