Meet me tomorrow and we can discuss.
Where?
My office, lunch time.
I’ll be there.
Maybe something positive will come from this meeting.
Hawk Sinclair has been placed on the 10-day injured list. No word yet on what his ailment is, but we do know it has to do with his throwing arm. Sinclair left the game the other night and while most of us thought it was a pitching change, Sinclair was pulled due to injury and sent back to Boston for further evaluation.
* * *
When we reached out to pitching coach, Cole Fisk, he gave us a Bill Belichick type response, saying that Hawk flew like a bird! I don’t know about you, BoRe fans, but having two smart ass coaches in Boston is way too many for our liking.
* * *
With Sinclair out of the rotation, all eyes are on Max Tadashi, waiting to see if he will remain day-to-day.
GOSSIP WIRE
Ethan Davenport’s niece, Shea, took a foul ball to the shoulder the other day. The kicker? It was off her uncle’s bat. No word on if the two are on speaking terms, but grandmother assured us that Shea is fine and angry that her uncle was too fast on his swing.
* * *
With the off-season acquisition of pitcher, Seth West, his girlfriend (Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, Seraphina Davies) has joined him in Florida and seems to be fitting in with the other WAG’s. Welcome to the Renegades, Seth.
Three
Hawk
By the third inning, I’m garbage. I’m fighting to stay in the game, shaking off any type of fastball Gonzalez is asking for because I can’t muster up the strength to get my arm to throw with any velocity. In between innings, he’s in my ear, asking me if I’m okay. I give him one-word answers because anything else just won’t suffice. I’m waiting for him to go to Fisk or Wilson and tell them that I need to be yanked. But he won’t. There’s a creed among pitchers and catchers. We have each other’s backs, no matter what.
It’s the bottom of the fourth. My coat is off, my glove is in my hand and I’m walking to the mound along with Gonzalez. He bends and picks the ball up, holding it in his hand. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” I lie to him.
With visible reluctance he sets the game ball into my glove and walks toward the plate. Once he crouches down, I start my warm-up pitches. My arm protests and I have no doubt in my mind that my face shows every detail of the pain I’m in.
The batter steps into the box. I hide my face behind my glove so only he and Gonzalez can see my eyes. If they saw my face, they’d see me gnawing at my lower lip. I inhale deeply and let the air out of my lungs as slowly as possible. I don’t want to do this, not anymore. I need rest, medical attention, and a freaking ice bath. The sign is given, fastball-high-inside. My body goes through the motions. My arm cocks back, my leg kicks out, and I’m grunting. I give it everything I have to get this ball to the plate.
As soon as I release the ball, I double over in pain and scream out. There’s commotion all around me but all I see is blurry cleats. Hands are on my back and multiple people are asking me questions that I can’t answer because I can’t catch my breath.
Wilson crouches down so he can look at me. “What’s up, Hawk?” I don’t even have to say anything, he knows. “Is it your back? Can you walk?”
“No, I can walk. It’s my arm.” I straighten and glance into the stands. The nice thing about spring training is that it’s intimate, our fans are close. It also means they don’t miss anything when something happens to a member of the team. I can see the concerned look on their faces and pray my parents aren’t watching this game. If they are, there’s no doubt my mom is on the phone, trying to get a hold of anyone who can give her answers. Our GM, Ryan Stone, made the mistake of giving her his cell number years ago and I bet he’s regretting that now.
“Let’s get you to the trainer.”
I don’t need help walking but he keeps his hand on my back the entire walk to the dugout. Everyone in the stands is clapping. I raise my arm — my left, not my right — and wave to everyone. Wilson passes me off to Fisk, who walks with me to the training room.
“Pulled a muscle?”
“I don’t know, Coach. I can’t feel my arm.” I happen to look at him when I say those words and wish I hadn’t. I don’t need to ask him what he’s thinking because it’s written all over his face — he’s deeply concerned. And I know he can see that mine is screaming, “I’m fucking scared.”
Inside the training room, a couple of the trainers are setting up the machines we often use: Stim and ultrasound, but something tells me that neither of these are going to work. I’ve never had an injury that’s resulted in scarring, that I’m aware of, so ultrasound really isn’t going to do anything for me. And stim . . . well everyone thinks stim fixes everything. I’ve never been a fan of the deep pulsating action, but what do I know?
Cait, our lead trainer, has me sit on the table. When Stone hired her, the guys were very hesitant about coming to see her. Mostly because she’s very pretty. After a few days on the field with her, we realized she’s just one of the guys. Doesn’t mean we don’t try to flirt with her though.