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Vindicate Me	By : msmartinez Category: Individual Celebrities > Athlete/Sports Misc Views: 2091 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the people written about in this fanfiction. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Vindicate Me
- 2-Ch 2
- 3-Ch 3
- 4-Ch 4
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[A/N, introducing the cast of characters, whom I own and whom I don’t. I guess this is a disclaimer.
Cast:
Matt Morris, Cardinals pitcher (I don’t own him, never claimed to, don’t sue)
Dutchie Reid Morris, wife of Matt (My creation)
Rickey Morris, son of Matt and Dutchie Reid (Mine)
Jason Barry, pitcher for the Cards (Mine)
Now, to the story]

My right arm lay on the arm of the chair, useless, as the ligaments in my elbow just wouldn’t heal and mesh correctly. Tommy John surgery was needed after a ligament snapped while I was pitching last season. Imagine a rope breaking. Then imagine if that rope was in your body.

The pain was bad, yes, but the fact that my arm was basically a stick, just an extension of my body, that bothered me more. I couldn’t even hold my son. He was on the floor in the playpen, engrossed in a plush peacock his mother had given him. I was feeling like pudding. My arm was pudding and I was a pudding cup, a useless blob with a non-functional arm to match, plopped on my leather man-chair watching some obscure European golf tournament on TV.

My life was the pinnacle of excitement, at that very moment.

Fortunately, my wife came in and saved me. She had the soft-case of her bassoon slung over her shoulder, and a thick book of music tucked under an arm. Both of her arms worked. Good thing, too. She was the interchangeable part, a cog, for the local wind symphony. There wasn’t a woodwind in existence she couldn’t play. She also worked at a music shop she had opened just after we married, doing repairs and giving lessons. I glanced at the sky-blue cover of the book and saw “Lazarus Clarinet Method” on the cover. “You got the big wood there, why the clarinet book,” I asked.

She chuckled like someone who had heardittlittle quip that reminded her of a private joke, only I wasn’t in on it. “I took the ‘big wood’ in to have my one o’clock try the Fox out,” she said. “I had three clarinet lessons today.” The Fox and the big wood were our names for her bassoon. Fox was the brand name, since I was a dolt about music, I just called it what it was; a four-foot tall wooden bong. It looked like a bong. She threatened to swat me with the “very expensive 350 series bocal” whenever I said that.

She stashed the music and the bong and went to the playpen. Our son looked up at his mom and soon the peacock was yesterday’s news. “How long has he been in the playpen, Matty,” she asked me.

I watched a ball sail onto the green from the fairway on TV. “I can’t hold him, so he’s been in the pen since you left,” I said.

She wasn’t pleased, but she knew my pain and annoyance almost as well as I did. Sometimes I wondered why she stuck around. We married when I was riding high, in 1997. I was a rookie and everyone around me wanted a piece. The success I enjoyed was a bit heady but I managed to keep my feet on the ground. It was easy to love a guy like me then. A handsome, successful athlete, soon to cash in on my dominant rookie season.

Then came the downhill roll. Tommy John surgery. Having a baby and being afraid of not being able to provide for him. Dutchie Reid couldn’t play in the symphony after her fifth month, when she got big. Working also proved tough for her while pregnant. I had quite a bit squirreled away from the years before my surgery, so we weren’t screwed. But when a man can’t bring home the bacon, well, it’s a real kick in the balls.

“Were you gonna head to the park and work out,” Dutchie Reid went on.

I had been thinking about it. I was too into my pudding frame of mind to actually get up and go. “Maybe,” I said.

Dutchie Reid still was aggravated from my lack of motivation. We’d had fight upon fight aboutsincsince I started to give up. I’d been working for almost two years after the surgery to get my arm back in shape, but nothing helped. It was like butting my head against a brick wall, with the rehab and the screaming matches with Dutchie Reid. I was beyond frustrated. I slipped into a flavor of pudding I’d never known: apathy. My male pride had been taken out. What else did I have?

Dutchie Reid stood in the light of the kitchen with my kid on her hip. “You have me, and you have him,” she said. “Matty, it’s a long road, especially when you fall from the top. Don’t forget that.”

She knew. She’d been out of commission for months while pregnant, and she struggled getting back her form. She had real talent and a drive to succeed; it propelled her and helped her get back. It was on the tip of my tongue to whine about it, but I knew the same was true for me. She’d verbally kick me in the pants and make me get up and go rehab. She didn’t nag or push, unless I provoked her. I was cuffed; my wife won.

“You always win,” I muttered with mock contempt.

“If you’re up for it, you can win when you get home,” she said in her light way.

“Talking like that in front of your son,” I chided.

“That’s nothing.” Still with the baby on her hip, she came to give me my kiss goodbye. An innocent little peck, butre wre was nothing innocent about the way her small hand cupped my crotch. “Hurry back, sweets.”
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Vindicate Me