What the Mound Took

I stayed outside the office, looking through its glass doors. Diane’s fingers raced over the keyboard. I guessed she was searching for injections or reading about the specialist in the city.

Dad came by with his shoulders hanging low. He dropped his keys into the bowl on the counter, then faced me. “Head upstairs, Jules. Shower and get changed. I’ll order pizza.”

“Is Mom angry with me?”

He dragged a hand across the back of his neck and let out a tired breath. “She’s upset about what happened, and she’s blaming herself, too. When she feels cornered, she takes it out on everybody until she can see a way to make things better.”

“There’s no way to fix this in a week, Dad.”

“I know.” His gaze shifted to the shut office. “Let her have a little time to take that in.”

I climbed the stairs to my room. It felt less like a bedroom than the storage area of a sporting-goods shop. Medals dangled from my bedpost, and trophies crowded the shelves.

Weighted balls, bands for resistance work, and a foam roller filled one corner. On the desk, apart from all of it, rested the smart-sleeve.

The device was a black compression garment, with a small plastic sensor set close to the elbow. Mom had given it to me at Christmas, saying it would monitor my arm speed and pitching mechanics as a safety measure.

Whenever I threw into the backyard net or practiced with the team, the sleeve transmitted its readings over Bluetooth to an app on her phone. I lifted it using my left hand.

I had stopped putting it on three weeks earlier. As the ache worsened, I noticed that I was lowering my arm angle without thinking, trying to spare the elbow the strain.

The sensor would catch the adjustment. Her app would show that my release point had changed. I knew what she would make of that information, and I didn’t want to face it yet.

So I left the sleeve in my locker and let her think I’d simply forgotten it. I had wanted a little more time without questions, without another argument about my arm.

I dropped it into the bottom drawer of my desk and slid the drawer shut.

About an hour later, Dad called from downstairs to say the pizza was there. I went down to the kitchen, where the box sat on the island.

Dad had taken a slice and leaned against the counter. He ate without speaking. Then Mom came out of her office carrying a printed sheet of paper.

She placed it beside the pizza. “I made an appointment,” she said, her voice flat. “Dr. Vance, the orthopedic consultant for the university program. Someone canceled, so he can see us tomorrow at nine.”

Dad paused halfway through chewing. He looked from the paper to her. “Diane, we already have a diagnosis.”

“From a doctor who treats junior-varsity soccer players with rolled ankles,” she answered, keeping her voice smooth. She opened the box and pulled out a slice with a napkin.

“If Dr. Vance studies the ultrasound and agrees it’s torn, we rest it. But I’m not taking you out of the most important showcase of your life without hearing from someone who knows what’s at stake.”

She turned toward me. Her eyes looked worn, faint shadows sitting beneath them. “Have some dinner,” she said more gently. “We’re leaving at seven-thirty tomorrow.”

She passed me and started for the stairs.

“Mom?” I called.

She paused with one hand on the banister. “Yes, Julian?”

“What happens if he tells us the same thing?”

She stayed facing away. Her fingers tightened around the rail until the skin over her knuckles went pale.

“We’ll deal with that when we come to it,” she said.

I heard the slight shake beneath her words. She still couldn’t accept that the path she wanted might already be gone.

Mom continued upstairs. Dad and I remained in the hushed kitchen. He didn’t give the paper another glance; instead, he nudged the pizza box closer to me and stared through the window toward the dark yard.

Dr. Vance’s waiting area seemed closer to an agency for athletes than a medical office. Signed jerseys covered the walls—some from major-league pitchers, others from university stars and draft choices who had come here for treatment.

Mom sat at the edge of a polished leather couch, sitting stiffly as her right knee bounced. This place seemed to reassure her. She thought Dr. Aris was only a children’s doctor, the kind who gave out candy and dealt with colds.

Dr. Vance, in her mind, understood what happened to elite athletes. She believed that his familiarity with the recruiting calendar would help him find a way around what my arm could no longer do.

Dad sat a couple of chairs away with a golf magazine open in his hands. He never turned a page.

At last, a nurse called us through. Mom rose and took the lead, guiding us along the clinic hallway as if she were getting ready to argue her case.