“Go get ‘em, Frank,” Dan said as he headed back to the dugout.

  It was no big deal, really. Just a lucky hit off a former high school pitcher.

  But Dan had to admit it felt pretty good to get hold of one. Just to know he still could get hold of one.

  Yep, things were looking up, even if Frank Buis did strike out to end the game.

  —

  While David kibitzed with his co-workers and a few of the Coca-Cola guys, Dan patrolled the field, retrieving forgotten equipment and any debris that the game generated.

  It was a habit he had picked up as a Little Leaguer, and he considered it his duty to leave each green baseball cathedral in at least as good shape as he found it in.

  He finished looping through the outfield and cut back over second base, trotting toward home. As he neared the backstop, a voice growled out from the dim home dugout.

  “Is that all the hustle you got, son?”

  Dan stepped on home plate and squinted into to the growing darkness. The bill of a ball cap flashed from under the dugout roof, followed by a blue-satin-jacket-clad belly. Dan looked from the paunch to the attached face and broke into a wide grin.

  “Coach Croft!” he called, running forward to greet his high school coach.

  “Dan Hodges!” Croft bellowed.

  The big man pumped Dan’s arm and pulled him in close for a rough one-armed hug. Then he pushed the younger man back to arm’s length and looked him up and down.

  “Well, now,” Croft said. “You don’t look anywhere near as bad off as your Daddy told me!”

  Just then, David joined the other two, having finished his post-game socializing.

  “Now, don’t listen to him, Dan,” David said. “You know how pretty I’ve always thought you are.”

  Dan looked from David to Croft, mouth hanging open and not sure what to make of the scene unfolding before him.

  The two older men exchanged glances, then burst into laughter.

  “Oh, come on, Dan,” Croft said. “Is it too early in the season for you to take a little ribbing?”

  Dan allowed himself a timid smile and said, “Ha, ha. You guys are a riot. But really, coach, what are you doing here?”

  “Well, your old dad here told me that you’d be back on the diamond tonight, and I wanted to see for myself. You looked pretty good, kid. Of course, I suppose you have to consider the competition!”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” Dan said.

  “Dan, he’s kidding,” David said.

  Dan chuckled sheepishly. “Oh, well. I guess maybe my sense of humor is still warming up.”

  “That’s all right, kid,” Croft said. “We’ve got all summer. I gotta head out now, but I’ll see you around, OK?”

  “You betcha, Coach!” Dan said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Cup of Coffee

  The morning after the game against Coca-Cola, Dan woke up sore from the exertion of seven innings, but also feeling stronger than he had since coming out of hibernation a month earlier.

  The next day, he felt stronger still, and that trend continued throughout the first half of May. Dan attributed his improved spirits to playing baseball twice a week and practicing three other nights -- to getting his groove back. But when David commented on his improving bat speed and bulging biceps, Dan felt he really was making big strides toward regaining his physical peak.

  By the time the company season ended just before Memorial Day, Dan felt almost normal and maybe even stronger with the bat than he had at the end of his high school career. He could run for miles without wearing down, he could play a game — or two — every day if he wanted to, and, most importantly, he was driving the ball with authority, smacking five home runs in the Blue Crew’s last four games.

  Sure, Dan knew “beer league” competition was not exactly Major League caliber, but you always had to prove to yourself you had mastered one level before you could move to the next. Dan felt he definitely had mastered the local company circuit, and he was eager for American Legion ball to start.

  Coach Croft was eager to get his hands on Dan again, too, and had been showing up at HBM’s games all season long. The two had talked several times during the company league schedule, and both were looking forward to the Legion season.

  With the promise of a sunny summer baseball season in front of him, and the confidence of a successful spring behind him, Dan went to bed on the night of May 28 feeling pretty good about the world. He had spent Memorial Day with his parents, Gabbie, and Troy at Feather Falls and Lufton Beach, and, for the first time in a long time, they had all talked about the future. He drifted off to sleep that night with sweet thoughts of a life full of babies, family … and baseball. He was happy.

  He was shocked the next morning, then, when a panicked pounding on his bedroom door woke him, and he staggered out of bed. His legs felt like jelly, and his head felt like it was full of cotton balls. He fumbled with the doorknob, and, when he finally managed to open the door, he found a concerned-looking David waiting for him.

  “What’s the matter, Dad?” Dan asked, scared by the worried look on his father’s face.

  “Are you OK, Dan?” David asked.

  Dan looked around, and he could feel the scowl on his face, the frazzled hair, and the matted eyes that must have made him seem disoriented. What was worse, he felt disoriented?

