Shortstop Dreams

It was morning. The boy didn't want it to be morning. He didn't want to leave his dreams. In his dreams it was summer and he was shortstop, just about to make the catch of the season. The catch that would put the batter out and the game would be over and the win would be theirs. This catch would put his team over the top and into the championships. But it was morning and he had to wake up.

He didn't feel well. It seemed like he never felt well anymore. He lay there and recalled his dream. He knew his mom would be in any minute now. He had a few more minutes to dream, to wish. Nope, there she was, that hopeful look in her eyes. The usual comments about how are we this morning. Did you sleep well? What would you like for breakfast? Great, just fine and nothing. Thank you. Out of bed and into the bathroom. The day had started.

He knew he had to get it together. Today was the day he went back to the hospital. To start it all over again. The chemo. He didn't want to, but he knew he had to. He wouldn't have messed with it if he had his choice. Oh, he understood the consequences well enough. He had cancer and he could die. He was only ten years old, but he knew what that meant. Sure, he had the will to live that everyone talked about, but mostly it was because of the look in his mom's eyes.

When she thought he wasn't looking, a tear was always there. When he was looking, she would put this determined-to-make-him-happy look there. She would be bright and cheerful. When he left the room, her shoulders would slump and sometimes shake. I'm glad she doesn't know that I know, he thought. I'll do this, for her, but I just don't know how I'm going to make it this time.

He knew what was ahead. The nausea, vomiting, weakness. Just the smell of food would set him off. His hair was just starting to grow back and he would loose it again. He had been through it once before. Just a few months ago. His dad had made a nice gesture by cutting his own hair off. That made the boy feel a little bit better, but he knew his dad's would grow back. He wasn't so sure that his would. He was just too weak this time. Just too weak.

They were back from the hospital. The boy had had to spend the night and well into the next day. His mom stayed with him while his dad went to work. His dad had been there to pick them up and now carried him into his bedroom. His bed had been replaced again, with that hospital-like one. He hated it, but it did help him to sit up to watch the TV. Sometimes he was just too weak to do even that. Now all he wanted to do was sleep.

The weeks went by and the boy made very little headway fighting the side effects of the chemo. He felt like it was just too much to ask. He wanted to go out and play ball. He would have been happy to just watch. All he could do was look out the window. Even that was too hard sometimes. They kept telling him that this time he would beat the cancer. That this was the worst he would have to go through. It was all uphill from now on. They said that the last time just wasn't enough, some of it was still there, but this time it would be gone. If only he could hang on and get through the treatment.

It was winter now. Cold and dreary. Sky overcast, but no snow falling. It was too cold for snow. The boy was glad the hospital visits were over and he didn't have to go out into it. He knew that Christmas was just a couple of weeks away. His mom and dad kept reminding him, as if that would make a difference. He knew that Santa Clause wasn't real, but he had gotten over that several years ago. His problem was getting over the sickness now. They kept talking about spring. About tryouts, making the team. He no longer even dreamed about that. He didn't really dream about anything anymore.

He was in his chair, in the living room, watching television when he heard a weird noise. His dad heard it too. His mom came out from the kitchen and wanted to know what on earth that racket was. His dad grabbed the baseball bat from behind the door and went out to investigate while his mom peeked out through the window. A few minutes later his dad stomped in the backdoor, shaking off the rain. He had something wrapped in the blanket from the mud porch. It wiggled.

His dad put it down on the floor and unwrapped it. It was a puppy. A little brown and white patched puppy. It was soaking wet and shaking, thin and very bedraggled looking. One sad little puppy thought the boy. The boy couldn't take his eyes off of the puppy. He thought about how wet and sad it looked. About how it looked like it hadn't had a decent meal in days. About how cold it looked.

The puppy looked at the boy. She thought about how sad he looked. Thin, weak and sad. She shook herself free from the nice man, took a chance and ran to the boy. She jumped up into his chair and wiggled into his lap. The look of surprise on his face didn't stop her. She knew when she ran away from that man that beat her mother that she had something important to do. Now she knew what it was. She snuggled under the boy's chin and began to lick his face. The boy could hear his parents arguing. She was saying how they didn't need another mouth to feed, what a mess it would make. The boy just looked at the pup, immediate love in his eyes. She wiggled all over him. He held her close.

It was morning. He slowly woke from his dream. The one about being the shortstop. His puppy wiggled in his arms. His mom was at the door, looking down at the two of them, smiling. A very real smile this time. He had to get up. He had to take his puppy outside, then feed her. Then they would play catch. He had to practice. He had to be ready by spring. They had a full day ahead of them. Spring would be here soon.