I start to shake my head, only to have pain radiate through my entire body.
“You may not want to do that.”
“I’d really like to cuss at you,” I tell my mom who smiles sweetly at me. She knows I wouldn’t, but there are times, like right now, when I’d love to be a smartass and say something sarcastic to her.
“I don’t care how old you are, I’ll wash that mouth out with soap.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I mumble.
Mom frets with the blankets on my bed, making sure I’m okay, and finally presses the button for the nurse. I sense that she’s fighting back her tears. When I called to tell my parents that my season was likely over, my mom cried. My dad did the “macho dad thing” and told me everything would be okay. I’m doing my best to believe him, but I’m not so sure.
Out of the others I know of who have had this done, only one was sidelined a bit longer than expected but he also had Tommy John surgery beforehand and missed two seasons. Since then, he’s been unstoppable in most games.
The nurse comes in, checks my vitals, and tells me that I need to get up and walk every two hours to keep the blood clots from forming. Great, another ailment to worry about. She says my mom can assist me and to feel free to use the hallway to get my exercise. After she leaves, my mom stands next to me expectantly.
“What? Now?”
“Are you waiting for the Renegades to win the pennant?”
“That’s a low blow, Ma.”
She chuckles and moves my IV stand out of the way so she can reach me easier. “Moving is going to hurt, but I got you.”
That she has. For as long as I can remember, my mom has been my rock, my biggest cheerleader, supporter, and best friend. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that she has my back and will do what needs to be done to make sure I’m on the path to recovery.
The decision to return to my hometown wasn’t made lightly. It was pretty much my mother’s doing. She didn’t want to leave me while I rehabbed and knowing it could take up to twelve weeks, she said it would be better for me to come home.
Home is such a funny word when you think about it. Not the meaning, but what it entails. For the longest time, I’ve considered my apartment in Boston my home. Yet, as I step out of my dad’s truck and look at the house I grew up in, there’s this odd sensation that washes over me, pushing me to the brink of tears. I know my emotions are all out of whack because of my injury but looking at my parents’ two-story farmhouse brings back a lot of memories from when I grew up here. On the outside, the house looks like everyone else’s right down to the wraparound porch, but behind it is where the life is. It’s where I learned to throw a baseball and football, run faster than all get out because a damn bull chased after me, and where my friends and I built our own baseball field after watching Field of Dreams. I think my parents were secretly happy about this because they always knew where I was. The downfall? The field didn’t have electricity so once nightfall came, our games were over.
Richfield, Montana isn’t a small town, but it’s not large by any stretch of the imagination. We don’t have the big superstores, and everything is locally owned. Building the baseball field gave kids a place to play. We used to hold mock tournaments and set up our own little league series. My dad constructed an old-fashioned scoreboard, much like the one at Lowery Field, and the moms would get together and have a concession stand that was really meant to feed us lunch.
It wasn’t until I donated money to build a true park, that the kids in Richfield had a real place to play. It was the least I could do after the Renegades drafted me. I wasn’t going to be home and I didn’t want my parents worrying about the maintenance. The last I knew, my father let the grass take over the old field, which makes me sad now even though I know it was for the best.
Also behind the house is where our livelihood begins. The barns, tack house, bunk houses. At last count, my father has ten men and women working for him as ranch hands and wranglers. This is where I met Brett Larsen, my best friend through middle and high school. His father came to work for my father and brought him along. It was unheard of, a cowboy bringing a child to work, but Brett’s mother had died when he was younger and they didn’t have much family. It worked out for me because I always had someone to play with and my mother never seemed to mind that Brett hung out in our house.
“Not much has changed.” My dad’s words are gruff, hard. His skin is weathered from the sun, wind, and harsh winters. My mom wants him to retire but my sisters and I know the day he retires is the day he drops dead on the ranch somewhere.
“Everything’s changed.” It may not seem like it, but the vibe is different. I already feel like an outsider. “I should never have stayed away.”
My dad rests his hand on my shoulder. This is as much affection as I’ll receive from him. He’s not a mean father, by any means, he just doesn’t express himself well when it comes to matters of the heart. “This life wasn’t for you. We knew that the minute you picked up a baseball.”
“Still, it’s my home. I should be here in the off season to help.”
“Nah, that’s what my sons-in-law are for.”
I feel as if the comment is backhanded, almost as if I’m not good enough to work a ranch. I know I am. I also know that growing up, I did my chores as fast as I could so Brett and I, and whoever else rode their bikes over, could do other things.
All around, we are surrounded by grasslands but in the front of the house, my mother has made sure the ranch looks like a home. Flowers of all sorts, wind chimes hanging from the roof of the porch, a couple of rocking chairs so she and my father can look out over their land. This is where it’s quiet, where my mom will read a book or play with my nieces and nephew.
“Is Nolan a cowboy?” I ask of my ten-year-old nephew.
Dad shakes his head. “Nope, been trying to make the baseball team.”
“What do you mean trying?” I look at my mom, who avoids eye contact. I know something’s up and my dad isn’t going to tell me, but my mom will later when he’s not around.
Dad sighs. “Lots of politics in town. Come on, I think your sister cooked up a feast for your return.”
I follow my parents up the stairs to their house and as soon as the screen door shuts, my twin nieces, Ali and Ava, come barreling toward me. They’re six and dressed like little cowgirls, complete with hot pink boots.