  “Um, yeah … yes, Dad,” Dan stammered. “I’m fine. I’m fine. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s 7:50, Dan,” David informed him. “We have to be at work in 10 minutes, and you’re not even dressed. What’s going on?”

  Dan spun toward his bed to look at his clock and staggered, nearly falling sideways. David steadied his son with a sturdy hand, and Dan looked back to his father. He shook his head, trying to kick-start his brain.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” Dan said, before starting to regain his bearings. “I mean, nothing. I guess we just had too much fun yesterday.”

  Dan managed a weak grin, but David didn’t look convinced.

  “Look, Dad,” Dan said. “I just ate too many hot dogs, and I’m feeling kind of bloated. I also drank a lot of pop. Maybe those Coke guys poisoned me or something.”

  David still wasn’t buying Dan’s story, but he could see his son was coming around. “Well, OK, but you need to get dressed. I’ve called Mr. Jenkins to let him know we’re going to be late, but we’ve got to get a move on.”

  “I’m on it, Dad,” Dan said as he pushed David out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  —

  That night, Dan checked his alarm clock and found that it appeared to be functioning and was set correctly to go off at 6:30 am, just like every other day. Just to be safe, he rolled the setting back an hour to 5:30, then he called Gabbie and asked to borrow her alarm clock, too.

  “Sure, Dan,” she had said. “Troy wakes me up every hour on the hour for feeding, anyway, so I really don’t need my alarm clock right now.”

  With his double-pronged approach, Dan managed to pull himself out of bed by 6 am the next morning, but he was again disoriented, and his head was even cloudier than on Tuesday.

  And so it went, day after day, all week long. Dan would struggle to get out of bed, spend the first few hours of the work day in a fog and only starting to feel better after lunch. He was fine working out after work and at the Eagles’ game on Thursday evening, but each night, he collapsed back into bed as soon as he got out of the shower.

  He took Gabbie and Troy to an IWU game on Saturday afternoon, and they had planned to spend the evening together. They stopped for pizza on the way home, but by the time Dan pulled into his parents’ driveway, he was fighting to keep his eyes open. The trio went inside and plopped down on the couch and, within 10 minutes, Dan had passed out with his head on Gabbie’s lap, little Troy resting on his belly.

  Dan slept through the night and until Noon on Sunday and, though he felt really good when he finally woke up, he was exhausted again by 6 pm. This after doing nothing all afternoon except watching the Reds on TV and playing some cards with a couple of buddies from high school.

  Monday morning was nearly impossible, and David decided after taking one look at his son that a sick day was in order, So David called Tom Jenkins and, instead of hanging up the phone, pushed the receiver down with his finger and dialed the number to Dr. Parks’ office.

  And so it was that Dan found himself in Parks’ waiting room on Wednesday afternoon, for the second time in three days, dreading what the doctor had to say on his follow-up. David had wanted to drive Dan to the appointment, but Dan insisted he could do it himself. Besides, David had already missed parts of two days that week shuttling Dan around, and the family couldn’t afford to jeopardize David’s job.

  “Daniel,” a soft voice called to him, breaking his trance. Dan stood, managing a weak smile for Rita, the middle-aged nurse who was waiting to take him to the exam room.

  “Right this way, Daniel,” Rita said, waving Dan through the open door with his chart,studying it as if it had been months since she’d seen him.

  “OK, now, hop up on that scale for me,” Rita continued when they had walked 20 feet down the hallway.

  “But you just weighed me yesterday, Rita,” Dan complained.

  “I know, honey, but its protocol,” Rita explained with a sympathetic voice. “We have to make sure you’re staying healthy, right?”

  Dan sighed and shrugged his shoulders. He knew something was not right and didn’t need a scale to tell him that.

  “Hmm, 176,” Rita said and pursed her lips. “See there — your down a pound. Good thing we weighed you again, I’d say!”

  Dan just nodded but rolled his eyes when Rita looked down to write on his chart.

  “You go right in there and wait for Dr. Parks, Daniel,” Rita instructed, pointing to a room on their left. “He’ll be here in just a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, Rita,” Dan said and followed her directions.

  While he waited, Dan picked up Sports Illustrated and was surprised by how the cover photo of Hank Aaron pained him. Dan loved The Hammer as a player, and he loved everything about baseball, but there was something about the vibrant colors and flashing lights glaring off Aaron’s helmet that made him cringe. Maybe it was the realization Dan might never play in front of an adoring crowd, the way Aaron had for nearly three decades. Just a couple of weeks after he seemed to be regaining his swagger, Dan could feel despair growing from the pit of his heart and spreading through his whole body.

