I wrap my arm around Emma and give her a smile. “He’s going to be okay, Em. I’m sure he just got the wind knocked out of him.”
Foam finger and hot dog forgotten, we watch as theycontinue to assess Max, kneeling over him. From what I can tell, he’s awake and alert. They’re checking his pupils. A minute later, they help him up and he hobbles off the field with help, to applause from around the stadium. Even though Max looks out of it, he takes the hat off his head and wearily waves it in thanks.
In the most uncharacteristic move of my parenting life, I leave Emma with a security guard and rush to the clubhouse, bursting into the room. The team doctor and athletic trainer are running a series of initial tests on Max. Another guy, who I’m guessing is from management, yells, “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
This does not land well with me. “When you can keep your mascot off the field in the middle of a game so my husband stays safe, I’ll follow your rules. Until then,don’t.”
“She’s yours, Hutch?” management asks.
I absentmindedly twist my silicone ring and calm myself down. Reactionary Nola historically hasn’t won me points with Max, but then a small, proud voice responds, “Yes.”
Elation washes over me that despite his accident and my rule-breaking, he’s still willing to call me his. This time I know he means what he’s saying—I am his. He’s not speaking for appearances’ sake and under different circumstances, I’d tackle him with kisses.
Management motions me over to where Max is seated, and I put my hand on Max’s thigh while I provide my own evaluation. I know nothing about the medical field other than how to dispense meds that are clearly labeled, but I need to see with my own eyes that he is okay. I give him a once-over, front and back, then check his pupils, which are glassy, and he winks at me. His uniform is worse for the wear. He seems stable. Again, myassessment is sorely lacking any kind of actual medical knowledge.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“What’s the plan? Do I need to take him to the ER?” I look at the team doctor, having no idea of the procedure following this kind of thing. Emma was not a daredevil child, which I’ve always been hugely grateful for. I know he’s not the first player to ever get a concussion, but then again, no other mascot-third baseman run-ins come to mind, so this is probably new territory for all of us.
The team doc makes a few notes on his tablet and looks up. “You can take him home tonight and keep an eye on him. I’ll text you what to watch for and how to help him recover.”
I nod but think this is completely inadequate care. The man just bounced off a giant foam and fabric fish, for crying out loud. Max speaks up, asking the important question. “When can I play again?”
“At minimum seven days,” the doctor replies.
Max throws his head back with a frustrated grunt and then winces from the impulsive movement. “Things were just starting to come naturally again. I’ll be back to square one if I have to sit out for a week.”
The man who tried to kick me out of the clubhouse takes off his baseball cap and scratches his head. “I know, Hutch. Trust me when I say I’m sorry but rules are rules. We need you to heal up so you don’t miss the regular season.”
“Your age makes me a little more concerned, if I’m being honest.” The doctor looks at Max. “If you were one of our newbies, I’d feel confident in clearing you in seven days. As it is, I’ll reevaluate you in a week and see if I can okay you to play or not. You took a hard hit.”
The clubhouse goes silent while Max swallows the news—the nice way of saying his second chance at baseball might be over two weeks into spring training. Sitting in the corner wearing half a costume, the headpiece on the bench next to him, is a younger guy with sweaty, curly hair. A renewed sense of fury courses through me. “You!”
The bite in my tone makes him jump and I’m glad it does. I don’t like seeing my people hurt, put out, or unfairly treated, and I get that accidents happen—Elliott died in an accident—but this was avoidable. The game was in play—how does the team mascot not understand their only job is to stay out of the way?
“I’m so sorry,” he says to the whole room. He looks it, too, but I’m not backing down.
“Are you allergic to bees?” I ask him, taking a step closer to where he sits.
“No.”
I take another step closer. “So you weren’t in a life-or-death situation?”
“No.” He shakes his head.
“Then what I’m hearing is you’re a wuss.”
There’s a throat-clearing behind me from management that I choose to ignore, and I look to Max, who gives me a small smirk. Without breaking eye contact with me, Max says, “My wife’s the best, isn’t she?”
Once Max is clearedto leave, I go find Emma at the security post where I left her. She’s eating a box of Cracker Jacks and talking the security guard’s ear off about the many creatures she hopes to see while hiking the Superstition Mountains.
“What about mountain lions?”
“Yep,” he says. “It’s uncommon to see one, but they’re there.”
“Well, we have those in the Boise Foothills,” she says, unimpressed. “Tarantulas?”
“Yep, got those too.”
