I shifted my weight back and clenched my fists. I exploded forward and “through the ball”, as my coach reiterated throughout practice. My lungs pushed out a much needed sigh of relief. I had just completed the last mandatory swing of the day. However, the satisfaction which filled my soul was equally balanced with ambition. Thus, I picked up the yellow, hollow practice ball, placed it on the Tee. As I wound up for my first superfluous hack, a wave of black seeped into my right eye, coupled with cacophonous ringing. I plunged not only to my knees, but also into a state of disarray.

My coach came jogging over. A few of my teammates whom were directly next to me enshrouded me in even more darkness. I got up, and was barraged with multiple questions, all to which I answered: “I don’t know”. Somehow I pumped myself onto my own two feet, and made my way to the trainer with two of my teammates. I felt the vague sensation of liquid rolling down my right ear, which one of my teammates profoundly described as “mad blood”. Waiting for my mother to come pick me up and relocate to the hospital, I began to contemplate what would become of my upcoming freshman baseball season.

The weekly sweat which coated my body on late December, January and February nights seemed like something to take pride in. The catharsis that I experienced after walking outside into the bitter winter air was unparalleled. It would cause the sweat to dissipate, yet not my pride. I sweated on the way to the hospital, yet not a single ounce of pride was concentrated in this batch. In fact, it felt more as though my entire body were sobbing. Rightfully so, of course; all of my offseason efforts were at that point futile.

Before long, I discovered myself lying atop a surgery bed. I feel the sharp prickle of the syringe injecting the Novocain into my ear. Shortly after, it went numb. As my doctor stitched my ear up, one stitch at a time, I could psychologically embrace the physical mending. Ironically, I could not feel the psychological mending. Until I returned into action after a month’s time, I felt as though I was entrenched in an infernal marquee, one that had no way out.

When I got back to practice, my pain exacerbated. While lurking in the background, I heard multiple utterances of “That [incident] was hilarious!”, “Oh well”, “Sucks for him” and “At least he’s not important” from own teammates. Rather than be deflated by these words, I instead used them to formulate an everlasting sense of motivation, one which is sported to this by my two varsity letters.