As the musty, abandoned locker room softly murmured to me, the insistent three o’clock school bell pulsated and clanged.  I eagerly bolted from the classroom to get prepared for baseball practice.  While swapping clothes and securing my cleats, a troublesome feeling that something out of the ordinary would happen at baseball practice that day popped into my mind.  While striding out to the distant dugout and field with my teammates, again, terrible ideas of danger swirled and swirled in my head.  As teammates, we engaged in normal warm-ups of stretching and throwing, but the routine altered when we energetically undertook infield practice.  After all, I was primed, extremely primed, for action as my fingers caressed the smooth stiches of a worn baseball, and my focus settled in.

Stitch by red stitch, baseballs whizzed about like bullets.  Crack!  Explosive bats sliced the chilly, damp, spring air.  While the pitcher hurled the ball toward the catcher, a runner from first base screeched to second.  As shortstop on that unforgettable crisp spring day, I raced to second as fast as I could since a shortstop must secure second base and snag the ball thrown by the catcher to nab the opposing runner out.  The catcher hurled the baseball, so I perched low and snatched the ball as I planted the tag on target.  Ouch! Instantly, a stabbing pain shot through my thin thigh of my ninety-five pound body.  When I looked down at my thigh where the pain throbbed, I overheard my teammates murmur to one another.  With extreme surprise, I observed the horrid looks on their faces, and one player exclaimed, “Coach, he needs help!”  For this reason, I realized something bad had transpired.  However, nothing appeared to be injured.  Then out of the corner of my eye, I detected a stream of red that became a gushing river trailing down my bony hand.  The copper-smelling flow dampened the dry, brown clay dirt of the earth.  Consequently, my right hand supported two deep jagged gashes that distorted my lean fingers, and the tender flesh had ripped open.  I had been cleated from the most powerful player on the team.  In extreme agony as scarlet blood gushed out rapidly, I jumped up, grabbed my glove, and trudged sluggishly in shock to the dugout, holding my hand up so the sticky blood would not run all over.  Amazed and astonished, my gangly body instantly chilled.  Nearby, the trainer came to my aid immediately.  We strolled slowly to the locker room, which seemed hundreds of miles away because the pain finally started to grab hold of me. 

Once the trainer and I reached the locker room, he wiped the blood off with a gauze pad, but it just kept oozing out.  The trainer proclaimed, “I do not think you will need stitches.”  He then poured peroxide on the wounds, which not only induced bubbling but also stung way more than multiple bee stings.  Consequently, the trainer’s supplies were not enough.  With concern, he asked. “What is your dad’s phone number?  I will call him to pick you up to take you to the hospital.”

Hence, I needed stitches; yes, stitches, to repair the agonizing injury, so my parents dashed me to the hospital.  The pain grew more intense and worsened by the minute, and it seemed like the span of a baseball season until we screeched to the emergency entrance.  Eventually, I proceeded into a patient room with a nurse.  Within a sterile bowl, she created a pink liquid with a fruity odor in which I placed my hand in to try to dislodge dirt that was embedded in the cuts and also to kill any bacteria.  With little success, this liquid did not expel much of the gritty dirt and pebbles out of my wounds.  Next, she lifted up my severed skin and flushed the dirt out with a mini hose, which rendered the worst pain of the entire incident, an overwhelming burning as if fiery flames were melting my hand away.  At this time, I gritted my teeth and stiffened my bony spine.  Endlessly, this cleaning procedure took place several times because tiny grains of brown sand and dirt had been deeply lodged near the bones. 

Subsequently, cleaned gashes led to an x-ray that reveled where the metal cleats had knicked the bones in two fingers, but thankfully did not fracture or break them.  At long last, the sympathetic nurse numbed my right hand as she declared, “This numbing medicine should help you feel less pain, so just relax.”  Stitch by agonizing stitch, the doctor carefully put me back together with four stitches in one area and six in the other by the tugging and pulling of skin.  In his mild and encouraging voice, the doctor explained, “You are a lucky young man to not have any tendon or ligament damage considering the severity of this unusual injury.”

Unfortunately, I could not play baseball for two weeks, but I healed well enough to participate in the first game of the season.  For an unknown reason, I brought my hand in front of the base for the tag out, which showed an example of improper technique.  Therefore, I learned an important valuable lesson.  Although unexpected obstacles fly and bounce in all directions of life, anyone can discover a safe baseline needed to get back in the game.  After all, a person’s desire and determination along with a positive attitude and toughness can transform an enormous obstacle into a minute one.  Even though physically scarred for life, emotionally, I still love the game: the game of baseball, stitch by stitch.