Start Me Up

Clare stopped by yesterday to do something she hasn’t tried in close to eleven months—hit a ball.  Surgery on the labrum in her right shoulder was last August, and formal physical therapy ended in February.  It was time to see if anything had changed.

I’m happy to report that all the old sounds were there at Stella’s waiting for us: whir of the conveyor belt carrying baseballs to the pitching machines; “whack!” of non-wood bat on ball; “clang!” of ball hitting roof metal-support post; “crack!” of ball hitting wood canopy over the machines.  Best of all, there wasn’t a “whoosh!” from a swing and a miss in nine tokens.

Oh, the girl showed rust, especially when she tried to bunt; that was my idea, for her to follow the ball up close before trying a full swing.  But Clare laid down enough bunts in 70 and 75 mph to start swinging away. Whack!  Crack!  Clang!

I spotted what looked to be a father with his five-year old daughter; he kept watching Clare make contact.  “She hasn’t done this in close to a year,” I wanted to tell him, but that seemed too much like boasting.

It was enough just to have someone watching the onetime prodigy back to doing her thing in the cages.