Scott plays softball every Tuesday night, and has for the last, oh, I don't know, 10 years? Let's just say he's been playing forever. Yes, "forever" should cover it. Tuesday nights are his. Depending on what time his first game is, he will leave the house by 530, or be around until 730--if he has late games. He's home no later than midnight, most Tuesdays. Even if his last game is at 830 (which means he would be home at 10), I know not to expect him until midnight. After his games, he looks for other teams that need an extra guy. Scott's always the "extra guy." Any team that picks him up is lucky. His position of choice is outfield, and if he plays out there, it's like a puzzle finding it's missing piece. Everything is perfect. He just loves the game.
He's the coach of his team, and he loves it. Softball is one of the little things in his life that keeps him going, and it's one of those things that I complain about, but I'm glad that he does it. Everytime I see his beat-up softball bag, his muddied cleats, or his scribbled-on score pad, I have to smile, because it's such a huge part of him.
Last night, he got hit in the head with a ball.
He was in the box, and the guy at bat sent a ball straight over to Scott. Thank God he was paying attention, or the result would've been a softball straight to the face. Thankfully, Scott saw, and in the split second that was allotted to him, he turned and ducked a bit--the softball nailed him on the right side of his head, about 2 inches back from his temple, and above the ear.
I wasn't at the game, but I just knew something had happened. I knew something was wrong. I couldn't sleep. I thought I heard my cell phone ring, and, of course, my mind just starts sailing off into all kinds of not-so-pleasant thoughts. I just knew I was going to get a call that something had happened, and he was in the hospital. I hate it when my mind does this, but I love it when I'm wrong.
Scott walked into our bedroom right around midnight. He stood by the bed, and I immediately asked, "What's wrong?"
"I got hit in the head with a ball," he said.
As he stepped back into the light, I could see the huge swelling. Call me crazy, but head trauma freaks me out. My God, your BRAIN is in there!! He did a fine job of calming me down, because he's such a calm guy himself. I was scared that we'd have to take him to the hospital, because, good Lord, he had a frickin BALL HIT HIM ON THE SIDE OF THE HEAD. However, he kept telling me he was fine. The entire time he was in the shower, I sat in bed, nervous as all get-out, just imagining what would happen if he blacked-out in the shower. I laid there, counting my breaths, and listening to the shower spray, and the sounds of him washing and rinsing off. After he got out, I got him a bag of ice to put on his head.
He stayed up for an additional hour after getting into bed, and then fell asleep, in a inclined position. I don't know how many times I woke him last night--poking him in the ribs, whispering, "Are you okay?" I'm still worried about him today.
*Maybe it knocked some sense into him.*
Ba da bum! Thank you folks, I'll be here all week!