Page 37 of Proof Of Life

“You could’ve been nicer,” I admonish him when we’re seated side-by-side in the plastic chairs.

“Here,” he says, shoving the backpack in my lap. “Take your ball sack.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble and rifle through the bag. A heart-shaped stress-squeezy, a pen with the BALLS logo, glossy brochures, and a fridge magnet with their phone number.

His knee bounces wildly, and I can almost feel his anxiety. I know he doesn’t want to be here, but I’ll be damned if we’re leaving. I just hope Riggs shows up before I have to physically restrain him.

“Come on, let’s just g–”

“Wardell, Aguilar! Glad to see you made it,” Riggs booms in a voice that carries across the reception area. He hands a to-go cup of coffee to Margaret Anne and motions for us to follow him.

He’s wearing black track pants and a black T-shirt that says, ‘I love BALLS’, and I can already hear West’s snarky joke in my head.

“Let me show you around,” he offers. He makes a right turn down a long, narrow hall and points to the left. “That’s the gym. You can find pickup games of basketball at all hours of the day, played by teams with two legs, and teams with two wheels.” Further down, he motions to the right. “Weights and cardio. You’ll usually find me in there, working with people just like you, wanting to push their recovery further.”

We duck our heads in and stop short. The equipment is sick. Completely state-of-the-art. I would love to see West benefit from some of this equipment. A huge man stands under a machine with a weighted bar that he’s pulling down to work his shoulders. Riggs points to the man's left leg, or rather, his prosthetic leg.

“See that? Hydraulics. We’ll get you hooked up with something like that, Wardell.”

I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, thinking of all the possibilities a leg like that could provide West. Uneven terrain, unstable, moving surfaces, like a boat or a floating dock—it would open up new worlds for him.

West keeps a silent, noncommittal look pasted on his face, not giving anything away. On the surface, he appears to be taking it all in, but I know the gears in his brain are working overtime.

Riggs continues down the hall, pointing left and right as he calls out room after room. “Cafeteria in there. You can eat a free hot meal anytime of day, but the vending machines are paid. Across the way are locker rooms and showers, and they lead to the indoor pool. There's also a sauna in the locker room you might want to take advantage of. It’s nice,” he adds with a wink.

“This place is unreal,” I say out loud, knowing West is thinking the same thing. “Where do they get their funding from?”

“Private donations, military families, retired vets with pensions or successful private businesses, even some military contractors donate to us. Sadly, many families that have lost a soldier have given us a portion of their settlements as well, which we’re grateful for. We also receive federal grants and state funding.”

We pass what looks like a suite of offices, followed by exam rooms. “Our occupational therapists work here.” We turn right again to find another long hallway. I spot what looks like a classroom with children’s drawings taped to the walls.

“What’s this?”

“A lot of our vets have become daily caregivers while their spouses are the primary breadwinners who have to go out to a day job, which leaves our vets with the brunt of childcare. This way, they never have to miss a session. We also offer a summer camp for our clients' families, and for children of fallen soldiers.”

I was blown away by the scope of their reach and services.

“Follow me. There’s something I want to show you.” We follow Riggs through double doors that lead into a short hall lined with three classrooms. The first is filled with computers. A woman sits at the desk. “That’s our workplace skills room. Anna will help you update your résumé and become certified in any computer program you need to find a new job. She can also get you enrolled anywhere you want to take classes and find you help to pay for them.”

“What are the other two for?” I ask.

“Support groups. They meet throughout the day. Every kind of group you could imagine. Support for family members that have lost a loved one, support for vets going through divorce, or struggling with being single and alone. There’s a group for PTS survivors and another for substance abuse.”

We follow him into the classroom and stand by while he takes a seat. The chairs are arranged in a circle, but they’re all empty. But soon, they begin to fill up as vet after vet strolls through the door. These guys are huge. With missing limbs, scars, and tattoos, full, thick beards, and even thicker arms. Most are dressed in black leather jackets and ripped jeans, and you can tell they’ve seen some action.

“This must be the support group for men who love leather,” West snarks, and I can’t help but grin. He's such a smartass, but it’s one of the reasons I love him.

It’s not lost on Riggs. He’s struggling not to laugh as he explains, “Most of them belong to the local chapter of the American Legion of Riders.”

I drop the BALLS sack by my feet, and West reaches in to grab the heart squeezy. “And what do the ALR need support for?”

“Just listen in and see for yourself,” Riggs suggests.

Six men fill the empty seats in the circle. They look comfortable, and I assume they all know each other, and have been here many times before. But when they reach into their bags, each marked with the same logo, and pull out needles and yarn, I'm floored and confused.

“Hey, new guys, get you some yarn over there, and some needles,” one-man orders, pointing to a basket on the table behind us. Under his ALR jacket, his black T-shirt says, ‘get stitched’, with a hot pink ball of yarn stabbed by two knitting needles.

“What the fuck is this?” West sounds pissed as he pushes to his feet.

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