77

The phone rang, and he felt like letting it ring, but he’d just been talking with Dr. Rachels about handling problems as they arose, in the present, one at a time, and here was a problem he could probably handle: a ringing phone. He’d been here for ten days.

“Henry, it’s Dwight. Dwight Rogner.”

“Hey Dwight.”

“Congratulations, my friend. It’s my distinct pleasure to inform you that you’ve been chosen by the St. Louis Cardinals in the thirty-third round of the amateur draft.”

“What?” Henry sank down on the unmade hospital bed. His first thought was that it was Adam or Rick, playing a joke so absurd it could hardly be considered cruel. “You’re kidding.”

“I know it’s not what you were shooting for, in terms of the round. But I think it’s a wonderful opportunity for you. And for the St. Louis Cardinals, frankly, to get an athlete of your caliber at this stage of the draft.”

“But…,” Henry protested. “I mean… I don’t even play anymore. I quit the team.”

“Henry, I know you haven’t had the easiest season. But the draft is about one word, and that word is potential. And I’ll be damned if the Cardinals are going to find another player in the thirty-third round with your kind of potential. Who I can easily close my eyes and imagine as a star in this league. A legitimate, long-term star.”

Henry said nothing, but that seemed okay because Dwight kept talking: “You and Mike have done a great job with your training, given the available resources. But the difference between Westish College and the St. Louis Cardinals is night and day. With us you’ll have the best coaches, the best trainers, the best facilities. Everything we do is designed to make you a better ballplayer.”

“I’ve lost weight,” Henry said.

“You’ll gain it back. We’ll bring you along slowly. Nobody’s expecting you to play in the majors tomorrow. We just expect you to work hard every day. To follow your dream.”

“I’m in the hospital,” Henry said loudly. “In the psych ward. I can’t throw.” He slammed a hand down on the bed. Anger surged through him. He didn’t want to talk about dreams. He wanted to talk about what was real.

“I know you’ve had a rough go,” Dwight said. “It happens to the best of us.”

“You’re serious,” Henry said. “You drafted me.”

“We sure did. You have a much higher ceiling than most late-round picks, and we’ll be offering a correspondingly higher bonus to convince you to sign. How does a hundred strike you?”

“Dollars?”

Dwight laughed. “Thousands. A hundred thousand dollars, up front. Anyway, we can discuss that later. You have until the end of August to sign a contract. If you don’t sign, we lose your rights, and you’ll go back into the draft next year. In which case I’ll be tracking your progress very closely.”

Henry said nothing. There was nothing to say. A hundred thousand dollars to play baseball: just what he’d always wanted.

“By the way,” Dwight added, “the Cubbies picked up your buddy Adam Starblind. He’s made quite an impression the last month or so.”

“Wow. That’s… wow.” Let it be after me. Just let it be after me. “What round was that?”

“Thirty-second,” Dwight said. “Right before you.”