“I’ll numb the site first.”

“Sounds good.” I’m not above making this more manageable.

Nurse Debbie gives me another one of those hospital gowns to change in to. It’s ironic that she gives me privacy for that, since she’ll be spending time with my nuts again shortly, but I put it on and sit back down. I have to keep my legs spread so I have enough room for my swollen parts. After the numbing, Nurse Debbie leaves me alone again while we wait for it to take effect.

Since there’s no one else around, I use the voice-to-text function to send Sunny a message. I honestly don’t know why people bother typing. This is so much easier.

How are you feeling this morning?

I flip through my emails while I wait for a response. It looks like Amber had access to the Internet yesterday. I have twelve new emails from her. Most of them are audio messages.

Nurse Debbie comes back with a covered tray. I stop checking messages and let her do her thing, keeping my eyes on the ceiling. I have no interest in seeing the needle she plans to use.

“Okay. There’s going to be a pinch, but I need you to stay as still as you can.”

I’m trying to stay relaxed. The “pinch” feels more like someone jabbed me in the balls with a hot poker.

When she’s done, she swabs the site and covers it with gauze and medical tape. That’s going to be a bitch to get off. I sit up and check out my package. It’s not as swollen. I get another shot of antihistamines, a straight shot of antibiotics, and a couple more painkillers. I’m still not allowed to play in the tournament this morning, which blows, but not as much as giant balls.

I slide off the bed and give walking a shot. My limp isn’t as pronounced anymore. Still, I’ll take Nurse Debbie’s advice and get myself some briefs.

After the clinic, I hit the mess hall. I can sit with the counselors, but sometimes it’s nice to hang out with the kids and shoot the shit. It’s still early, and they’re trickling in a few at a time. My buddy Michael sits at a table by himself, poking at his pancakes.

I gingerly sit beside him and ruffle his hair. “How you doing this morning?”

He gives me a halfhearted smile and lifts one shoulder. “All right.”

“You party it up last night?”

“We stayed up ’til midnight.” He gives me a cheeky grin.

“Hardcore. You tired today, then?”

“I’m okay.” He looks around, making sure no one else is near. “The medication they give me makes me feel sick. I didn’t want to have the treatment yesterday, but they said I had to, and now I can’t play today. I hate this.”

“I bet. That has to suck.”

He pushes his food around his plate. “It does. I never used to get sick, and now it’s like I’m always feeling crappy.”

“You gotta take care of the body first, though, right? So it can get better?” I cut into my short stack, which is actually seven pancakes layered with margarine and fake maple syrup. “I can’t play today, either.” I shove food in my mouth and chew. Now that my balls aren’t the size of my head, I’m hungry again.

“Why not?”

“I got a spider bite.”

His cheeks flush. “I wasn’t sure if it was a rumor.”

“I wish. I’m on coaching duty; you wanna be my junior coach today?”

His eyes light up like I’ve told him I’m buying him a Ferrari. “Seriously? Like f’reals?”

“Yeah, man. I’mma need some help. You in?”

“For sure.”

“Cool.” I take off my ball cap and put it on his head. It’s way too big, and I probably have the worst case of hathead ever, but I don’t care. I’ve got that warm feeling I get when I do something that makes someone else feel good. It’s a rush. I pull out my phone and snap a couple of pictures. “Is it okay if I post these?”

“Yeah. Totally.”

I put up one of the pictures and caption it: Stratigizing with my junor caoch over bfast. Team Butterson has it in the bag.

“How do you do in school?” I ask him.

“Good. I get mostly As. Except in music.”

“So you’re good with spelling?”

He nods. “Yeah, I guess I’m decent.”

“Cool.” I do something I’ve never done before, because it feels right. “You wanna check that over for me before I post. My spelling sucks.”

“Really?’

“Yup. I’m dyslexic.”

There’s no hesitation or judgment, which is the great thing about kids. He sits up straight. “One of my friends has that! He sees all this stuff backwards. It’s like it’s all mixed up and upside down, right?”

“Pretty much.” I pass him my phone. He checks it over, and we tag him, which is great. It means I can monitor his progress, and see what kind of financial need his family has.

***

Four hours later, I’m standing at the edge of the parking lot with Randy, giving autographs to parents, hugging kids, and taking pictures. I haven’t had a chance to give him shit over the balls picture, but we’ll be in the car soon enough.

The people from the local paper are here, just like Amber said. They interview me and Randy, as well as a few of the kids. Amber was right about them; they’re not like the usual reporters I deal with. Everything is way more relaxed up here.

Michael’s parents pick him up in an older van. It’s not a junker, but it’s definitely on its way out. His mom’s out of the car before it’s even in park. She embarrasses the shit out of Michael by hugging him and kissing his face while crying. She checks him over the way moms are supposed to, with a critical eye full of love.