Inspiration From The Game

I pulled out my small, secret moleskine notebook, my favorite ballpoint pen and my

lucky baseball cap. I knew I could do this - a couple of simple elements and presto - I

could be the winner of the online contest my aunt recommended on Facebook. She

said, “You could write about Sailor!” As if on cue, my dog lifted his head and turned his

eyes to his master. One eye blue, one eye brown - I entertained the notion, but

declined. I’m pretty sure they wanted something more sophisticated. “Come on, Terry

- think! Something witty, enthralling….an adventure - or what about a mystery? What

about a romance? - no way! Hmmm…”. I grabbed the baseball cap, trying to squeeze

some inspiration out and into my head. “Sports - baseball? That could work….add a

little dash of charisma here and nostalgia there.…” I immediately thought of an old

friend I’d tossed the ball around with growing up. What was he up to since last we’d

seen each other? I grabbed my phone. It was for….research, yeah, research! “Rob!

What’s going on, man?” Rob was now the partner of a startup online stock trading

publication. Although their stock option suggestions were spot-on accurate, they were

having a hard time connecting with the public. “Sounds like you need some fresh air -

care to toss around that cowhide gathering dust in the back of your closet?” Within the

hour, the two of us were greeting each other at the mound of our old childhood

diamond.

“Awe man! The old guys got here first!” Both of us turned around to see a ruddy group

of ten boys in play clothes that looked like they had already played a couple of

games….in the mud….during the apocalypse. We exchanged glances at each other

and smirked. An unspoken mutual respect for the game and its players took over

everyone. “We can settle this easy, boys. We don’t mind sharing the diamond.” The

boys talked among themselves and pushed a scrawny red-headed boy to the front of

them. He pushed his wrap-around glasses up on his nose and spread his legs as far as

they would go. “We got terms. One grown up per team to keep it fair and nobody

argues with the ref.” Rob, impressed with the negotiating skills of the kid, challenged

him with a nod. “We choose the ref and you got a deal.” The negotiator leaned back as

the boys huddled again. “Right - who’s your pick?” I stepped up and closely looked into

the eyes of each kid. Honestly, all I saw was fierce loyalty to their friends, so I buckled

and chose the negotiator. “Deal! Pick your teams!” Five boys and one adult per team,

two turns at bat each, best score wins. It had been a long time since either of us had

been a part of such an intense game. The stream of spit from wads of gum and the

made up words to express the kids’ frustrations made it feel like the real thing and give

us a run for our money. Two and a half hours and 12 sweaty males later, the game

ended in a draw. Granted, dirt was kicked and voices were raised, but the negotiator

held fast. Just as everyone finally resigned to the ref’s call, the boy dropped to the

ground unconscious.

Without much ceremony, the other nine boys took to caring for him as if they’d done it a

thousand times. We froze. Gerald ran to tell the ref’s mom, Tommy pulled out his cell

to call the ambulance, Connor got water for his face, neck and arms, Dwight took out a

pillow from a sack and propped his head, Rico took out a telescoping umbrella to give

shade from the sun, Charles took out the first aid kit and bandaged a cut on the boy’s

head, Freddie counted his pulse with his watch, Jay-jay carefully removed his glasses

and put them in a bag along with his mitt, Manuel walked over to us and explained the

situation like a well-seasoned doctor. “Our dude, Richie, here, has a heart disease

called pulmonary hypertension. Don’t worry, we know what to do”. I felt stupid staring

at the kids and wondering what else I could do to help. “Shouldn’t we be giving him

CPR?” Rob, trying to make sense of the situation, gave his best idea. “Nah, his heart

didn’t stop - he just needs his blood vessels to open some more so they can get the

oxygen in the blood from his heart to his lungs.” At this point, Gerald came running

back, yelling, ”Aaaaambuuuulaaaance!” Everyone looked up to see the emergency

vehicle rounding the corner, lights flashing. The boys cleared out as the EMTs lifted

Richie on the gurney. Manuel and Freddie informed the EMTs as much as possible

about the situation and oxygen was administered. Before I saw them drive off, I saw

Richie coming to and blinking slowly. Most wretched fourteen minutes of my life.

Needless to say, we all gathered our stuff and headed back to where we came from.

