Stay Quick. Stay Short. Stay Strong.

    I’d known this pain. I’d experienced it five times before. The buckle. The total collapse. The sound, like gunshots and micro explosions localized to one small area, but in a mostly empty gymnasium, a truly deafening pop. 

    “Was that a knee?” Coach Thompson, asked a nearby referee. 

    I laid there, clutching the space just below the bend of my knee, in total silence. I knew what had happened. I didn’t have to look. Eyes tightly closed, I could still make out the shadows and feel the air change around me as teammates, coaches, opponents and doctors circled around me and took knees to pray. 

    “It’s a knee, Bob. It’s not good.” Weston, the games lead official said.

    Somewhere just outside the paint, my barely six-foot frame laid, clutching the left knee I’d worked so hard to come back from time and time again. Despite a specially designed brace that I was forced to begin playing with after the previous knee injury, somehow, the collapse occurred again.

    The team doctors huddled around me and our managers made a makeshift privacy wall out of team towels from the bench. It’s not out of place. I can feel it intact and mobile. It can’t be as gruesome as they’re treating it. Can it? I thought to myself.  

    “Billy, can you let go of your knee for me? I need to perform some tests, okay? Just try your best to relax and remain still.” Barry, the team doctor said.

    BEEEEEEP!! The horn sounded and ricocheted through the nearly empty gymnasium. Someone must have forgotten to stop the clock. God. Maybe this is worse.

    “Is the knee in place? Did the brace contain the patella?” I, asked. 

    I began to straighten my leg. On my own or with the assistance of doc, I didn’t know. But it moved. And that was enough for me.

    “Help me up.” I, said.

    Barry and his assistant looked at one another before gently trying to guide my upper half back down to perform the tests necessary.

    “Help me. The fuck. Up!” I said again.

    Against their better judgement, the docs helped me to my feet. My teammates, opponents and handful of fans in the crowd began to give a hesitant ovation. 

    Both feet were mostly firmly planted on the court beneath me, but with weight shifted heavily to my right side. Teammates began to tap me on my back, give gentle hugs and dap me up. With doc on my left, coach Thompson on my right, I slowly and carefully put one foot in front of the other to walk off the court. My left knee, never fully straightening and never gracefully pacing my gait to the right.

    Back In the locker room on the trainers table, I had already unstrapped the brace that was holding my left knee together and enabling me to make it off the court moments before. The swelling was immediate as there was no definitive kneecap to be seen just minutes after the accident. The scar that traveled north to south down my left knee from prior surgeries was thick and smooth. The hair never having grown back. 

    “Back to work. Back to work.” I, said. Frustrated, but not defeated.

    In the hall outside the training room was our athletic director. A young guy, in just his second year. I wasn’t his scholarship choice, and he never passed an opportunity to remind me of that. The vein in his forehead was popping through blotchy skin and his military haircut. His finger jabbed repeatedly in the direction of my broken body on the trainers table while doc took the heat.

    The athletic director left doc out in the hall when he came to address me on the table. A.D. with tightly pursed lips scanning my body and avoiding any eye contact, and me staring right back waiting for him to address me, to scream at me, to tell me this is exactly why the school doesn’t allow scholarship athletes to play sports outside the one they were brought in for. Seconds passed, maybe minutes and still no words spoken. I hadn’t blinked, waiting for the scolding I expected to receive. It would have been fair, in all honesty. I was here to play baseball. And through three seasons, I had played just 12 games. The least of any of the four sports I logged for the school through three years.

    “Get right, kid. Just…ugh. I don’t know. Get right.” A.D., said.

    I must have been holding my breath, as well as not blinking because when A.D. left the trainers room, my whole chest released, and I began to cry. I had let the school down again. I had let my baseball team down again. There would be no surpassing timelines and early returns this time. It looked like it would be the last time that I would ever wear the schools colors again.

#

    A year and three months into my rehab for five torn major ligaments and a shredded meniscus, I still wasn’t cleared for anything outside the physical training hours I was scheduled by the surgeons. My left knee had been through more trauma in four years without the proper rehabilitation and recovery length needed to ensure prolonged safety and health, that at this point the goal was just to resume day to day activity without hindrance. I hadn’t even considered returning to the ball field. Or the rink. Or the court. 

    “Good work, kid. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but your stability in that joint is coming along. Depth is good on the single leg squat and your reflexes whilst remaining balance on the wobble board are encouraging. You should be proud of yourself.” Alex, the physical therapist said.

    It was true. I couldn’t tell the difference week over week. I only knew my body and it’s physical abilities in relation to the athletes around me in games and practice. In everyday life, I felt oddly normal. 

    “What do you say we field a few ground balls, eh? Give you a little reward for the work you’ve done these 15 months.” Alex, said.

    I hadn’t even considered touching my athletic gear. I had my dad take it all out into the garage storage after the injury. Even still, just hearing the insistence of Alex gave me butterflies. I missed the game. I tamped it down and kicked those feelings aside to not feel sorry for myself, but I always had the itch. Deep down, it was there. For baseball, especially. My first true love and the first thing that I ever felt loved me back. Everything I gave it; it gave back tenfold. I was grateful for my relationship with that beautiful game, and I felt guilty for jeopardizing my future on the diamond by engaging in three other sports.

