Chapter Four
Up until basketball became an obsession, my favorite sport was definitely baseball. German taught me to throw left-handed because he read somewhere that in professional baseball particularly, left-handed pitchers were more valuable than right-handed pitchers. One season it worked, as I turned out to be the top pitcher on my Little League baseball team.
I wasn't much of a hitter however, and one day during practice our head coach, Guillermo's dad, Mr. Barrera, told me that I needed to keep my head leaning in as close toward home plate as I could. This was so I could keep my eye on the ball as long as possible until I knew it was the pitch I wanted to hit.
The very next game on my next time at bat, I did what Mr. Barrera told me to. I keep my head as close to home plate as possible. After two bad pitches, the opponent’s pitcher, by far the biggest guy in the league, hurled a third pitch as hard as he could. Keeping my eye on the ball as long as I could, I quickly realized that the ball was heading right toward my skull. It seemed to come toward me in slow motion. However, my reflexes were even slower. So, before I could duck, the ball hit me right on the left cheek. I dropped right down to the ground.
I could hear Mr. Barrera screaming, “Is he dead? Oh, no, I killed him! It’s my fault. He looks like he’s not breathing. Hurry, take his pulse. Oh, no, I killed him.”
"Coach, I'm O.K., really," I reassured him, though I didn't really know that for sure. In fact, I had no idea.
"Don't let him fall asleep," said the umpire. "Wait, should we lift him up?" he continued.
"Make sure he doesn't swallow his tongue," the opponent's coach said as they were helping me up.
"Maybe we shouldn't move him," someone else said.
"He didn't break his neck!" the umpire added.
"You don't' know that for sure." Mr. Barrera said with fear in his voice.
"We need to move him, so we can keep the game going," the umpire said. "What about the rest of the game? You know...the parents," he continued.
While I was being lifted and moved toward the dugout, the umpire addressed the fans and said, "Everything is fine, he's alright. The game will resume shortly."
Mr. Barrera was still very concerned about me. He started praying for me when one of my teammates yelled, "The stitches of the ball came off on his face!"
The assistant coach examined me and said, “No, that’s just the indent of the stitches. They aren’t the stitches on his face.”
At this point, that statement was the only thing keeping Mr. Barrera (and maybe me) from passing out.
While in this state of consciousness, I thought I saw the guy from the alley watching me from the stands. Though spotting this guy out of the corner of my blurry eyes was pretty disturbing, I quickly forgot about it with all the commotion going on around me.
Someone must have called 911 because after sitting on the bench in the dugout for some time I saw that medics exited an ambulance to examine me.
It was very fortunate my parents had not attended this particular game, as my mother might have subsequently ruled all sports too dangerous for her little "mijo“(son in Spanish).
My dad, who rarely attended any of our sporting events would probably not have made a similar ruling, but I feel sure that he would not have overruled her either. So, my route to the major leagues might not be thwarted after all. Though I wasn't quite sure what I might look like when I got home.
The medics quickly deemed me sound of mind and body. Mr. Barrera offered to take me home after the game, still feeling very guilty and responsible for telling me to keep my head over or as close as possible over the plate.
As the game resumed, I sat in the dugout feeling a mix of relief and embarrassment. The opposing team's coach, Coach Torres, approached me with an apologetic look on his face.
"I'm really sorry about that, kid. Jaime didn't mean to hit you like that. He tends to get carried away with his fastballs sometimes," Coach Torres said, scratching the back of his head nervously.
I mustered a weak smile and nodded, still feeling the dull ache in my cheek where the ball had struck me. It was not Coach Torres' fault, after all. Baseball could be a rough game, and accidents happened.
The rest of the game passed in a blur as I watched my teammates play on without me. We ended up losing, but it didn't matter much to me at that moment. All I wanted was to go home and inspect the damage on my face.
Mr. Barrera drove me home in silence, the guilt still palpable in the air.
As Mr. Barrera drove me home in his cool, but beat-up Volkswagen beetle, we rode in silence for a while. The weight of what could have happened out there on the field hung heavy between us. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke up.
"You're a tough kid, you know that?" he said, eyes focused on the road ahead.
I shrugged, unsure of how to respond but feeling some growing pride.
"I think your parents would have been proud of how you handled that," Mr. Barrera added. "Not everyone can take a hit like that and still stand tall."
"Thanks, Mr. Barrera," I replied softly, still feeling a twinge of pain in my cheek. "I guess I am pretty tough."
He glanced over at me and offered a small smile. "Well, you took that fastball like a champ. And hey, your first battle injury as a baseball player! That's something to be proud of."
I couldn't help but chuckle at his attempt to lighten the mood. "Yeah, I guess so. Maybe I'll get a cool scar out of it or something."
Mr. Barrera laughed, the tension finally dissipating. "Exactly! The chicks dig scars, you know."
We both laughed at that, and suddenly the whole situation didn't seem so serious anymore. As he pulled up to my house, he turned to me with a more serious expression.
"Just remember, keep your head in the game, both literally and metaphorically. You've got potential, kid. Don't let one bad game affect you,” Mr. Barrera told me.
I smiled, grateful for the words of encouragement from my coach. As we pulled up to my house, I thanked Mr. Barrera for the ride and assured him that I was feeling much better. He gave me a pat on the back and watched me walk up to the front door.
As I stepped inside, I found my mom waiting for me in the living room, a worried look etched on her face. Before she could say anything, I blurted out, "I'm okay, Mom! Just a little bruise on the cheek."
“Oh, mijito, does it hurt?” she asked sadly but gently, using the Spanish diminutive for “son.”
“I knew you would get hurt playing baseball,” she continued.
“Mom, everyone gets hurt, baseball or no baseball,” I explained, correcting her.
My mom rushed over to examine me. Her hands were gentle as she checked for any signs of serious injury. Satisfied that I was indeed fine, she enveloped me in a tight hug. I usually recoiled from her hugs, but this one felt great.