Chapter 1

I hope you like this sentence.

At twenty-one years old, I decided to try my hand at softball, never pick­ing up so much as a mitt since I was three. I was nervous, but the tall brooding and bald man organizing the game eased my discomfort a little.

“Hey, I’m Keith,” he said gruffly, extending a sweaty hand at me. “What’s your name?”

I shook his hand. “Peter,” I said. “How ya doin?”

Keith began sizing me up, trying to figure out what use I might be to his team of young college students. He ignored my question and instead asked his own. “So how long you been playing?”

“Eh, it’s been a few years,” I lied. “Sorry if I’m kind of rusty.”

“That’s OK, man,” he assured me with a hint of smile. “We’re all just playing for fun, right?”

Keith, a thirty-something with a gold stud in his ear, strode away to lay down the bases on the field as I sat with my friends in the bleach­ers waiting to get started. I was very close with most of the ten or so guys we had playing, so I felt fairly confident and unworried of the embar­rassment I’d no doubt face. Once the game started, however, it became clear to me that Keith was not, as he said, playing for fun.

“COULD I HAVE THROWN THAT TO YOU ANY BETTER?” he yelled at me from shortstop when I missed a very easy catch on second base, which allowed the runner on first to advance. “C’MON!”

I let that comment slide and assured the large man that, no, he really could not have thrown it any better, and that it was entirely my fault. But even in the best of my politeness, he still continued to badger me. After I had successfully caught a ball, I hesitated in deciding which base to throw it to. In this instance, Keith loudly asked the entire field, “Would someone teach this kid the rules? C’mon!”

I couldn’t help but wonder if Keith had something to prove by consistentl­y making fun of me in front of my friends. Was he even curi­ous as to why I might not play softball as well as the others? Did he un­derstand that not everybody grows up with a desire, let alone an ability, to play sports?

I wondered if he would understand, if there were a way to explain everything to him. I could tell him that my mother was an awesome soft­ball pitcher back when she was in high school. Foreseeing the same fu­ture for me, she enrolled me in tee ball when I was just a toddler and I loved every minute of it, showing an impressive amount of sportsman­ship and talent for the game. I could tell him how much fun it was being that carefree, spending Sunday afternoons on a team with matching tur­quoise shirts, being coached by our fathers while the sun shone brightly overhead. Would he understand?

Of course he’d understand! But what he would not understand is the one morning before kindergarten when I had finished my cereal. As I carried my bowl into the kitchen, my left hand started to shake.

“Mom,” I said curiously. “Look.” Mom and I both stared omi­nously at my shaking hand—the hand I would catch tee balls with. Mom assured me that it was nothing and walked me to school, but only be­cause she didn’t want to worry me.

Could Keith have imagined Mom running back home out of breath, scared out of her mind and checking her medical book? There definitely wasn’t enough time between innings to explain this to him, but if he asked, I’d have gladly obliged. After calling my doctor, Mom rushed me down to Children’s Hospital in Detroit where it was discovered that I was having my second stroke, a year after my first.

I wondered if Keith has ever had an MRI, if he’s ever stayed over­night in a hospital, if he’s ever had tubes fed into his body where tubes aren’t supposed to go, if he’s ever had a stroke. It probably would’ve angered the other players if I delayed the game, took Keith to the side and said, “Listen, I know you expect every young man in college to know how to play sports, but hear me out for a minute.”

The doctors at Children’s Hospital had found it a little coinci­dental that I should have two strokes exactly one year apart from each other. After doing some tests, they discovered that the bleeds in my brain were caused by the growth of not one, but three, very unwelcome brain tumors. The tumors were located on the frontal lobe, the cerebellum, and deep in the ganglia. And so we scheduled three separate surgeries to remove each tumor.

The surgeries were successful, but success came at an awful price—that price being a very disgruntled and inoperable little boy. (Of course, I’m not dead so who am I to complain?) They were intricate procedures to be sure and no brain that is tampered with can avoid consequence. In this, I could no longer walk, feed myself, speak or smile properly, or use the left side of my body. After my third and final surgery, I was a couch-bound vegetable. For reasons known only to the doctors, I had to wear an eye patch (which isn’t really as cool as it sounds no matter how much you like pi­rates.) The only comfort I found in my life was replaying Tiny Toon Ad­ventures: How I Spent My Summer Vacation over and over and over again. Everyday.

Mom was also wheeling me down to Oakwood Hospital in Dearborn three days a week for physical and occupational therapy.

Removing the tumors involved the risk of minor brain damage. Be­cause they resided in the right side of my brain, the tumors had affected the left side of my body. This is be­cause the two cerebral hemispheres that make up the brain are separated by a thick center group of fibers called the corpus callosum, which crosses information over. Specifically, I had temporarily lost the gross motor skills in my left hand and have yet to recover my fine motor skills.

Which brings us to the Shaky Left Hand.

Shaky has been with me for as long as I can remember and it’s an­noying as hell. The physical and occupational therapy helped and I eventually got better, but not one-hundred percent. My left leg swung to the side when I walked, and I still had a shaky left hand that, over the years, we appro­priately dubbed ‘the Shaky Left Hand.’

Shaky Left Hands will get you in trouble. They will touch things that aren’t yours, spill things that stain, and they shake. People can and will ask questions.

But in the case of Keith the disgruntled softball man, Shaky Left Hands will prevent you from playing sports as a boy, submitting you to hu­miliation as a young adult.

But Keith would never understand.