As a Milwaukee Brewers season ticket holder, I prided myself on the amount of games that I went to. No matter the conditions, you could count on me being there.
I couldn't imagine a bigger baseball fan than me. I had every player of the Brewers stats memorized since I was 15. Nothing, came between me and my baseball, especially not this.
"Matt, I'm being dead ass right now," I said to him as my eyes narrowed. "Get. The. Fuck. Out."
"Em, please." His eyes were pleading.
"I swear to God, Matt, if I have to say it one more time, I'm calling the fucking cops." My voice was slowly rising. I was never one to lose my cool, so he knew how serious I was right now.
"Fine, but don't call or text me when you're lonely."
"Don't count on it, assface." I never was one for profanity, unless I was mad. Then it all just seemed to come to easily; like they were the only words I had ever known.
I sighed as he finally left. My head was in my hands and tears fell down my face.
I pulled myself together and began to get ready for the game. I pulled out my Yelich jersey and some navy blue high waisted shorts to wear. I left my hair straight and put on some white high top converse before walking out.
As I arrived at Miller Park, I completely forgot about my argument with my boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend I supposed.
Baseball has always been an escape for me. I never had such a passion for anything else. Growing up, I'd always wanted a job in sports. I went to college and got a degree in sports medicine. I had hoped that with that, I could get a job as an athletic trainer or something , and no matter how many times I applied, I was never selected for an interview. So instead, I went back to college for little while, and became a doctor.
I snapped out of my thoughts as the game began. The first pitch was hit just behind first base, and anyone would have thought it was a base hit. However, Christian Yelich had other plans.
He sprinted full speed and dove. It was so graceful and effortless-looking, you would have thought he never practiced a day in his life; like it came naturally and easily to him.
Everyone in the stands was standing and clapping, but Christian didn't get up. The cheers turned into worry as he lied on the ground.
The athletic trainers rushed on the field and sat him up. He was clutching his leg. From where I was sitting, it looked like his hamstring. They tried to get him up, but he refused to move for some reason.
I don't know why, but I made my way down to the wall close to where they were trying to get him up.
"Ma'am, you can't be here."
I didn't know who was saying this to me. He looked large. I assumed it was a security guard.
"I think I can help." I said. I really didn't know why I was trying to do this. It was stupid for me to even think they would let me help.
"Let her in. It can't cause any harm anyway."
I turned my head at the voice behind me. It was a woman, and she appeared to be older.
"Mrs. Yelich, we can't do that."
"He's my son and he needs help," she turned to look at me. "Are you a doctor?"
"I am." I said to her. It came out quietly and I mentally scolded myself for sounding so small.
"Please help him, but be careful. He's afraid of doctors."
The security guard reluctantly guided me to where Christian sat. I noticed every player and trainer were surrounding him.
"Please, if everyone could back up and give him some space." I yelled. I wanted to intimidate them and let them know I wasn't a joke.
Surprisingly they did except the few athletic trainers who were still trying to work with him.
I squatted down beside him and looked him in the eyes. "Christian, can you tell me what hurts?"
"Who are you?" he said. His tone was harsh.
"I'm a doctor. I'm here to help." I said. His brown eyes looked deeply into mine. He didn't say anything, but I could tell he was hesitant for me to touch him.
After a few seconds he finally spoke. "It's my hamstring."
"Okay Christian, I need to get you off the field and into my office to check you out, then send you off to baseball again." I only mentioned baseball in my sentence because I knew it was the only way to get him off the field. It was obvious that the trainers were making his injury seem scarier than it actually was to him. He was afraid of not being able to play.
He nodded his head and slowly began to attempt to stand. A man supported his weight and walked him off the field.
I showed them the way to my car and helped get him in before walking to the drivers side and starting the car.
At first the ride was quiet. I didn't expect him to talk and I sure as hell wasn't going to. I jumped as he spoke, " Thank you."
It was quiet, and I wouldn't have heard it if we weren't so close. "You're welcome. It's my job."
As I talked to him, we arrived at my office and I helped him out of the car. He slung his arm over my shoulder and I supported his weight.
"I can try to walk if it's too hard to walk me up there."
"Christian, it's fine. I can handle walking a few more feet, and besides, you're injured so there is no way I'm letting you walk."
He laughed quietly. He really was heavy and I actually was struggling. His 6'3 frame was weighing down on my 5'4 one.
When we finally got inside, I helped him on to the table so I could begin to assess his injury.
"Well, it looks like a severely pulled hamstring." I began. "You're out for the next three games and I'll show you some stretches to do in the meantime."
"3 games?" he said. I could tell he was mad.
"If you don't sit out, you'll hurt yourself worse and potentially end your career, so yes, 3 games."
My tone was stern, so I hoped he'd listen.
He sighed and ran his fingers through his very, very nice hair. I couldn't help but look at it.
I snapped out of my trance and began to wrap his leg. When I was done I handed him some crutches.
"I'd recommend using these. Not walking on it will speed up the recovery process."
When he didn't get up to leave, I was confused, and as if he noticed this, he began to speak.
"You're kind of my ride." He said awkwardly.
