by David Horne
Curtis had exhibited some apprehension towards playing in front of more massive crowds. It was one thing to play center field for his hometown high school team. But the minor league was the stepping stone to something bigger, and Curtis confessed to Martin that he suffered some anxiety when he stared out at the stadium seating. Their conversation came on the tail end of Curtis’ visit to Martin for lower back pain. He’d experienced some form of pain after long games sometimes. Martin gave him recommendations and had sent him back to the ball field.
Since Martin had no relative experience, he had no words of encouragement for the young man. The batter snapped a high ball past the pitcher and straight out to center field. Curtis heard the shortstop player call out and turned sharply, pivoting with his feet planted in the turf. But instead of Curtis reaching up to catch an easy fly ball, he curled down, tilted to the side, and bent down. Martin saw Curtis’ hand reach to his back.
Without regard for where the ball was in play, Martin slipped around the fence and dashed across the field. No one noticed Curtis was down, only that he’d missed the ball. Martin ran across the diamond and out to center field where Curtis lay on his side on the turf. Then the other players noticed because Martin disrupted the game. They rushed to their fallen teammate.
***
As team physician, Martin had certain amenities that made him feel pretty cool about the job. The local ER gave him access to the facilities and provided full cooperation for injured players. The hospital knew bills from team management were paid immediately. The waiting room was filled with teammates and coaches. Martin had consulted with the emergency room doctor, and they had reviewed Curtis’ x-rays. The prognosis wasn’t what anyone expected. His baseball career was over, and Martin had to explain it to a roomful of curious and bewildered players. But he wasn’t going to give the news to anyone unless Curtis approved it. And so far, the young man hadn’t taken the news well.
Chapter Seven
It was one thing to diagnosis injuries after they occurred and something else when people expected Martin to predict when someone faced a severe affliction.
He stood facing a group of men who spent significant money on people who played sports for a living. Curtis Simpson’s baseball playing days were over, and Martin had to explain to a bunch of stodgy men that Curtis’ stalwart dedication to the sport had nothing to do with the debilitating injury he sustained.
“It’s called spondylolysis,” Martin told the eight stone-faced men staring at him in the conference room of the training camp. The space was large enough to fit all the team players, coaches, management, but at that moment, Martin faced only the elite management team. Aside from Brant, the general manager of the team, the man who hired Martin, the rest of the men made up the administration who oversaw the training schedule.
“I’ve heard of that.” It was Floyd Matthews, head coach and the only person who talked to Martin besides Leslie on a daily basis. Martin looked to the coach with a puffy face, arms crossed, leaning back against a straining chair. “Had a player a few years ago who had it.
“Is it treatable?” another man asked. He didn’t ask Martin. The man stared at Coach Matthews instead of acknowledging Martin.
Floyd shrugged.
“It’s not something that shows up immediately,” Martin told the group. He ignored the man who failed to see him directly. “It’s a defect in the spinal column, and it’s not something that shows up.” Martin used the dry-erase whiteboard to sketch a crude human spine to illustrate the injury. “Curtis has lived with this since birth. And over time his spine sustained tiny stress fractures that caused his vertebrae to slip out of place.” The drawing showed a vertebra that wasn’t in line with the others. Martin drew lightning bolts around it to represent the misalignment. “It causes a condition called spondylolisthesis.” He touched the marker on the table. “I’d bet Curtis lived his whole life with back pain. He probably ignored the pain and played through it. He’s young, and he fits the demographic for people who experience this sort of thing.”
“Why didn’t you catch it before now?” It was the same nameless man who ignored Martin. The question caused a ripple of agreement murmurs in the room.
Martin had to defend his job, and it wasn’t something he expected. Joel slipped into the room and remained standing by the doors. He smiled lightly at Martin. His sudden appearance was profound and inspired Martin to get right to the point with people who assume everything they know about medical doctors was as simple as Google.
“You need to think about how these men come to you.” Martin shook his head at the gentleman but didn’t frown. “Do you think for a minute that had Curtis mentioned chronic lower back pain during his interview process that he’d played as long as he did? Would you even have had him come to train? I’m looking around at a group of men I don’t think I have to explain to what drive these players. And I bet a few of you didn’t report your injuries when they happened to fear what might happen.”
“Curtis had a condition we probably didn’t know about. If he had MRIs or scans of his spine prior to this, likely someone one would have seen the discrepancies. But unless you want me to schedule each of these players full body scans right now, I’m not going to know about anything unless they tell me about it first, or something like this happens.”
“So, you think if you knew about this before now, you’d tell us?” It was another man who spent money on people to throw balls, run, and hit balls with a stick. The game had no value other than entertainment, and Martin wasn’t a true fan. “I would discuss injuries or issues with players.”
“But not anyone else?” he pressed.
Martin didn’t answer immediately. This was a different venue and a lot of the players signed away their medical rights to discuss with the coaches. He didn’t have anything to add, so Martin just shrugged.
“I think it’s early and Simpson’s spot is refillable.” Floyd gave Martin a look that wasn’t disproving. “We’ll pay his way home.”
