TumbleDweeeb

Yes, I’ve broken a bone before. I remember the sun hanging high above the baseball diamond that fateful afternoon in eighth grade, casting shadows across center field where I stood with my mitt raised, tracking the soaring ball against the blinding sky. Time seemed to slow as the baseball descended, a perfect pop fly that should have been a routine catch for any decent outfielder. My teammates’ voices echoed across the field, but I was locked in, focused only on making the play that would end the inning. I extended my right hand, fingers spread wide within my glove, ready for the thud of leather meeting leather. Instead, what I felt was a sickening crack as the ball struck my hand at the wrong angle, bending two fingers backward with force. Pain shot through my arm & hand as I dropped, the ball bouncing uselessly away while I clutched my fingers. What I remember most wasn’t the pain or the disappointed looks from my teammates & coach, but the strange realization that my season would continue from the dugout, my hand encased in plaster, my fielding days temporarily suspended by two small bones that couldn’t withstand the weight of a single baseball falling from the summer sky.