The Truth About Tara Read Online Free PDF Page A

healed. The MRI I had a month ago confirmed it.” Jack held up his cardboard folder. “I brought my films, present and past.”
    “You do understand I need a computer to look at those,” Reese said, making no attempt to take the films. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, past?”
    “I’ve had two rotator-cuff surgeries.”
    “And you want to go through surgery a third time?” The tail end of Reese’s question rose.
    “If it means I can pitch at a competitive level again, hell, yeah.”
    “Stand up and show me your range of motion,” Reese said.
    Jack raised his arms over his head. The right one touched his ear. The left one came close.
    “Not bad after a rotator-cuff injury,” Reese said, “especially considering you have that tear.”
    “Tears,” Jack corrected. “There is no one big tear, just a number of smaller ones.”
    Reese stroked his chin. “How old are you, Jack?”
    “Thirty-one.”
    Reese whistled. “Too bad I didn’t know about the other surgeries or I could have saved you a trip. A third surgery won’t get you where you want to be.”
    “How can you say that without looking at my films?”
    “I don’t need to see them,” Reese said. “The labrum is collagen based. It can’t be strengthened.”
    “People have surgeries to repair their labrums all the time,” Jack argued.
    “Yes, they do. But if they’re athletes who use an overhead motion, like a pitcher, it’s highly unlikely that surgery will yield the desired result,” Reese said. “My advice is to go with rehab to strengthen your shoulder muscles and increase flexibility.”
    “Does rehab ever work?” Jack asked.
    “Depends on how aggressive the rehab is,” Reese said. “I know of a swimmer with a mild tear who came back to compete in the Olympics. But he was ten years younger than you.”
    “I’m tough,” Jack said. “I’ve already rebounded from two surgeries. I can rehab with the best of them.”
    “That may be true, but you’ve got to understand how far-fetched it is to think you’ll improve to the point where you can pitch at a major league level.” Reese’s pronouncement was distressingly close to what the Owensboro team doctor had said. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Jack. Find something else to do with your life.”
    Later that afternoon, after an hour-long ferry ride under the unrelenting sun, Jack arrived back at the dock at Onancock. It was larger and more tourist oriented than some of the other small towns and quaint villages that dotted the finger of land that made up the Eastern Shore of Virginia, with a prominent downtown and several hotels and B and Bs. He walked the block into town to find a place to eat. His head hurt from thinking about what the specialist had said.
    Find something else to do with your life.
    “Like hell,” he said aloud.
    He’d been working toward pitching in the major leagues since he was a boy. He’d gotten there three times, twice as a September call-up and once as a roster player. Because of the injuries, however, his big-league stat line was meager: three games, four total innings. He refused to believe the dream was over.
    He walked past a gift shop and an insurance office before coming to a storefront that looked more like a house than a business. Real estate listings plastered the front window. He slowed, then stopped. The sign above the door said the Realtor dealt in rentals as well as sales, not only in Onancock, but throughout the Eastern Shore.
    Jack thought about the Olympic swimmer who’d returned to his previous form. He’d take bets that the swimmer didn’t have sisters who popped in on him whenever they felt like it and parents who kept telling him that life didn’t end when athletic careers did.
    No, the swimmer had probably rehabbed somewhere peaceful and tranquil where he could devote his energy to healing. Somewhere like the Eastern Shore.
    Jack pushed through the door of the Realtor’s office. The woman at the reception desk looked up,