    Alex went behind his rolling travel nurses desk and took it out from a drawer. There it was. My worn leather, Rawlings infield glove. The oil stain in the pocket. The chewed lace atop the webbing. The still not fully broken in stiffness leaving it perennially slightly agate. He tossed it to me, and I felt genuine warmth and tingles through my entire body. I didn’t intend on it, but my eyes began to well up. I felt my breathing choke heavy as I turned and slid my hand into the leather. Hello, old friend. I’ve missed you.

    “What do you say? Don’t tell me I had your pop drop it off for no reason this week. A round of perfects, just feel yourself in that athletic position again.” Alex, suggested.

    I heard his words as if I were under water. I couldn’t stop running my fingers over the leather. Feeling the slight slickness of the oiled pocket and the tried tack of the pine tar on the heel. 

    “What did you say?” I, asked.

    “Ten perfects. Just give yourself a little taste. A little motivation to take these next steps.” Alex, said.

    Alex grabbed three baseballs from his cart and set himself up about five yards away from me. I put my face deep into the pocket and took a drag of that oiled leather scent mixed with dried dirt and sweat. I smiled.

    “You’re only gonna need one of those. I don’t miss.” I, said.

    Ten perfects turned into 30 minutes of traditional picks, backhands, short hops and glove side actions. I made every play. The ball hitting the pocket giving a light pop sent energy right into my soul. The ball physically picking up speed on the hops the deeper into the session, but my eyes snapped right back into ballplayer mode and everything around me slowed down. Every rotation of the laces, from the spot on the carpet the ball would hit all the way into the pocket of the glove I saw in perfect slow motion. I began to cry. 

#

    Day 491 came and with it, I was officially cleared for full athletic activity. I had been cleared weeks earlier to rejoin the practice facilities to be able to work in private workouts in controlled settings for safety purposes. 

    The team had played well that season going 19-6 and earning a berth to division championship game. I had been around the team the those last few weeks, and they had started to embrace me in a comforting and accepting way. Guys would ask me if I noticed a pitcher tipping pitches, or of I picked up a move to first base that could give us an edge. Coaches would ask me what I was noticing about the opponents offensive approach and even turned over calling the games pitches from our dugout for several of our pitchers. I felt at home again. I felt a purpose again. I was falling in love again.

    “Okay, gents. Gather round. Gather round. Before the prayer, we have a lineup change. While he isn’t quite ready to hit the field, we welcome back Billy tonight in the biggest game of this programs history in over three decades. Billy, you’ll be leading off and DH’ing.” Coach, said.

    My teammates were absolutely pumped. The cheers and celebratory handshakes and jumping forcing me into the middle of the team circle was the single greatest feeling I had in my life to that point. Kevin, the team’s freshman DH who had been holding down that spot for the last several weeks due to an injury to Sergio – handed me the lineup card and told me he was just there to keep my seat warm and to get after it. Kevin would go on in later years to become the schools all time hits, RBI and home run leader. And to me, the most generous and gracious teammate of my life. 

    Father Steve joined the locker room festivities and settled the boys and I down for a prayer before we headed to get to the bus. A ringing in my ear began to grow louder and louder. My fingers began to tingle and my throat, sandpaper dry. I couldn’t catch my breath, and my eyes physically felt cold. 

    “Amen.” Father Steve and the team said at once.

    Coach led the team out of the locker room and towards the exit corridor where we’d all leave to catch a bus to our home field just miles off site. As the doors swung open, I heard students and alumni greet our players with cheers and excitement. I was last in line. Coaches idea to surprise the folks outside to see me in full uniform for the first time in nearly two seasons. 

    A.D. stopped me before I exited the locker room. He had a nervous look on his face, and I could only imagine he had not received the news that I was cleared to play. I immediately started to try to explain that I was cleared when he put his hands on both of my shoulders. 

    “Come with me. Before you board the bus and bring us home a championship and close out your time here on top, come with me.” A.D., said.

    He led me through the separate corridor that led to our school gymnasium. Kicking open the door he ushered me inside. Emptiness. Not a soul was inside. 

    “Take all the time you need. The bus won’t leave without you.” A.D., said.

    He left me alone in the empty gym without instruction. The silence was screaming. My ears continued to ring, each heartbeat heavy and loud and echoed through my body and off the hardwood floor. I scanned the gym, looking at the rafters, the banners, the scoreboard, center court. 

    I felt sick. I never experienced nerves and fear like I had that day. One final shot to make good on the papers I signed to represent this school almost five years ago as a young 8^th grader. 

    There, laying on the floor in the very spot where my career very well could have ended was an envelope. Walking to the spot where it all changed gave me flashbacks of each injury I had. The knees. The shoulder. The thumb. The concussion. The hand. The longer I felt I walked, the further the envelope seemed to get until it lay right at my feet.

    **FORGIVE YOURSELF** - Written on the exterior of the envelope.

    I knelt down to one knee and felt the area of the court I became so intimately familiar with that day nearly 500 days before. The same faded wear and tear. The same chipped paint in box. Everything slowed down. My heartbeat, a cool 60 beats per minute, if even that. Zero sound. Zero fear. I opened the envelope.

    **Stay quick. Stay short. Stay strong. ** - Was written on a single piece of paper. My personal mantra in the batter’s box. Written in every baseball hat I’d ever wear. Stay quick. Stay Short. Stay strong.