“Won’t I ever be able to throw straight again?” cried poor Bill.
“I’m afraid not,” answered the doctor. “Of course if the pressure on the nerve could be removed it would be possible, but that would take an operation, and I don’t recommend it. In fact it might make matters worse. But it’s not so bad. It will cause you no annoyance.”
“No annoyance?”
“Not a bit. You can see as well as ever. You can read, write, walk about, in fact only in matters requiring a critical judge of distance will you be at all hampered.”
“But that’s just it!” cried Bill. “I need to be a judge of distance if I’m going to pitch on the team.”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t pitch any more,” was the doctor’s verdict, and to Bill, who like his brothers had his whole soul wrapped up in baseball, the words sounded like a doom.
“Not pitch any more?” repeated Bill dully.
“Not until that nerve pressure is removed,” was the answer, “and I advise against any operation for that. I can fit you with a pair of glasses that will take off any strain when you are reading, and that’s all you need. But you can’t pitch—that is if you have to be accurate.”
“And that’s just what I have to be,” murmured Bill. “Not pitch any more—not pitch any more,” and he covered his eyes with his hand, and swayed uncertainly.
“There—there old man!” spoke Cap, a trifle hoarsely, for he was much affected by the way his brother had taken the blow that had fallen. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as it seems. You may get better.”