And the men began to disperse. The gentleman who challenged Martin gave him a hard look but said nothing more. Martin wandered around the group as they pulled their bulks from the chairs. Joel followed him out into the hall.
“Good job,” he said. His elbow nudged Martin in the side, and the area on his body burned after the contact as if Joel’s touch had a quality that lasted longer than the quick connection.
“Who’s that asshole in there?” Martin asked.
“Which one?” Joel asked with a grin.
They were safely through another set of double doors and in the smaller hallway, they were alone.
“He’s one of the team’s biggest investors.” Joel opened the door for Martin to pass through. “Irving Durant thinks his shit doesn’t stink and everyone who doesn’t have his private cell number is less of a person.” The explanation didn’t matter to Martin; he only wanted a name to go with the face. “Durant thinks he’s involved with the choices around here. Brant allows him access to the conference room and management, but he’s strictly a bark without a bite.” Again, Joel’s elbow found Martin’s ribs. It wasn’t something he’d experienced with Joel before, and Martin attributed the gesture to a learned behavior that happened after they parted ways.
“Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m not,” Martin replied. But he didn’t convey how he felt. There was a raw sensation around his neck, because somehow, he felt even away from the scrutiny, his throat was still on the proverbial chopping block.
“I think you’re worried about your job.” Joel’s observation was just as surprising as the jab in the ribs.
Martin shot him a look.
“I think you need a good dinner and a friend.”
They reached the nearby exit. Outside the sunset turned the sky over the Gulf a chrome blue with a red tint. From the area of the training camp that faced the setting sun, somewhere on the other side of the city skyway, the gulf coast was something Martin wanted to see but hadn’t yet
experienced.
“Are you interested?” Joel asked.
“Are you offering one or the other?” It was a question he immediately regretted because the look on Joel’s face suggested it hurt.
“I’m offering both.” It didn’t need justifying, but Joel looked as if Martin needed reassurance.
Chapter Eight
Floridian restaurants catered to tourists. The décor, menu layout, and the dinner choices all had something to do with the state of perpetual tourism. Winter brought northern birds and certain flares to the menu choices that incorporated industrialized state ideals. Most of the options were massive calories, heavy carbohydrates, and other than choices from the cocktail menu; Martin didn’t see anything he wanted to eat that aided to his nervous stomach.
There was an intoxicating aroma that hovered around their small dinner table in the restaurant that had plastic crabs and assorted sea life trophies that populated the walls. Old fish nets hung from the rafters with artificial animals caught within the netting. Other than the plates that passed around them as Martin sat across from Joel, there was nothing else that gave off a delicate and aromatic scent. His nostrils flared as he breathed deep.
“What is that you’re wearing?” he asked from the other side of the menu held up in front of his face. Martin glanced over the top at Joel smirking at him.
“It’s something I picked up in Europe last year.”
“I see,” Martin replied and pretended to look at the menu again.
“You like it?” Joel pressed.
“It might be drawing flies to our table.” The joke played off conversationally. And Joel laughed.
Martin put down the plastic-coated menu on the side of the lacquered tabletop. Many of the patrons around them were locals. With tourist season over, restaurant prices dropped, and local clientele took advantages of the same choices at lower rates. They drove forty minutes from the training field and didn’t see anyone familiar in the place.
When the waitress showed up, Joel ordered, and while Martin wasn’t interested in eating, he ordered the same meal. He drank unsweetened iced-tea and Joel had a draft beer.
“Is it really that small of a world?” Joel asked him. There was the playful expression on his face that Martin fell in love with and he did his best to just ignore the smooth forehead, perfect, hair, and eyes that he wanted to swim in; instead, Martin looked around the dining hall at people who dressed casually in long-sleeve shirts, denim pants, and flip-flops. March in Florida to Martin was humid and warm, like a slow-bake oven. Locals felt an imaginary chill that made many wear light jackets.
“It’s big enough to eventually run into someone you know after years, maybe not miles.”
Joel nodded, satisfied with Martin’s answer. The food arrived, and Martin put a fork in the chicken breast that was so dry no moisture came from the puncture wound.
Rather than make apologies for lost time, or a terrible choice in restaurants, Joel nibbled at the meal. “How do you like it so far?”
Casual conversation was better than dinner. “I don’t know what to think. I’m so used to doing resident work. I feel like I have too much time on my hands now.”
“Maybe you can pick up some hours at the local urgent care or the hospital.” The suggestion was a good idea, and Martin felt it was something he should have thought of before Joel pointed it out.
“I need to get a routine going before I can break away.”
“I understand.” Joel looked at Martin in a manner that reminded him of the past.
They spent hours together in the dorm room enjoying each other’s company when other students explored the surrounding nightlife at the campus. Joel was extroverted, and Martin was bookish. It was a great fit and perfect balance. They enjoyed exploring each other more than investigating the local trappings during their time together.
