Page 8 of Through the Water

That’s no hanging slider, it’s a goddamn breaking ball.

The momentum from my swing pushed me forward, and I ended up chopping it. Out of options, I began hauling ass to first, knowing the ball was fair without even looking.

It was identical to my first Major League hit, with the minor exception being I now had six additional years on my legs. My cleats pounded against the dirt, each steady thump matching my heart rate.

The crowd’s roar became deafening as the announcer shouted, “And he’s hit a high chop down to third. Sanchez bare hands it—”

Fucking Sanchez. For a rookie, he’d been killing it all season.

I could leg it out.

I’d almost hit it right off the damn plate.

If Jimenez made it to third, we still had a shot.

The wind whistled in my ears as I sprinted, drowning out the crowd. With each inhale, the scents of childhood flooded my nostrils.

Dirt.

Pine-tar.

Cotton candy.

I breathed them in, all while knowing that most people would kill to be in my cleats. Inside this chalk baseline, I was king, and there was no better feeling in the world.

It was going to come down to a bang-bang play at first. I just had to pray the ump ruled in my favor. I heard the smack of the ball on leather just as I hit the bag, but instead of being called out, it hit the heel of the first baseman’s glove and rolled back toward the dugout.

I risked a glance to my left and watched as Jimenez rounded third, heading for home. The first base coach threw up the sign and told me to stay, but I knew I could make it to second. One more base hit, and then I’d score the winning run—no extra innings needed.

I was the hero.

With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I planted my left leg to cut toward second base. For a fraction of a second, I thought I had it.

Then, I felt the pop.

The pain was like a freight train, stealing the breath from lungs and taking my legs out from under me. I exhaled a low groan, coming down hard on my left side.

“And Reed is down as he turns to second,” the announcer helpfully reiterated, on the off chance the fans had their eyes closed during the play. “It looks like they’re going to tag him, but he’s hurt.”

I tossed my helmet, gritting my teeth as I writhed in the dirt, worthless as a sidesaddle on a sow. The Bears’ first baseman, Kelly, somberly walked over and dropped down to tag me.

“Your knee?” He nodded toward where I held my leg in a death grip.

I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded, knowing I’d be making today’s edition of ESPN’s Not Top Ten. Thoughts of my father filtered through the haze of agony as the team closed in, rapidly firing questions I had no way of answering.

Not in my current state.

Unable to handle the sudden silence that had descended over the ballpark, the announcer continued his long-winded rambling. “There’s certainly some confusion over on first base. I think Reed thought he had an opportunity to make it to second—and it appears they’re calling for the stretcher. After reviewing the replay, it looks as if his knee goes inward. Killian Reed is down just after making the turn at first base, and it looks bad, folks.”

Asshole.

One of the trainers helped me into a sitting position, but the movement sent shockwaves of white-hot pain radiating throughout my leg, damn near forcing me back down.

I was just getting started—what if this was it?

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