Waiting on deck, like I do before every up-bat. It was nothing out of the ordinary. But when I would step into the batter’s box, this ordinary situation would turn into a life changing nightmare in the blink of an eye. Walking up to the plate through the thick cut grass, I survey the field to see the positioning of the defense as I think about what pitch the pitcher might throw. My right cleat dug into the dirt; it was still wet from the morning rainfall. My left foot followed as I brought my bat, glistening from the slight rainfall, up to my shoulder. I kept it there as the pitch zoomed by. With conviction, the umpire yelled, “strike one!” Shocked he threw his first pitch for a strike, I stepped out of the box, took a long deep breath and stepped back in awaiting the next pitch. The moment the ball came out of the pitcher’s hand it was coming towards my face, but I did not have much time to react. The crowd let out a collective gasp at the sight of the ball aggressively meeting my face. Instantly, I dropped to the moist mushy ground in pain and disbelief. I was met by my father who was the first base coach, the third base coach, and the umpires as they came racing in to examine the injury. Drip drip, the blood slowly began. Drip, drip, drip, the blood increased in speed. Drippppp, the blood became a steady stream. Adrenaline kicked in instantly. There was zero pain, only shock.

This event was a living nightmare for the present and the upcoming future. Later I would learn I would need surgery to repair my broken jaw and two displaced teeth. My jaw would then be wired shut for the next six weeks, which felt like the rest of the summer. But beyond the physical concern was the fear of the unknown. Will I get to play again this summer? How will I react the next time a pitch is near my face? Will I be scared when it comes time to play again? My future as a baseball player was put into question.