got to be a way to fix this faster.”
-
I don’t want to feel like a petulant child, but I guess I probably look like one. I cross my arms and lean back into the seat of the car, not sure how I feel about getting shoulder surgery.
“Nobody wants to hear whining from a grown-ass man, Witter. So you quit your pouting while you’re ahead.” Coach T’s voice is rough, agitated. I know that he’s not mad at me, per se, but it sure does feel like it. “You’ll be lucky if you’re not benched the whole damn season.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem, coach,” my father chimes in from the back. “He’ll heal really fast. You’ll see.”
Ah, because apparently, I have magic healing powers now too. I shake my head at both of them, wondering what my outcome is going to be post-surgery. I can’t imagine going any length of time without actually playing football, so to think about being injured on top of that . . . it doesn’t exactly sit well with me.
My surgery is scheduled for two days from now, and once I get home and lay up in my bed, I put the TV on so I have some background noise while I think. Jesus, it just goes to figure that something would happen to me in preseason, of all times. It couldn’t happen during the middle of the actual season. No, no. That’s not how things work, apparently.
According to the doctor, after my surgery, I’ll be needing to rehabilitate my shoulder injury with a heavy dose of physical therapy at the nearby sports medicine facility. The team has its own set of doctors, but since I may be out for a while and they need to be there to tend to the players who are actively playing, I have to look elsewhere.
I’m looking over the list of suggestions from Dr. Bahra when I remember something, unsure how it hasn’t come to the forefront of my mind until just now. I already know someone who does physical therapy. And I know that person very intimately, you could say.
I reach over and grab my cellphone, quickly dialing up Coach T’s number. “Hey, Coach. Yeah, I’m looking right now, actually. I wanted to talk to you about that, when you get a second. Sure, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon.”
I hang up and wait until he shows up to my house. Hopefully, he’ll go for my idea.
--
T he deep lines of his frown tell me that maybe I got hopeful for no reason. Maybe I’m being stupid about the whole thing anyway.
“In North Carolina? You couldn’t have found someone closer, Son?”
I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I trust her. You know how I am about doctors in general. I’m no good with them. Besides . . .” I begin, trying to think on my feet. “Miss Sullivan is well known for her sports medicine techniques. I’ve read good stuff about her.” Honestly, I don’t even know if that’s true, and last I checked, Paige didn’t really do or even know much about sports injuries. The lame smile I give Coach probably doesn’t help the matter, either.
Coach rolls his eyes at me. “She’s not a doctor, Witter. She’s just a physical therapist. I’m not sure Maine’s going to be cool with your flying all the way out to North Carolina for your rehabilitation, you know what I’m saying? And let’s face it, your daddy ain’t going to like it, either.”
I’m grasping at straws, wishing I knew what else I could say to convince him. “My father can get the hell over it. It shouldn’t make a difference to him where I’m going. North Carolina is where I grew up, man. I haven’t been back since . . . since my mom died. That was fifteen years ago, and this just gives me the best opportunity to finally visit her grave.”
It’s shitty of me to pull the dead mom card on Coach, but I still do, filing the shame in the back my mind for now.
“Dammit, I guess you have a point. I’ll try and see what Johnny says, but I can’t make any guarantees. Don’t go holdin’ your breath.”
I quickly nod my head in agreement, and by the
-
I don’t want to feel like a petulant child, but I guess I probably look like one. I cross my arms and lean back into the seat of the car, not sure how I feel about getting shoulder surgery.
“Nobody wants to hear whining from a grown-ass man, Witter. So you quit your pouting while you’re ahead.” Coach T’s voice is rough, agitated. I know that he’s not mad at me, per se, but it sure does feel like it. “You’ll be lucky if you’re not benched the whole damn season.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem, coach,” my father chimes in from the back. “He’ll heal really fast. You’ll see.”
Ah, because apparently, I have magic healing powers now too. I shake my head at both of them, wondering what my outcome is going to be post-surgery. I can’t imagine going any length of time without actually playing football, so to think about being injured on top of that . . . it doesn’t exactly sit well with me.
My surgery is scheduled for two days from now, and once I get home and lay up in my bed, I put the TV on so I have some background noise while I think. Jesus, it just goes to figure that something would happen to me in preseason, of all times. It couldn’t happen during the middle of the actual season. No, no. That’s not how things work, apparently.
According to the doctor, after my surgery, I’ll be needing to rehabilitate my shoulder injury with a heavy dose of physical therapy at the nearby sports medicine facility. The team has its own set of doctors, but since I may be out for a while and they need to be there to tend to the players who are actively playing, I have to look elsewhere.
I’m looking over the list of suggestions from Dr. Bahra when I remember something, unsure how it hasn’t come to the forefront of my mind until just now. I already know someone who does physical therapy. And I know that person very intimately, you could say.
I reach over and grab my cellphone, quickly dialing up Coach T’s number. “Hey, Coach. Yeah, I’m looking right now, actually. I wanted to talk to you about that, when you get a second. Sure, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon.”
I hang up and wait until he shows up to my house. Hopefully, he’ll go for my idea.
--
T he deep lines of his frown tell me that maybe I got hopeful for no reason. Maybe I’m being stupid about the whole thing anyway.
“In North Carolina? You couldn’t have found someone closer, Son?”
I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I trust her. You know how I am about doctors in general. I’m no good with them. Besides . . .” I begin, trying to think on my feet. “Miss Sullivan is well known for her sports medicine techniques. I’ve read good stuff about her.” Honestly, I don’t even know if that’s true, and last I checked, Paige didn’t really do or even know much about sports injuries. The lame smile I give Coach probably doesn’t help the matter, either.
Coach rolls his eyes at me. “She’s not a doctor, Witter. She’s just a physical therapist. I’m not sure Maine’s going to be cool with your flying all the way out to North Carolina for your rehabilitation, you know what I’m saying? And let’s face it, your daddy ain’t going to like it, either.”
I’m grasping at straws, wishing I knew what else I could say to convince him. “My father can get the hell over it. It shouldn’t make a difference to him where I’m going. North Carolina is where I grew up, man. I haven’t been back since . . . since my mom died. That was fifteen years ago, and this just gives me the best opportunity to finally visit her grave.”
It’s shitty of me to pull the dead mom card on Coach, but I still do, filing the shame in the back my mind for now.
“Dammit, I guess you have a point. I’ll try and see what Johnny says, but I can’t make any guarantees. Don’t go holdin’ your breath.”
I quickly nod my head in agreement, and by the
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