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.