  What’s wrong with me? Dan wondered to himself.

  A sharp rap on the wooden door made Dan jump in his seat on the exam table, and Dr. Parks had to suppress a giggle as he entered the room. He tried to hide his face by burying it in Dan’s chart, but Dan could still see the smirk.

  “Well, if you’re laughing at me, Doc, that must at least mean the news is not too bad,” Dan said in a hopeful tone. “Right?”

  In an instant, the smile drained from Parks’ face and the gray-haired man stood up straight to greet Dan with a somber expression.

  “I’m sorry, Dan,” Parks said. “I really shouldn’t have laughed like that. I apologize.” The doctor’s voice was much too sympathetic to just be apologizing for a gentle razzing.

  Dan’s stomach knotted and his face grew taut.

  “What’s going on, Dr. Parks?” he asked? “Did you get the results of my blood tests?”

  Parks glanced at the chart again, as if to be sure of what he was seeing before continuing. He looked Dan in the eye.

  “Dan,” Parks began. “I’m afraid your endocrine levels have begun to change again.”

  Dan understood what Parks was saying, but he couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

  “Isn’t that what happened to me after I got hit with the ball last year?” Dan asked. “Why would it be happening again?”

  “Now, don’t get too excited just yet, Dan,” Parks consoled. “Your numbers are nowhere near the levels they hit while you were hibernating … but they are definitely changing.”

  “How bad is it,” Dan wanted to know.

  “Well, your melatonin is at 11, and your T4 is low,” Parks told him. “Either one by itself is not dramatic, but, taken together, I think it’s enough to explain the lethargy and fatigue you’ve been feeling over the last week or so.”

  “So what do we need to do?” Dan asked.

  “At this point, Dan, all we can do is monitor your situation, AND I’m going to set you up to see Dr. Eisenflower, an endocrinologist in Indianapolis. He already knows about your case and in fact consulted in your treatment last winter. I have made you an appointment for next Monday morning.”

  “Can he fix me?” Dan asked.

  Parks grabbed one of Dan’s hands in his own and moved closer. “I want you to understand, Dan -- I don’t believe you’re in any danger. There may be nothing to ‘fix,’ as you put it, but I want to get Dr. Eisenflower’s first-hand take on your situation. I’m confident that, between the two of us, we can figure out what’s happening … and keep you healthy.”

  Dan exhaled harshly. “OK, Doc, but what should I do in the meantime? I mean, it’s hard for me to even get up — and stay up — for work!”

  Parks was standing now, and he patted Dan on the knee with his chart.

  “Lots of coffee,” my boy, the doctor said. “Lots of coffee.”

  —

  The next morning, Dan clawed his way out of bed as had become his habit, but this time he was greeted by the smell of strong coffee. Before he even went to the bathroom, he headed into the kitchen to fuel up on the java that David already had brewing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Baseball Men

  “Hey, Dan! Shake a tail feather!”

  Dan squinted his eyes against the foggy orange sun, trying to figure out who was busting his chops so early on the first Tuesday morning in June. As he neared the East side of the diamond, near the home dugout, Dan could see his verbal assaulter was Coach Croft. He could also make out another, larger figure standing next to South Pickens’ head man, but he couldn’t quite tell who it was.

  Falling into his old habit of snapping to attention when the coach yelled, Dan broke into a trot and closed the 50 yards between him and the two older men in just a few seconds.

  “What’s up, coach?” Dan asked, panting. The last week had been rough, and he was feeling weak again, though still stronger than when he woke up back in April.

  “Mornin,' Princess,” Croft teased as he looked at his watch. “Glad you decided to join us today!”

  Dan glanced at his own watch. “C’mon, coach, it’s still just 7:55. Practice doesn’t start until eight, right?”

  Dan looked around him at the empty diamond and spread his arms out in an expression that said, “See? No one’s even here, yet!”.

  Croft rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. “Well, actually, Dan,” the coach began, “practice doesn’t start until nine. You think any of my players would dare to show up in the last five minutes?”

  The coach had a point, as promptness was ingrained in all the Eagles’ athletes. But Dan was sure Croft had told him to come to the field at eight. South Pickens was heading into sectional play, and the coach had invited Dan to help mentor the team during the playoffs. The idea appealed to Dan, but he was hesitant because most of the guys had been his teammates just a year or so before. But Croft had assured him there wouldn’t be any hard feelings, so here Dan was, ready for duty.