The phone rang at 8:15 AM on a Tuesday, vibrating aggressively against the hardwood of my nightstand. I groggily reached for it, expecting a spam call or my coach. Instead, a sharp female voice from Dr. Andrews’ office asked where I was.
“Mr. Feigl, Dr. Andrews is waiting. You were supposed to be prepped thirty minutes ago,” she said, her tone clipped with impatience. I sat up, confused, rubbing the scar on my right elbow. It was fully healed, the pink line fading into white.
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“Ma’am, I think you have the wrong file,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I had my surgery six months ago. I’m literally pitching in practice this afternoon.” There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line.
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“Is this Brady Feigl?” she asked, hearing the typing of keys in the background. “Yes,” I replied. “Brady Matthew Feigl?” she countered. I paused. “No. Brady Gregory Feigl.” The silence returned, deeper this time.