Page 59 of Chasing Headlines
“Maybe she didn't . . . I dunno. Whatever.” He tugged his hat back on. “Just figure it out or you're gonna be back in Oklahoma figuring it out on your favorite juco team.”
I bit back a groan. No way I could suffer junior college back home. I shook my head.
“Then get your shit together, son. We are halfway through fall ball, and you're about outta time. I need to see production. Hitting, fielding, getting along with your teammates.”
This was starting to sound like the way my father lectured me about the farm. My insides deflated.
“And do one of her God damned interviews to prove you won't be a liability every time someone asks you what you had for breakfast.”
I blinked. Interviews? We were back to Milline? What the hell? Eberhardt glared at me, but he'd stopped shouting. “Yes sir,” I said with a nod.
“Coach Jay believed in you. Said you had fire for the game, a rare combination of dedication and natural God-given talent. If we're going to have a shot at a championship title this year, next year?” He paused, took a breath and looked away. “And then we’ll get you whipped into shape and you’ll be gone as soon as you hit sixty, won’t you?”
“Minimum hours.” I didn’t want to meet his gaze. They gave me a place to land when my life got flipped upside down. And allI thought about was how to leave them behind in the West Texas dust. That and maybe how to not-interview Milline in my bed.
“Man, baseball already?” A guy with glasses and a faux-hawk I'd vaguely seen hovering around the edges of our practices appeared. Carrying a clipboard, he motioned to us. We followed him to a large PT room—with exercise equipment on one side, and curtained-off cots on the other. Trainer-guy pointed at the third station. “Sit.”
“Lan, can you check range of motion on his hammy? May be a strain.” Eberhardt addressed the trainer. “Just email me the report.”
Coach stabbed a finger in my face. “No leg work in the morning.”
“Got it, coach.”
He turned and moved toward the door, lifting one hand in a wave. “Can’t run bases with a strained hammy.”
The trainer guy gave me a crooked grin. “Words to live by.” He set the clipboard in a pocket at the end of the cot. “Lay down, we'll run through some stretches.”
I did what he asked. He grabbed my left knee and brought it up toward my hip, then leaned on my shin.
“So, what were you doing when you noticed the pain?” He repositioned my leg and applied pressure.
I stared at the ceiling. “What goes in your report?”
“Just diagnosis and treatment.”
“I tweaked it in morning reps. Thought if I took it easy the rest of the day and went light on legs tomorrow—” The stretch turned sour. I grimaced as the bastard muscle pinched.
“Yeah, hammy’s are a bitch. They complain even when they’re just tight. But one thing I keep reminding the coaches about: in this heat, supplementing electrolytes and magnesium is critical. You may find that icing it tonight, taking somemagnesium before bed, and spending a few extra minutes stretching for the next couple of days—could be all it needs.”
“I can hope.”
“I'll get you a cold pack. Can you keep ice on it tonight?”
“Sure.”
“Ok, good. And I'll get you some of this new electrolyte supplement they brought in for the football squad. It's like medical grade, super expensive shit.” He pulled a blue ice pack from the tiny fridge beneath the cot.
“I don’t see why they should get special treatment.” He placed a pillow under my knee, draped the ice pack over it and moved my leg on top. I winced as the sting of ice hit my skin.
“Soccer, baseball, track, if football needs it, so do you guys,” Trainer-guy said.
He had a point. But football was football—a cash-cow of a sport. Always had been. I could be mad about it, or I could just play baseball.
“I need your name and email address for the coach’s report.” He handed me the clipboard and lowered his voice. “If there's anything you don't want me to say, let me know. I can send you a copy, too. Oh, and the info on what’s in the supplement, where to get it and all that.”
“Sure? That’d be great.”I guess?
“Telling ya, those old guys. They’re nice and all, but if I wasn't an upstanding citizen, I could probably requisition a whole lab of computer gear and just approve the forms myself. Schorr doesn't even open his emails. He just prints them and has that piece of hot ass file ‘em away.”