He lay there, cheek pressed against the cold cement, dimly aware of a coppery taste in his mouth. Raising his head up slowly to look around, he was greeted by a pounding that drove it right back to the ground. He remained still, hoping it would stop, trying to remember how he’d gotten here, where here was. Finally, thinking the pain had become something bearable, he decided to try again. He made it to his hands and knees and tried to raise his head again. In thanks for his effort, the world spun around until he fell on his side, which burst into flame as he rolled onto his back and passed out again.

It was still dark when he opened his eyes. The throbbing was still there, but softer, more like what he woke up with every morning. The blood on his face was dry, he determined, the taste in his mouth was gone. He slowly sat up, waiting for the vertigo to return. But it didn’t, and he placed his elbows on his drawn up knees and sat, thankful. His eyes focused slowly on an object on the ground, just discernible at the ragged edge of the streetlight’s dominion. His wallet. What had happened?

He sat there a while longer, waiting for the fog to lift, waiting to remember. Slowly the pieces began to materialize, then fall into place. He’d been at the bar, like he was almost every night, nursing his analgesic beer and wishing he could afford something stronger. He’d decided to head home if he was to have any chance of making it to work in the morning. Rounding the corner, headed to his small apartment, he’d seen them. Two guys in the alley, one tall, one short. The short one looked terrified, his ghostly pale face hovering in the darkness, eyes wide with fright as the taller one pressed him against the wall. He was just going to walk past, not get involved. Feathers of lightning licked the horizon to the west, and that meant tomorrow would be busy. He was in a position to help someone though. There’d been a time he wouldn’t have thought twice, and a pang of shame at this internal debate pierced through the alcohol cloud.

There must have been a fourth person in the scene though, someone he didn’t see. He vaguely remembered stepping toward the alley and shouting something about stopping. Then, face down on the cold pavement. He touched the left side of his head and winced at the discovery of a bloody, painful temple, a knot in the center rising like the calluses on his hands. His hand came away wet with blood. He wondered what he’d been hit with. Then he laughed. Wouldn’t it be funny if it was a baseball bat?

April 15, 1995. A bright, clear Saturday, perfect for baseball. The chance of rain forecast the night before had failed to materialize. The little wind that was blowing was headed out, to the left field power alley. He stood on deck, studying the new pitcher take his warm up throws. His team was down three runs, but he had shone, the nervousness of the night before disappearing as soon as his cleats ground into the dirt. He was two-for-three on the day with a double, a home run, and 4 RBI’s. His defense at third had been excellent as well. He smiled as he remembered his grandmother’s pride that he played the hot corner, “just like George Brett.” She always smiled and clapped her hands together when she said that, usually in her wicker rocking chair, which would get another bounce from her legs.

Amberline College was a long way from the major leagues, but it was much further than anyone in his family had ever made it before. A small, Baptist school in the middle of the Kansas plains, it was known mostly for its choir until a few years ago. A new coach and a couple of successful baseball seasons had encouraged the alumni and the town to put some money towards a handful of athletic scholarships to attract a few more talented players. His grades in high school had been average, but his exploits on the ball field had been enough to carry his name three towns away to the coach’s ear. He had been one of the first scholarship recipients, and he had not disappointed the staff.

He turned his attention to the small crowd watching the game. Rumors had been swirling that a scout from the minor league team down the interstate was going to be there. As far as anyone knew, this was another first in Amerbline history. The coaches, sensing the player’s building excitement, stressed the need to play the game like any other, not to pressure themselves to perform any differently than every other game on the schedule. He hardly slept the night before, nervous about playing well in front of an audience of one. He had hoped for one of the storms that so often interrupted their games to blow in. Normally he hated rain delays, but for once the chance in the forecast was welcome, offering respite from his nerves. He was alone in this feeling though. No one else really felt any pressure, because his teammates knew that if a scout was to be there, only one player would have his attention.

In that assumption though they were wrong. The scout jotted notes on his clipboard and turned his attention from the batter he’d been following all day to the new pitcher, warming up on the mound. He was here to seem them both. The third baseman had been worth the hours in the car and the night on the cheap hotel bed, now he hoped to see if the fears about the pitcher’s high number of walks played out. He was about to see the matchup he’d been hoping for all day. With a three run lead the pitcher could afford to be aggressive, coming right after the batters. The young man at the plate needed to be smart with the bat. He could swing big early, but ultimately he needed to get on base to get something started for his team. How they both approached this at-bat would tell him quite a bit. He marveled that after twenty years moments like this could still excite him. The first pitch would be crucial, with each attempting to get ahead in the count.

