There are pages and pages of the file scattered over my hotel room bed. I’ve read over every detail of the doctor’s findings, and scrutinized each x-ray, MRI, and EEG result.
My stomach turns from some of the bruised and bloody images following the hit to Casey’s skull. The bleeding may have saved his life, though.
While the latest scans came back clear and normal, his doctor strongly advised against playing baseball again.
I drop the paper and inhale deeply. In all the examples I’ve read in my studies, the patient was never a professional athlete, but they all went back to work after a long rest and healing.
There is one name that pops to mind, though. Pulling my laptop over, I search the name Brendon McCarthy. Brendon McCarthy was a San Diego Pelicans pitcher who was hit by a pitch in the head. Unlike Casey, McCarthy walked off the field but later a CT scan showed he had an epidural hemorrhage, brain contusion and skull fracture. McCarthy underwent emergency surgery and didn’t play for the rest of the season, but he went back to baseball a little less than a year later.
Looking up from my laptop, I stare at the ceiling. McCarthy came back. He played again. Maybe there are others, too.
Looking down at the laptop again, I type head injury and baseball into the search browser. McCarthy’s name comes up, and so does Casey’s. There are photos of him on the ground and my body shudders as it recalls the fear that gripped my heart that day. The last time I’d been that scared, I received a phone call that my parents were in a car accident.
I scroll down the long list of photos and articles about Casey, catching a headline that reads: “Doctor says pitcher Casey Tucker could have died that day.”
I scroll quickly past that one and click to the next page. Somewhere near the bottom, there’s an article that isn’t about Casey or McCarthy, but someone named Chris Stevenson who also played with the Pelicans. When a line drive hit Stevenson he fell hard to the ground. An ambulance took him to the hospital where doctors say he suffered a serious concussion and laceration to his head but didn’t fracture his skull. However, the part that makes me sit a little taller is that he returned to pitching three months later.
I close my eyes briefly and fan the flame of hope that sparks in my chest.
Gathering all the papers on the bed, I stack them neatly and put them back in the file folder. It feels as though I’m floating through my hotel room as I rush to get ready and see Casey. A smile remains on my face as I brush my teeth, put on my sandals and walk four blocks to his apartment.
When Casey opens the door, my smile widens and it’s contagious. “What’s got you so happy this morning?” he asks.
He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and those pants distract me every time he moves. I push my gaze back up and press my hands together. “Chris Stevenson went back.”
He blinks rapidly and crosses his arms over his chest. “Who?”
“Chris Stevenson.”
“Yes. I heard you, but I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
When he narrows his eyes, I sigh from frustration. “Chris Stevenson played for the Pelicans ten years ago, and he was hit by a pitch, only he went back to the Majors after three months and finished the season.”
I cross my arms in gleeful pride and wait for him to spin me around and tell me he can’t believe I found this information.
“So?”
“So?!” I ask. “So that means we should dig into this further. There could be a chance for you.”
His muscles flex as his chest rises and falls. He’s breathing heavily but his face shows nothing of his emotions. “That means shit, Sage. His doctors gave him clearance, but mine didn’t. I’m done. It’s over.”
“No. It’s not. I read the reports and your doctor’s recommendation is very conservative. There is less than a 0.001 per cent chance a ball will hit your head again. He is basing the rest of your life on something that will most likely never happen.”
He swallows and stares at me. I think I’m getting through, so I press. “Car accidents happen all the time, but it doesn’t stop us from driving.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I’m just asking for a second opinion. That’s all.”
He rubs his face with his hands. “Don’t do this,” he says. His voice is soft, yet it hurts me to hear the pain in it.
I grab his forearms and squeeze. “Do what?”
“Make me hope. I can’t. I don’t think I can go through that again. I won’t make it out this time.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but his eyes are like mirrors, glassy and bright. “Casey…”
“Please, Sage. Let’s just talk about something else.”
