When I was in high school, I played with the St. Louis Amateur Baseball Association.
Or SLABA.
We started practicing in early January at a facility outside our team’s county lines. Because technically, we weren’t supposed to practice until a prescribed time in early spring.
It was one of many tactics that high school sports teams use to gain an edge. And it helped. Our first game wasn’t for another 4-5 months. But we would use every spare minute to prepare for the coming season.
I loved playing baseball. It was the one place where I felt like I could be free. And I had some skill.
When I joined SLABA, I had not played organized games since I was in traditional school. Grade school. I still played outside in my yard. But there wasn’t really anyone to play with. My family decided to homeschool. So that meant I threw a tennis ball against the wall to practice fielding. Or I’d hit the ball, drop my bat, grab my glove and try to catch what I had hit. Sometimes I could drag my older brother outside and he’d hit the ball to me.
But I hadn’t competed in a live game in years. So when I rejoined organized baseball in high school, it was a bit of a shock. Everybody was stronger, the ball moved a lot faster… and people generally were not having as much fun.
The first few weeks of practice. I was just terrible. I needed a lot of repetitions at that level. People made fun of me. And let me know I wasn’t good. And I got so nervous, that I would vomit after every practice. But I didn’t let that stop me. I kept going. Kept playing. Kept conditioning my body. And by about 2.5 months in, nobody was laughing anymore. I could make plays nobody else was making. And make the routine plays. And I started connecting with the ball. Driving it. Hard.
I ate, drank, and slept thinking about baseball. The coach was really hard on me. Especially at first. He didn’t like me. He didn’t think I was any good. But I didn’t quit. I kept going. And eventually, he stopped giving me a hard time. And started watching me play. And then he started coaching me. My work ethic and the drive to be a great player made him take notice. I humbled myself, and went to his younger kid’s grade school practices. Would help the younger kids there. Played the game. And practiced with the little kids.
Why? Because yeah, I loved it.
Then the season rolled around. It was our first game. And it rained. So much that there was about an inch of water on the field. Everybody went home except our team. Our coach decided after 5 months of grueling practice… that we needed more practice. We didn’t. We were more than ready.
He was a good coach but this was not a good decision. The reason that games get rained out, is because water and sports don’t typically mix. Unless you swim or water ski, I guess. There are considerable safety concerns. Particularly in baseball. Baseballs are extremely hard and move at extremely high velocity. Add water into that mix and it is extremely dangerous.
But for whatever reason, that wasn’t a factor in our coach’s mind that day. And true to form, the head coach hit rockets that were skipping off the wet field and moving in all kinds of crazy directions. And naturally, all of the players stopped getting behind the ball and were shielding themselves so that they wouldn’t get hit by an unpredictable line drive.
Our coach noticed this and barked out. “The next guy who doesn’t get behind the ball and field it… everybody is doing laps and a hundred push ups.”
And the next guy up was me. So you have to imagine how I’m in a rock and a hard place. If I get out of the way, the entire team is going to hate me. He knew that. And he knew I was the next guy up. Somebody who listened and respected authority. Somebody who was dedicated. And would do what he asked.
So I took a deep breath, crouched and moved forward.
The ball was absolutely smoked, skipped once, and I ran right at it, positioned to short hop it and fire it right back at him….
And the lights went out.
I was knocked out cold. The ball had skipped once, completely changed directions and hit me square, flush in my right eye.
When I came to, I heard players wincing and groaning all around me. I couldn’t see anything. And when I put my hand to my face, there was a fleshy, very large, very swollen mass about the size of a softball/grapefruit hanging off my face.
I panicked. I desperately tried to open my eye lid that had been completely swollen shut from the impact. It was as if my eye had huge airbags that had deployed. Thankfully I saw the barest hint of light.
I laid back and I heard, “oh my god, Tim.”
It was my coach. And he was panicking. He knew he had just done something incredibly stupid. And I got hurt. Badly.
I slowly sat up. Stood. The team clapped. I walked off the field under my own power. My whole back and ass were completely wet and I was covered in mud. Because it had fucking rained that day. My dad was seething with anger.
We went to the emergency room. My head was scanned multiple times.
And then the news.
I had sustained a massive concussion, skull fracture, and my nose was badly broken.
The nurses started applying cold compresses and ice to bring the swelling down. After a few hours, I could start to kind of open my eye. They examined it. I could kind of see.
The doctor comes in and tells me, I’m done playing baseball. If I got hit in any significant way again in the head, I would either sustain severe brain damage or I could die.