Now Martin felt Joel traveled the world. The comment about Europe wasn’t a suggestion of accomplishment. It wasn’t Joel’s attempt to parade his achievements. It was a simple fact he shared with Martin and nothing negative.
After dinner, they exited the restaurant without their, to-go containers. Martin held open the door for Joel and breathed deeply when he went through, pulling in as much of the cologne as humanly possible. Instead of walking to the parking lot, Joel turned down the sidewalk, and Martin strode beside him.
Night in Tampa wasn’t as active along the business district as other cities. Much of the sidewalk ahead of them was void of people. It was a little after nine, and the bright ambient glow of the street lights and storefront signs made Martin feel as if it was still daylight. The sky overhead disappeared in a yellowish haze as humidity absorbed light and blotted out the sky.
They walked without words. Martin took in the sights. Joel strolled as if the area was familiar to him. The tension between them flittered like a low murmur, only audible to Martin who had things to say but didn’t find the strength to voice them. It was Joel’s proximity that mattered. A few inches taller, a year older than Martin, Joel had a focus that Martin envied. He’d gone into the world without a net and landed on his feet. Martin felt as if he still hadn’t found his place and sports medicine, following around minor league players was a pit stop to his eventual destination. The trouble was, Martin didn’t know where he was going. He wanted Joel in his life. But time changed both men and Martin didn’t know Joel’s intention. And without dialogue, they’d travel together without a plan between them.
He blinked away the future and opened his eyes to the present. At that moment, after a lousy meal, Martin knew he was right where he wanted to be; at Joel’s side. He’d accept that, and if nothing happened after tonight, at least they had had one more day together.
“You did a good job today with management.” The words came out from Joel like a random thought.
“Oh,” Martin started. “I hadn’t thought much about it.”
Joel smiled at him. “That’s because you’re here with me and trying to think of a way to talk about us.”
And at that moment, Martin knew Joel had the same ideas about their relationship. “That’s not true.” But it was true. “I was thinking if you wanted to win me back, you’d found a better restaurant to dine me with.”
“Well, I didn’t want to make it too easy.”
“So, I’m easy now.”
And something happened that gave Martin palpitations. Joel’s fingers found his hand.
Chapter Nine
The next practice game happened without center fielder Curtis Simpson. The young man’s departure from the Cloverdale Coyotes went unnoticed by the spectators. Curtis’ teammates regarded his absence without much conversation. Martin leaned against the archway of the dugout and watched the young men focus on the game instead of a fallen teammate.
Their relationships hadn’t solidified; many of them still didn’t know each other well enough to feel any sense of loss. Martin heard some words about it from Floyd before the practice game. The gnarled head coach saw more injuries than any of the other players. His observations amounted to everyone being up front with injuries before they got too bad. Martin noticed after Curtis’ fall, random office visits from the rest of the team picked up.
He scanned the crowds. Close to the dugout, in box seating, Irving Durant sat with the stranger Martin saw on prior occasions. He hadn’t been formally introduced, but he was observant enough to know the man wasn’t part of direct management with the team. The stranger was a shadow to Durant. The gentleman wore expensive clothes, posh shoes. He reminded Martin of a pharmaceutical representative. A man who catered to rich doctors while feeding patients experimental medication like it was candy.
He mildly watched as the two men pointed to players and discussed something between them that wasn’t for anyone else to hear. Martin dismissed the gentleman as another self-centered investor, just like Durant.
***
Martin returned to his office shortly before the last inning. He understood the players who had ques
tions usually stopped in on their way to the locker room. He went over the collection of charts on the laptop while listening to the game through the intercom system. Overhead, the stadium patrons applauded another base-stealing run.
“How do you like it?” The voice had a resonating appeal like a caramel-coated pill.
“Excuse me?” Martin asked looking up from the laptop.
The gentleman Martin saw with Durant towered in the doorway. He stepped into the office and extended his hand. “I’m Vincent Key.”
Without sanding up, Martin allowed Vincent to shake his hand. He closed the laptop. A quick glance around the immediate area showed no personal records visible.
“I’m working with Irving.”
“I see.” Martin felt there was an immediate invasion of his space and didn’t know how to read the gentleman. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Oh no,” he said waving a hand then slipping it into a pleated pocket. “I just wanted to stop in and see how you were adjusting to the new position.”
Immediately Martin felt he’d received some subliminal flash of distrust. Instead of catering to paranoia, he addressed the man directly.
“What is it you do here, Mr. Key?”
“Oh, it’s just Vincent.” Another wave of the hand before it retreated to the pocket again. “Or Vince, if you like,” he clarified. “I’m just friends with Durant.”
“And you have access to player quarters?”
When the hand appeared again, it grasped a laminated VIP pass. “Sorry, security knew me around here. I don’t wear the pass.”
Martin nodded. He felt a need to protect his space. But he wanted to do it tactfully. He stood and rounded the corner of the desk. “Well, Vince, I appreciate the welcome. I don’t get a lot of visitors from the outside, and I would appreciate it if you gave the team their deserved privacy.” It came out covered in forced nicety.
