still where it belongs.
Someone from the Bandits dugout runs toward Hector. I squint to read the number on the back of his jersey. Number thirty-four. Brandon.
“Is Hector going to be okay?” I ask the security guard because there’s nobody else to ask, and he’s the kind of grown-up who’s supposed to tell the truth.
“Probably just a broken nose. These things—they happen more often than you’d think. I’d be more concerned about the psychological repercussions….”
Hector’s going to be okay. That’s what he’s saying. Probably. Sort of. Just a broken nose, maybe.
Hector sits up, carefully. He raises his hand to the sky.
Is there something up there in the clouds?
Not that I can see. He touches his hand lightly to his chest and waves to the sky again. The EMT helps put him on the stretcher and takes him over to an ambulance that’s pulled up along the side of the field. The crowd cheers for him.
I cheer, too, but I can’t help biting my lip and thinking about what the security guard said. “Psychological repercussions.” What the heck are those?
—
After the game, it’s Dad who picks up me and Casey in his truck.
“Can we stop by the hospital?” I ask him once we get buckled in.
“The hospital?” Dad turns down the radio.
“Hector was pitching, and he got hit in the face—”
Casey talks right over me. “The ambulance came to take him away and everything. He was still conscious, but, man, that must have hurt like…I don’t even know what.”
“I’m not sure if they’ll let you in to see him, kiddo.” Dad taps his fingers on the wheel, waiting for the car in front of us to move.
“But the whole team’s going. I asked Brandon and everything. He said we could go,” Casey says.
“Come on, Dad. Please? Can we at least try to see him?” Dad from last summer would take us. He always caved when it was me doing the asking.
“Please, Mr. D,” Casey pipes in.
“All right, all right.” Dad puts on the blinker and heads toward the hospital.
—
Hector’s room isn’t hard to find. A bunch of Bandits beat us here. They’re standing in the hallway outside his room, laughing about something. I glare at them, but I’m not sure they notice. You don’t laugh in the hospital.
Casey runs over to say hi to Brandon and introduce himself to some of the players. He’s asking them a zillion questions, like it’s no big deal that Hector’s in there, in pain, and far away from his family.
I stand quietly against the wall and close my eyes, trying to make the bright lights and the pale green walls disappear. But closing my eyes doesn’t make that stuffy chemical smell go away.
Dad stands next to me, but it’s almost like he’s not even here. Dad from last summer would come up with some silly game to help pass the time, something to distract me from the fact that we’re in a hospital, which is a sad and scary place most of the time. But Dad from this summer is so quiet that even I don’t know what to say to him. I wonder if he’s scared, too.
“Hey, Quinnen, you coming?” Casey is over by Hector’s door with Brandon, about to go in. I snap out of it and follow them.
“Dad?” I say over my shoulder.
“It’s okay, Quinnen. I’ll keep holding up the wall out here.” He laughs at himself, but it seems fake.
When I get in the room, I find Hector propped up in the bed, drinking something out of a white cup with a straw. “Hey,” I say.
He smiles at me. There’s a bandage on the side of his face. The area is a little puffy, and it’s already starting to bruise. That security guard back at the stadium didn’t know what he was talking about—Hector’s nose looks perfectly fine.
“How are you feeling, man?” Brandon asks.
“Not so great.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“Do you want anything from the vending machine?” Casey asks. “Like some chips or cookies or some candy?”
“No, no. I’m not hungry,” Hector says.
The TV across from Hector is on ESPN, and
Someone from the Bandits dugout runs toward Hector. I squint to read the number on the back of his jersey. Number thirty-four. Brandon.
“Is Hector going to be okay?” I ask the security guard because there’s nobody else to ask, and he’s the kind of grown-up who’s supposed to tell the truth.
“Probably just a broken nose. These things—they happen more often than you’d think. I’d be more concerned about the psychological repercussions….”
Hector’s going to be okay. That’s what he’s saying. Probably. Sort of. Just a broken nose, maybe.
Hector sits up, carefully. He raises his hand to the sky.
Is there something up there in the clouds?
Not that I can see. He touches his hand lightly to his chest and waves to the sky again. The EMT helps put him on the stretcher and takes him over to an ambulance that’s pulled up along the side of the field. The crowd cheers for him.
I cheer, too, but I can’t help biting my lip and thinking about what the security guard said. “Psychological repercussions.” What the heck are those?
—
After the game, it’s Dad who picks up me and Casey in his truck.
“Can we stop by the hospital?” I ask him once we get buckled in.
“The hospital?” Dad turns down the radio.
“Hector was pitching, and he got hit in the face—”
Casey talks right over me. “The ambulance came to take him away and everything. He was still conscious, but, man, that must have hurt like…I don’t even know what.”
“I’m not sure if they’ll let you in to see him, kiddo.” Dad taps his fingers on the wheel, waiting for the car in front of us to move.
“But the whole team’s going. I asked Brandon and everything. He said we could go,” Casey says.
“Come on, Dad. Please? Can we at least try to see him?” Dad from last summer would take us. He always caved when it was me doing the asking.
“Please, Mr. D,” Casey pipes in.
“All right, all right.” Dad puts on the blinker and heads toward the hospital.
—
Hector’s room isn’t hard to find. A bunch of Bandits beat us here. They’re standing in the hallway outside his room, laughing about something. I glare at them, but I’m not sure they notice. You don’t laugh in the hospital.
Casey runs over to say hi to Brandon and introduce himself to some of the players. He’s asking them a zillion questions, like it’s no big deal that Hector’s in there, in pain, and far away from his family.
I stand quietly against the wall and close my eyes, trying to make the bright lights and the pale green walls disappear. But closing my eyes doesn’t make that stuffy chemical smell go away.
Dad stands next to me, but it’s almost like he’s not even here. Dad from last summer would come up with some silly game to help pass the time, something to distract me from the fact that we’re in a hospital, which is a sad and scary place most of the time. But Dad from this summer is so quiet that even I don’t know what to say to him. I wonder if he’s scared, too.
“Hey, Quinnen, you coming?” Casey is over by Hector’s door with Brandon, about to go in. I snap out of it and follow them.
“Dad?” I say over my shoulder.
“It’s okay, Quinnen. I’ll keep holding up the wall out here.” He laughs at himself, but it seems fake.
When I get in the room, I find Hector propped up in the bed, drinking something out of a white cup with a straw. “Hey,” I say.
He smiles at me. There’s a bandage on the side of his face. The area is a little puffy, and it’s already starting to bruise. That security guard back at the stadium didn’t know what he was talking about—Hector’s nose looks perfectly fine.
“How are you feeling, man?” Brandon asks.
“Not so great.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“Do you want anything from the vending machine?” Casey asks. “Like some chips or cookies or some candy?”
“No, no. I’m not hungry,” Hector says.
The TV across from Hector is on ESPN, and
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