(no subject)
This is, technically, a roleplay tag, but it can be read as a bit of fic on its own, too, I think, so I'll leave it unlocked.
In which Mike Piazza is frustrated and being injured sucks. (I am getting WAY too much mileage out of this icon.)
Disclaimer: is not real, is fake as can be, is just idle speculation and completely fictitious speculation at that, etc.
Once it all sinks in, the waste of time and the interruption of adjusting to a new position in a new league and the nagging sense of letting the team down because he picked the wrong fucking second to slide and they got him anyway - once he's accepted it and the frustration dulls to grim resignation, the worst part of the injury is being impaired. He's used to moving with confidence, broadcasting his assurance and capability to the world, even when his knees are acting up and sending sparks through his nerves with each step. That's easy enough to handle. A catcher learns pretty quick that there won't be a single day in his career without pain, and it just becomes part of life. Longterm pain, the chronic kind that comes from years of abusing your joints and wearing them down a little more each season, that's easy. There's nothing you can do about it, so you live with it. After a while, you hardly notice it. And on the days that it's really bad - you deal with it.
It's the temporary damage that's harder to deal with. He can't just push through a sprained shoulder, go through his routine and wait for the flare-up to subside. He has to put things on hold so he can sit quietly and wait for it to heal. It's not something that won't go away, it's something that will go away, and that makes it worse.
Oh, he can be very patient when he has to be - a catcher has to be; a DH has to be; a man who lives life the way he lives it has to be - it's not that. It's the difficulty with everyday tasks. There's no confidence or grace in his movements now. Everything is awkward and painstaking, done not only with one hand, but with his weak hand, the dominant arm tucked securely and uselessly in its sling. He loathes his temporary clumsiness, the appearance of weakness it gives him. The fact that he is weak, disabled. He doesn't know which is worse, standing stubbornly at his locker spending five minutes failing at a task that should take fifteen seconds, or standing there like a pointless lump while someone else does it for him. He adapts where he can, with snaps instead of buttons and drawstrings in place of zippers, but the first night was nothing short of humiliating, sitting there like a hopelessly uncoordinated kindergartner while his twelve-year-old closer tied his fucking shoes for him. He was too stunned and worn down that night to be defensive, and Street made it easy enough to put his pride in his pocket - offering before he had to ask, with no smart remarks or signs of pity - but now his temper is beginning to fray, his frustration with himself radiating outward and warning off the more alert teammates and attendants.
The road trip comes at just the right time, as he's getting ready to snap. The stress of travel is too much for a fresh injury, so he stays home. He stays home and works hard on adapting his movements, on working around his injury, so that when the team comes back he can go into the clubhouse and do for himself, as capably and efficiently as he can.
In which Mike Piazza is frustrated and being injured sucks. (I am getting WAY too much mileage out of this icon.)
Disclaimer: is not real, is fake as can be, is just idle speculation and completely fictitious speculation at that, etc.
Once it all sinks in, the waste of time and the interruption of adjusting to a new position in a new league and the nagging sense of letting the team down because he picked the wrong fucking second to slide and they got him anyway - once he's accepted it and the frustration dulls to grim resignation, the worst part of the injury is being impaired. He's used to moving with confidence, broadcasting his assurance and capability to the world, even when his knees are acting up and sending sparks through his nerves with each step. That's easy enough to handle. A catcher learns pretty quick that there won't be a single day in his career without pain, and it just becomes part of life. Longterm pain, the chronic kind that comes from years of abusing your joints and wearing them down a little more each season, that's easy. There's nothing you can do about it, so you live with it. After a while, you hardly notice it. And on the days that it's really bad - you deal with it.
It's the temporary damage that's harder to deal with. He can't just push through a sprained shoulder, go through his routine and wait for the flare-up to subside. He has to put things on hold so he can sit quietly and wait for it to heal. It's not something that won't go away, it's something that will go away, and that makes it worse.
Oh, he can be very patient when he has to be - a catcher has to be; a DH has to be; a man who lives life the way he lives it has to be - it's not that. It's the difficulty with everyday tasks. There's no confidence or grace in his movements now. Everything is awkward and painstaking, done not only with one hand, but with his weak hand, the dominant arm tucked securely and uselessly in its sling. He loathes his temporary clumsiness, the appearance of weakness it gives him. The fact that he is weak, disabled. He doesn't know which is worse, standing stubbornly at his locker spending five minutes failing at a task that should take fifteen seconds, or standing there like a pointless lump while someone else does it for him. He adapts where he can, with snaps instead of buttons and drawstrings in place of zippers, but the first night was nothing short of humiliating, sitting there like a hopelessly uncoordinated kindergartner while his twelve-year-old closer tied his fucking shoes for him. He was too stunned and worn down that night to be defensive, and Street made it easy enough to put his pride in his pocket - offering before he had to ask, with no smart remarks or signs of pity - but now his temper is beginning to fray, his frustration with himself radiating outward and warning off the more alert teammates and attendants.
The road trip comes at just the right time, as he's getting ready to snap. The stress of travel is too much for a fresh injury, so he stays home. He stays home and works hard on adapting his movements, on working around his injury, so that when the team comes back he can go into the clubhouse and do for himself, as capably and efficiently as he can.