Baseball Romance

Romance del Beisbol

His arm was ruined, they said. Career over at twenty-eight.

"I don't accept that," I told Miguel Santos, the All-Star shortstop now sitting in my physical therapy clinic looking like the world had ended.

"The doctors said—"

"I know what the doctors said. I read the reports." I examined his shoulder carefully. "But I've seen worse come back. The question is: how hard are you willing to work?"

"For baseball?" Fire flickered in his dark eyes. "I'd do anything."

Miguel had been my patient for two weeks when I realized the trouble I was in.

He arrived early every morning, pushed through every exercise without complaint, and looked at me like I was the only person who believed in him.

"You're different," he said during our third week. "Other therapists, they treat me like I'm broken. You treat me like I'm healing."

"Because you are." I guided his arm through another rotation. "Pain doesn't mean broken. It means alive."

"Where did you learn that?"

"Personal experience."

He asked me to dinner after his first pain-free session. I said no.

"You're my patient."

"For how much longer?"

"Until you're ready to play again."

"And then?"

"Then... we'll see."

He smiled—the same smile that had sold a million jerseys—and something in my chest cracked open.

His recovery accelerated. Every week, more mobility, less pain. The team's doctors called it a miracle.

"It's not a miracle," I told them. "It's discipline and the right treatment plan."

"And you," Miguel said. "Don't forget that part."

After everyone left, he caught my hand.

"Three more weeks," he said. "Then I'm cleared. And then I'm asking you to dinner every day until you say yes."

"That sounds exhausting."

"For you maybe. For me, it's motivation."

He was cleared on a Tuesday. Wednesday morning, flowers arrived at my clinic.

Dinner? - M

I sent back: Friday. 7pm. My choice of restaurant.

Anywhere you want. Always.

I took him to a tiny Dominican restaurant in my neighborhood—the kind of place his fame wouldn't find us.

"You know this place?" He looked surprised.

"My tío owns it."

"Your tío—" He stopped. "This is a test."

"Maybe." I smiled. "Let's see how you handle real Dominican food and my family's questions."

He handled them perfectly. By dessert, my tío was offering him a job if baseball didn't work out.

We walked by the water after dinner, and he took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For believing in me when no one else did. For fixing my arm. For giving me a chance tonight."

"Your arm fixed itself. I just guided it."

"That's not true, and you know it." He stopped walking. "You saved my career. Maybe my life. Baseball is all I know."

"Then show me," I said. "When you play again. Show me who you are on that field."

"Will you come to the games?"

"Try to stop me."

He kissed me under the streetlights, and I understood why the whole country loved Miguel Santos. He made you feel like the only person in the world.

His comeback game was sold out. I watched from the stands as he took the field for the first time in eight months.

When he made his first throw—strong, true, perfect—the crowd erupted. And when he looked up to where I was sitting and touched his heart, I cried.

After the game, he found me in the tunnel.

"Did you see?" He was grinning like a child.

"I saw."

"That throw was for you. Every throw tonight was for you."

"That's a lot of pressure."

"Get used to it." He pulled me close. "You're stuck with me now."

I was. We married after the World Series—the one he led his team to win. The press called it a fairy tale.

But we knew it was simpler than that.

It was hard work, belief, and the right person at the right time.

"Still glad you said no that first time?" he asks me sometimes.

"It made you appreciate me more."

"I appreciated you from the beginning." He kisses my forehead. "You saw me when I couldn't see myself."

Baseball romance—where healing comes in many forms, and love is the ultimate victory.