After a breathless moment or two on the part of my son and myself, he stood up and hobbled with the coaches' help back to the dugout. I doctored his arm with neosporin and bandaids while one of the coaches who is a physical therapist helped to ice and elevate the ankle. William tried to go back in to bat in the third inning on a swelling limb that was duct-taped over his sock, but no dice. He struck out, the boys' momentum slowed to a crawl, and we lost 13 - 4.
William promptly came down with a fever and ear infection, as well, and the poor kid is laid up on the couch alternating with ice baths for the ankle and blankets for the chill. I feel jilted and betrayed by the game of baseball, which lifted us so high last week and sent us packing - dusty and sore - two days ago. To add insult to injury, the kids' swim season is almost over, and it looks like William will miss his last week of practice in recovery. Since swimming was my first (and always will be my strongest) sporting love, I will have to kick baseball to the curb, at least until next year.