I couldn’t shake the visual of Richie - pale, unconscious and helpless on the ground. I

decided to visit the hospital when I couldn’t concentrate on the computer screen blinking

back at me. I took Sailor along as a therapy dog. Good decision. When I got there,

Richie’s eyes grew wide with surprise and excitement. “Just comin’ to check on the

ref…” His mom looked at me quizzically. I introduced myself and Sailor. Her name

was Belinda and she looked it. Honestly, if we had met under different circumstances, I

probably would have asked her out. Despite the circles under her teary eyes, she had

the kind of welcome in them that drew me. Sailor liked her too - so much that he

cuddled in her lap and refused to move while she stroked his ears. I talked over

baseball tips and memories of the game with Ritchie as doctors and nurses came and

went. I asked my share of questions - as much as I was allowed because I’m not

family. I found out there are research hospitals that specialize in this kind of heart

disease and their work is really important to finding answers that lead to better

treatment. One of the interns recommended a website for a hospital in Chicago that

has steadily made progress. I looked it up when I got home. This was it - I could feel

the inspiration as I began to write about the story of a hometown kid overcoming a

life-crippling heart disease.

My relationship with Ritchie grew and Belinda said my story would help raise the

awareness of heart disease research. As I tossed the ball around, I asked Ritchie how

the guys were and how he copes with his situation. As he answered, the ref came

back, countering with questions about why I’m still single and my in-between jobs while I

work on my dream of being a famous writer. Belinda always had iced tea ready when

we were finished and a smile for every compliment. I tried to have plenty. The three of

us just connected so easily. Understanding what these guys went through made me

believe they were the bravest people I had ever met. That’s when things went haywire.

I got the call while typing the fourth paragraph. Belinda was crying. I have to admit, it

freaked me out, but I grabbed my keys and ran to the truck. By the time I was at the

house, the ambulance was loading the gurney. Something felt different this time. I

drove Belinda to the hospital behind the ambulance. More tears - scared ones - and

she was shaking. She didn’t know how long he was out, but his face was ashen and his

pulse was almost too weak to count. She shrunk in the passenger seat as she began to

blame herself for not keeping a constant eye on him. I grabbed her hand and

mentioned that he was a fighter. I may not have known them for years like his friends

did, but he most definitely had that going for him. “But still, how could I let this

happen?!” I could see the distress on her face. “You didn’t let this happen - it just

happened. Don’t blame yourself. He’s strong and some of that is because of you.” At

the hospital we both abandoned the truck and ran inside. Twenty-five minutes later, the

doctor came out with news that made Belinda collapse in a puddle on the floor. Coma.

He could wake up in the next couple of minutes or never. I called Rob and told him to

collect the boys to see if they could coax him out of it. I didn’t know how comas worked

or if the person could hear their visitors or not, but I was willing to try anything. The

guys came in record time in the same apocalyptic gear as before. Each had a turn in

the room, reporting to Ritchie like he was their CEO. I took my turn. It felt weird and I

let him know it. I told him I”d keep an eye on his mom and the boys, so he can wake up

without the pressure of taking care of any messes. “I’ll even ref the games….just….get

well soon, buddy.” Then it was Belinda’s turn. By the time she took a break, everybody

else had gone home but me. We sat in silence until her head hit my shoulder in

exhausted sleep.

A code blue alarm and shuffling feet shook both of us awake. The staff was heading for

Ritchie’s room. Fourteen agonizing minutes later, the doctor declared his time of death.

Complications….all they said was he died of complications. I couldn’t believe it. His

mom sat in stunned silence, shaking and staring into nothing as tears ran down her

cheeks. What were the words? What were my last words to the kid? If I had known it

was the last time, would I have said anything different? I thought it would be fine, like

the last time. What do I tell the boys? I didn’t know the impact this kid had on my life

until now. I did the only thing I knew to do - I took Belinda home, called her folks and

left when they arrived.

At home, I pulled out my small, secret moleskine notebook, my favorite ballpoint pen

and my lucky baseball cap and began my story again. It took the rest of the night and a

few tears of my own to finish, but I did it in one sitting. It didn’t win the contest, but I

reluctantly let Rob read it and he convinced the partners of his company to donate to

the pulmonary hypertension research hospital in Chicago for every person who signed

up. The total was $20,000 and some change. It wouldn’t bring Ritchie back, but maybe

it would prevent another loss. Ritchie’s life, no matter how short-lived, impacted people

so positively that businesses improved, lives were rescued and a writer like me

discovered new ways to invest his time and energy. It was more inspiration than I ever

bargained for in a game of baseball.

Two months later, I called the draw of the game with the boys. There was dirt kicked

and gum spit spewed, but in the end everyone accepted the call. I drove to Belinda’s

and told her about the game and asked how she was doing. I know it was a stupid

question, but I asked it anyway. Her eyes were drier and the circles disappeared.

Instead there was a distant sadness in them, yet, a glimmer of welcome kept me

coming back. “Coffee?” “How ‘bout a game of catch….and some iced tea?” “You got

it.” She grabbed Ritchie’s old mitt and tossed me the ball with his name printed across.

Let’s see what the kid inspires from a game of catch.