Duck!

“Here comes the fastball. It’s coming right for my head! Duck! DUCK! DUCK DAMMIT! DUCK!”

Jesse Brock bolted up from his sleep. His silk pyjamas were soaked clean through. He was sweating even more than usual tonight.

But the nightmare was still the same. It was always the same.

His head dropped to his chest as he cupped his face with his large hands and started to cry.

“You’ll never be able to do this,” his inner voice told him. “NEVER! It’s over.”

Jesse tried to go back to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, the baseballs were screaming towards him once again – one, two, and even three at a time.

The radio clock’s red digital display in the darkened room said it was 4:37. He would be getting up in a couple of hours anyway. “Fuck it!” He tossed the blankets off, got out of bed and headed for a cold shower.

 -----

The greetings Jesse had received when he first arrived at the Spring Training complex in Florida nine days ago were encouraging.

“Jesse, buddy! Great to see you. You’re looking great! How’ya doing?” Some of the players would ask. A few of his older teammates teased him. “Hey kid, good to have you back. How’s the old noggin?” “Good thing you didn’t damage anything important.”

“Never been better. Good as new boys,” he would lie in response.

Jesse questioned if he was even good, let alone better.

After all, how could anyone come back from getting beaned in the side of the head by a 104-mile-per-hour fastball.

The impact of that August 12^th pitch, which abruptly ended his first season in the big leagues, had shattered more than just his batting helmet. It had shattered his confidence. He knew it. Would others know it too?

Jesse had spent the next six weeks in hospital recovering from that blow and the emergency surgery that almost cost him his eyesight in the left eye.

But the surgeon was great and with some ‘minor’ plastic surgery, he was told a “full recovery” was expected.

“Full recovery.” Jesse kept telling himself. “What the hell do they know about recovering from almost having half your face smashed in?”

Over the winter months he worked hard to get back in shape. Being immobile and confined to a hospital room wasn’t ideal for a professional athlete. Even if he was only 23, he still had a lot of catching up to do.

The migraines would subside over time, they said. As would his sensitivity to bright lights.

During one follow up, when Jesse had complained about the headaches and the discomfort he felt whenever things got too bright. he was told to “avoid” bright lights.

“Is that possible for you Mr. Brock? Can you avoid being in areas with bright lights?” Doctor Logan asked.

“I’m a F’N ballplayer Doc! What the hell do you think?”

“Well, give it time son. Give it time.”

But now that spring training was here, time was up.

 -----

Jesse Brock was leading the league in home runs last season, before it was all taken away from him. They all said he was fearless at the plate.

“Look how he leans in. He crowds the plate and takes away the outside edge of the strike zone,” baseball commentators often said. “He doesn’t even flinch when they try brush back pitches.”

But now, even during batting practise, Jesse stayed back in the batter’s box.

As the early days in spring training progressed, Jesse became more and more nervous, more and more agitated, and more and more unhappy.

One morning manager Bob Turnbull called Jesse into his office.

“Games start tomorrow, kid. How are you feeling?”

Turnbull, a 45-year veteran of the game, saw the young player squirm ever so slightly in the chair.

“Things are coming along,” Jesse said. “I’m worried about getting my timing back though. It’s been a while ya know,” he joked.

“Your timing will come back. You have a natural talent. But that’s not what I’m asking.”

“What do you mean, Skipper?” Jesse cleared his throat.

“Look son, I got beaned a couple of times over my career, but I had already ten and twelve years up in the bigs. You didn’t even get your first year under your belt. I know it can be difficult that first time.”

Jesse tried a different line of defense. “Ah geez, Skip, I got hit plenty of times in the minors. No problem.”

Turnbull raised his voice. “Did you ever get hit in the side of the head with a hundred-plus mile an hour fast ball?” He needed to break through his player’s bravado.

“Ahh, umm, no Skip. No, never got hit in the head,” Jesse’s voice was softer now. He was defeated.

“Alright then. I’m starting you at DH tomorrow. Get some rest tonight.”

As Jesse stood to leave, the Skipper had one more thing to say.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying it this year son. I never see you smile. It’s OK to smile ya know – it’s spring, it’s baseball, and you’re back in the game. So enjoy it will ya?”

Jesse looked back at his Skipper. He said he would try, but he didn’t smile.

That night, back in his apartment, Jesse was a mess. He paced around the living room wondering if he should back out of tomorrow’s game. “I’ll tell them I have a touch of the stomach flu,” he said aloud. After all, other players had come down with the bug last week.

But, everyone knew, Jesse never got sick. “That won’t work,” his inner voice told him. “Just tell them the truth. Tell them you’re scared. Tell them you want to quit.”

The migraine pounding in his head wouldn’t stop either. “When will they stop?”

He looked at the face in the mirror and questioned whether it was all worth it. He got ready for bed, but knew he wouldn’t be ready for sleep and he tossed and turned in a hopeless and futile attempt to “get some rest,” but every time he did nod off, it only lasted as long as it took for a fast ball to slam into his head.

“LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT! IT’S COMING RIGHT FOR YOU! DUCK!”

 ----- 

In the clubhouse before the game reporters were all around Jesse’s locker.

“I guess you can’t wait to get back in there huh Jesse?”

“You bet. It’s good to be back playing again.” He replied, not really in the mood for more questions about how he was feeling.

“You were leading the league in dingers last year before the injury. Think you can regain that swing?”

“I’m not thinking of that right now,” Jesse snapped back. “I just want to help the team win.”

“Do you think that beaming you took will affect your approach?”

Jesse had seen video of that day, that pitch – he must have watched it 50 times and saw it 100 times more in his head. Suddenly it flashed before his eyes once again.

“Why are you asking me these questions? I haven’t even played a game yet. Leave me alone!” He stormed away from the press corps.

Jesse’s at bat came in the second inning. He slowly walked up to the plate. His heart was pounding so fast and so hard, he thought the home plate umpire would hear it.

The catcher called for a curveball. Jesse bailed, ducked and turned his body away from the plate but his bat was deemed a swing. It was a pitch closer to the ground than it was his shoulders.

The next one was off the plate but Jesse swung at the ball in wild fashion. The third pitch was even further off the plate and Jesse swung again. Three pitches, three strikes.

His only other at bat that game produced the exact same results and Turnbull took him out.

“Get’em tomorrow kid.”

“Ya, right Skipper.”

But the next game wasn’t any better. In fact, Jesse never even made contact with the ball on any pitch in his next eight games. He went 0 for 18.

He was lost and everyone knew it. Attempts to console and reassure him by some teammates always drew angry replies, so players decided to leave him alone with his demons.

Turnbull decided Jesse wasn’t ready and told him he would be sitting out “for a while”.

“You need to get your head on straight,” Turnbull said. “Maybe you ought to see a shrink.”

“I’m fine Skipper. I just wished everyone would get off my back and leave me alone.”

“Well, you’re benched until further notice.”

“Whatever,” Jesse replied and walked away.

The media, always quick to jump on or off a bandwagon, was unforgiving.

‘Has Jesse the wonderkid lost his magic?” Read one headline.

“Should Brock start season in the minors?” Another headline asked.

But the one that hit a nerve with Jesse the hardest was:

‘Dream first season turns into nightmare in spring’.

When he saw that one he flung the paper across the clubhouse and screamed at no one, but he was screaming at everyone.

Reporters knew enough to leave him alone and instead went after the manager.

“Is he done? Will you be sending him down at the start of the season?”

“For shit’s sake fellas, it’s Spring training!” Turnbull countered.

“But he can’t even make contact with the ball Bob. Stevie Wonder would have a better swing at the plate.”

“Just leave him be. Give him some space. Give him some time.”

The questions continued day in and day out – and while Jesse wasn’t playing the speculation grew.

“Sometimes you just can’t come back from a beaming like the one he took last year,” said a TV commentator before the start of a televised game. “They’re going to have to send him down to get his confidence back. If that’s even possible.”

For the next two weeks Turnbull had him on the bench and told reporters to leave him alone.

“He’s off limits. Period!” The manager told the group.

Then one day, half way through the spring, in the sixth inning, Turnbull suddenly yelled over to Jesse. “Brock, grab a bat, you’re hitting for Spencer.”

Hitting coach Mike Courtney pulled Turnbull aside. “Bob, do you think that’s wise? He hasn’t been in a game for a couple of weeks now and he wasn’t very good when he was. He hasn’t had time to prepare.”

“That’s exactly why I’m doing it Mike. I don’t want him fretting all the night before and all during the day about facing live pitching again. He’s got to jump in the deep end without having the chance to think about it.”

Jesse wasn’t happy to get the call. He still didn’t believe he was ready – “Will you ever BE ready?” The voice asked.

The league knew all about his struggles and the reason behind it. So, the catcher called for an inside pitch. Even though Jesse was standing off the plate, he still took a step back as he swung way too early and missed.

The second pitch was a fast ball right down the heart of the plate and Jesse just froze.

“Jesus!” Courtney whispered in Turnbull’s ear. “The kid’s still petrified up there.”

“Ya, he is.” Turnbull said as he spat on the dugout floor.

He swung wildly at another pitch well off the plate but somehow managed to foul it off. He then fouled off three more. Without even realizing it, with each pitch Jesse inched closer to the plate.

On the seventh pitch of the at bat, a curve ball that didn’t curve enough, Jesse swung and swung hard. He felt the ball smash into the barrel of the bat and saw it sailing high into the bright blue sky. That beautiful bright blue sky!

“Well look at that,” Courtney said to Turnbull as Jesse was rounding second base on his way to home plate. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen the kid smile all spring.”

“Ya,” Turnbull said. “It is at that.”