The sickening crack that came next registered before the image did. The collective gasp of the crowd drove home the feeling in his stomach. Later he would learn that the radar gun had clocked the pitch at 98 mph. It hit the old batting helmet, pitted and powdered by years of rolling around dugout floors and brittled by the summer sun, cleaving it. The fissure ran around the left side and halfway back around the batter’s head. The boy lay there, motionless, surrounded by his coaches and teammates for what seemed an age. When they finally helped him rise slowly to his feet he swayed uneasily and leaned heavily on their shoulders, his eyelids heavy and his sweat mixing with the blood near his eye. As he was led away from the field, the scout wondered if he would ever see him again.

A few days later word would reach the office that the young third baseman had a pretty nasty concussion. He would be out of action for at least a few weeks. He was experiencing some blurring and double vision, but the docs were optimistic that would clear up as the swelling around his left eye went down. A post-it on his desk would remind the scout to check back.

The swelling did indeed vanish, but that was all. His vision remained blurry at best, double more often. The rest of the season was spent trying to find a solution, trying to play through it. But no corrective lenses worked, and he was hardly able to follow the ball, let alone pick up its rotation. With each pitch he flailed at hopelessly he sank lower. He returned to school in the fall, but was incapable of concentrating on his studies. Eventually the summons to the athletic director’s office arrived, and the anticipated news that the department simply couldn’t afford to continue a baseball scholarship for a student who couldn’t play. They would try to make up the lost aid, they promised, with academic scholarships and any other financial aid they could help him qualify for. And if his vision cleared up and he could return to the field, then surely the baseball scholarship could be restored.

It didn’t clear up though, and the strain of trying to read and work through it began to bring on terrible headaches. The more remote the baseball field seemed, the lower his spirits sank. Concern from professors turned to warnings which presaged academic probation. He discovered that beer could numb the headaches, leaving him with a manageable hangover. Then he discovered that he would not be welcome to enroll in classes in the upcoming fall.

He headed south with Tom, his best friend from the team, to Oklahoma for the summer. Tom’s father had a landscaping business, and he found that he could move dirt despite his eyes’ betrayal. At night he could drink away the headaches, and during the day he found the work calming. The smell of the grass and the crunch of the dirt beneath his feet brought back familiar feelings. He could sometimes fool himself into believing the rake in his hand was a bat, the stones he removed were bright white game-balls, and he was someplace he belonged. The only difference was the rain. The thunderstorms of tornado alley were the bane of ballplayers, but they were a boon to a landscaper. The rain brought growth and the wind brought down trees and limbs, and he was paid to manage both. He began to watch the skies and, once again, hope for storm clouds.

He was ready to stand up now. His head still hurt, as did his ribs where he figured he’d been kicked, but not as badly. He didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. The night air had an odd smell to it that he thought he should recognize, but couldn’t. Something was off, but he couldn’t settle on what it was. He was pretty sure he was alone, that both the attackers and the original victim had long since fled. The only thing unusual about the alley was the bloodied landscaper sitting in the middle of it.

He remembered his wallet, lying on the pavement a few yards away. He’d been lucky, he thought. Tomorrow was payday, so it had been pretty much empty. He thought there might have been $10, maybe $20 in it. Had this happened tomorrow he would have been out a lot more, and would have had to ask Tom’s father for a loan to get him through.

Slowly he shuffled the short distance back toward the street to where his wallet lay. He knew better than to bend over to pick it up, his head wasn’t ready for that. He squatted on his heels like a catcher, looking at the empty bill compartment of the wallet. Everything else was there though, his old driver’s license, the picture of his grandmother, the George Brett Topps card she’d once given him. He rubbed his thumb over the peeling lamination on his license. He looked so young in the picture. It had expired years ago, and he’d never tried to get an Oklahoma one. He knew there was no way he could pass a vision test, and he was smart enough to know what a threat he’d be behind the wheel of a car. As the first drops of rain began to fall on the picture he realized that had been the smell he couldn’t place before.

He wiped the beads away from the birthday on the license. 03/03/1975. He couldn’t have done the math over the drum in his head, but he knew he was 32 years old. The face in the picture was barely 20. His eyes drifted back over the name, the Kansas address, the license number, before settling back on the birthday. They grew wide. He could read the birth date. The small black type stood out clearly against the yellowing background. He looked quickly around him, reading the signs in the store windows, the plates and bumper stickers on the cars on the street. The pounding in his head was growing. He looked up at the lighted bank sign a block away. 67°. 2:42. Each bulb stood out as clearly as the red seams on the curve balls he once hammered to left field.

He looked back at the license. The rain was growing heavier, and the drops that fell off his chin onto the card began to tinge with pink. 32 years old. He needed to get out of the rain. He needed a drink.