When Sparks Fly

“Really? Last I checked, it had one thousand likes.”

“When was that? Two hours after you posted? Get your ass in gear. We have videos to make.”

Less than half an hour later I find a parking spot in one of the local parks that’s about a ten-minute drive away. My goal is to get Avery comfortable with car rides so that by the time she’s ready to get behind the wheel, she doesn’t have a full-on panic attack.

“What are we doing here?”

“We’re going to chill and enjoy some nature.” I pull the wheelchair out of the SUV and set it up for her.

She looks like she wants to argue for a moment but drops into it with a sigh. “Are you trying for an inspirational video scene with this?”

I’m aware she’s still sore from mini putt. I’m also aware she’s annoyed that mini putt makes her this sore. But her body has been through hell, so my plan is to slowly and carefully ease her back into physical activity, one outing at a time. Today it’s the park.

I bring along her crutch because I know she’s going to want to walk on her own without me pushing her around. It never occurred to me before her accident how hard it must be to manage with a wheelchair. Even when it’s temporary, it’s an entire adjustment of her daily life. Doorways can be too narrow, turns too tight, hills too steep. Everything requires more planning and time.

So being out here in the open is a good place to feel less confined by her restrictions and give her a taste of what she’s going to get back once she’s healed.

I wheel her over to the baseball diamonds, where we would sometimes go to run bases or toss balls to each other when we first moved to Colorado Springs. There’s a kid’s team practicing, and in true Avery form, she shouts her praise every time one of the kids makes contact with a ball.

I take some videos of her for her journal. Once the kids vacate the diamond, I wheel her to the pitcher’s mound.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re gonna pitch, I’m gonna hit, and we’ll see how it goes.” I toss her a whiffle ball.

She snatches it out of the air. “I guess it’s a good thing I can’t really hurt you with this thing, because I doubt I have the best aim with this arm.”

“We’ll see about that. You said you were going to suck at mini putt, and you kicked my ass for the first nine holes.”

“Yeah, but I circled the drain in the last nine.”

“Because you were tired. Stop making excuses and start pitching.” I pick up a bat, tap the home plate, and settle into a batter stance. If there’s a sport, Avery’s played it at least once. Baseball might not be her favorite team sport to play, but it doesn’t mean she’s not good at it.

Her first toss is a little low, but I still manage to hit it, sending it out into left field. She pitches half a dozen balls, her aim improving with each throw. When we run out of balls, I jog out onto the field and collect them, and when I return, Avery has moved from the pitcher’s mound to home plate, which is what I was hoping for.

She pushes up out of her chair, arm outstretched to help her find her balance.

“You want your crutch to start?” I drop the balls at the pitcher’s mound and jog over to her.

“Might be a good idea.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her waist as she hops twice, finding her balance. Even once she’s steady, neither of us lets go right away.

“Thank you for this.”

“Anything for you. You know that.” I lean in and give her a quick peck on the cheek.

Once she’s steady, I pass the crutch to her and wait for her to get situated before I hand her the bat. When I’m confident she has her balance, I jog back to the pitcher’s mound to set up the camera again before I start tossing balls. She misses the first one and nearly loses her crutch, but after a couple more swings and some corrections on my part, we finally get a rhythm going. Each hit is stronger than the last, and by the time we get to the last few balls, she’s back to balancing on one foot and hitting whiffle balls into the thicket of trees at the edge of the field.

“I feel like you’re doing that on purpose,” I call to her as I pick up the final ball and toss it a couple of times before I wind up.

“My aim is off.” She raises the bat and gets into position.

This time when I throw the ball, I add a little curve and, as expected, she hits it right where the last four balls have gone—into the trees.