It was a lot to process. Meanwhile I had a nurse asking me if my father had hit me. I then I had pain starting to rise in a way that I hadn’t felt yet. And THEN I received the news about not being able to play.
I started to cry. This younger nurse smiled, put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Why are you crying now? You haven’t cried through this whole thing.”
I cried because everything I’d worked for was done. My playing days were over. I had worked hard, built up my body, fought for a spot, earned respect, and my skills started to really take off. And then it was all over. In a matter of moments, in a game of inches.
I cried because I no longer had that one outlet that would get me out of the house and back into the world. Homeschooling was great for academics but terrible for socialization. I was lonely, in need of validation, and friendship. This was going to end that possibility.
At the time, I didn’t realize how much this injury would change my adult life. I was able to adjust to not playing the game I loved anymore. I put down the dream of maybe trying for a professional team. What I didn’t know was that the result of such a major head trauma, would drastically change the quality of my health. A state of health that will be with me until I die.
I now regularly have migraines. I get sick to my stomach. I can’t focus. I get depressed. All of these are significant symptoms that are the result of severe concussions. Sports teams have not taken concussions seriously until the last 15 years. Until major players within professional sports, started committing suicide. The factor that connected a lot of these people’s stories, were traumatic head injuries.
I’m grateful to be alive. The doctor that attended me said that if I had turned my head even a centimeter to the left, I would probably be dead. The ball would have hit me full force in the temple, instead of flush in my eye socket.
I saw the x-ray and cat scans. I had a major fracture in my lower orbital bone or “a big old crack in my skull.” And there was swelling in my brain.
I’m grateful to have my vision in my right eye. I honestly thought my eye had exploded on impact.
It’s really difficult at times, dealing with life after a major concussion. I can become irritable, depressed, and feel like I'm sinking. Out of nowhere. That’s not me. That’s my brain, effected by this massive head trauma.
I can lose focus and disappear. Meaning, I can be present and talking with you and then suddenly be far away, somewhere else.
It’s maddening. All because my head was hit really hard. Really fucking hard.
I fight through it. And I am continuing to find joy in so many good things. I have an amazing partner and children. I get to edit videos for a living.
And somedays I feel like myself.
In retrospect, the practice should not have been held. We should have been sent home to play another day. My coach shouldn’t have used me as an example. He should have read the signs and seen that his players weren’t being lazy. We were all afraid of getting hit hard and injured. Which is exactly what happened to me.
I’ll never forget the phone call later that night. I called my coach to let him know I was alive. I was actually pretty angry with him. He picks up the phone and sighs a heavy sigh of relief. Then all he can do is ask me when I’m going to “get back on the horse.”
I remember shaking with anger… but I wasn’t allowed to show disrespect with my elders. I didn’t need an argument from my parents on top of what I already had been through. I informed him that my playing days were over.
And he didn’t really have much to say. He asked if I was going to come and support the team. I said no.
Sometimes people just don’t really understand the ramifications of their actions. It wasn’t intentional in the sense that he wasn’t trying to injure me. But that’s the thing about life. Being aware. Being considerate of warnings and precedent. I suffered the consequences of somebody else’s bad decision making. Someone who had authority over me. If I had been afforded the decision making of an adult, I wouldn’t have been on that wet field.
Playing on a wet field to replace a game that got rained out had life altering consequences for me.
The team went on to win. Almost every game they played. They made it within one game of winning it all. That hurt. I was happy for my teammates but it was difficult knowing that I couldn’t play and benefit from all the hard work I’d put in. That’s another thing about life. We know it’s not fair. And often, it likes to taunt us. Or so it seems.
Decisions can have far reaching consequences. If your child is in sports, their safety is paramount. And peer pressure is not a good way to motivate people.
If they play major contact sports, it’s a really good idea to make sure their heads are protected. And that if rain is a factor, it’s really better to be safe, than sorry.
I’ve seen the same kind of injury end MLB players careers. 2 of them were STL Cardinals. One of the players has written about his injury and life after. It is very similar to mine. I’m grateful for his story. And his honesty. It’s actually helped me. Knowing that there is somebody else out there that’s had this kind of experience. And knows the struggle that nobody else really sees.
I did gain a super power after my injury. Any time a major storm comes through, I know it. My head feels like it is going to cave in. And then it rains or snows. And I’m good.
Whoa. What an intense experience and huge loss and aftermath. Wow. Just -- yeah. Also fuck that coach.