Episode 13 — Chapter 15

| Jun 14, 2020 | Baseball Immortal | 0 comments

Episode 13 — Chapter 15

by Roland Colton | Baseball Immortal

Chapter   15


I wander through city streets, searching for my way home. Some boulevards are familiar, others are not. At length, I find myself on the city outskirts and the road forks to the left where there are vast fields of alfalfa. I continue past the fields and see, in the distance, an old two-story home. It has the same gabled porch that I know so well and my heart skips a beat. I am finally home!

I hasten forward, not wanting to look away for fear that the house will disappear if I do.

I see the familiar veranda that surrounds much of the structure, with wooden posts between the gabled boards. I look at the brown spandrels on the second floor deck and the steep roof that extends beyond.

I feel every beat of my heart as I walk up the steps to the front porch.

Disbelieving that I have finally found my way home, I place my hand on the door knob and silently turn it. But, the door won’t budge. I try a second and third time, then thrust my shoulder into the wooden door; it refuses to move.          

Suddenly, my attention is diverted by a piercing scream. I sprint to the back of the house, hoping to enter there, but that door is also locked. Racing around the house, I desperately look for an open window, but they are all closed.

A second scream assaults my ears—louder than before. It is coming from the second floor! I climb the lattice to the second floor porch. The balcony window is slightly ajar. I struggle to push it up, but it stubbornly refuses. With a deep breath, exerting all of my strength, I try again. This time, I succeed in raising the window pane.

Peering inside, I can make out the faint outline of a woman. She is holding something in her hand.

“M-i-s-t-e-r …”

It is a male voice I hear, coming from behind; the words are slurred, laggard, difficult to comprehend.

The lady raises her right arm towards me, pointing the object at me.


What is that in her hand?

“Mister Cobb, Mister Cobb. Are you awake?”

The patient’s eyes flickered opened.

“Sorry to disturb your sleep,” Dr. Hale went over to the window and partially opened the blinds to allow in more light.    

“Good morning, Mr. Cobb.”

The patient’s eyes glanced at the two intruders in his room and then returned to the window. There was a steady drip of narcotic falling from the IV bag.

“We met yesterday. I’m the doctor who will be taking care of your face. As I mentioned, our goal is to get you looking just the way you did before the accident—hopefully we can make you even more handsome than before.” A nervous laugh sounded from the young man standing at the doctor’s side.

“I met with Dr. Nazari and we agreed that we need to get started rebuilding your face immediately.  We must set the bones in your face as soon as possible, to avoid having to force further fractures in molding the skeletal structure.

“This young man is Frank Weathers. He is a forensic facial artist. I’ve asked him to come sketch your face based on your present facial structure and shape. Unfortunately, since we don’t have any photographs to go on, we’ll try to do the next best thing. Frank will make some drawings and show them to you until….”

The patient began waving his right hand back and forth.

“You want to tell us something?”

The patient made a writing motion with his hand.

Dr. Hales handed the patient the nearby pad and paper and the patient began writing.



“You’re saying there are photographs of your face?”

The patient pointed hard at his face and then continued writing.


Dr. Hale was perplexed. “I’m a little confused. Are you telling me there are photographs of you in a Detroit newspaper?”


“Under what name?” It couldn’t really be Ty Cobb.

The patient wrote: MY NAME

Dr. Hale shook his head. “Okay. Got it! We’ll see if we can locate some.”

Dr. Hale left the room and walked down the hallway looking for Dr. Nazari. Dr. Nazari was just leaving E.R.

“Damnedest thing.” Dr. Hale shook his head. “Our patient says there are photographs of him in a Detroit newspaper. I mean, the real Ty Cobb played for Detroit. He surely isn’t claiming to be him, is he?”

“Well, he’s suffered severe blow to head—frontal lobe. Could be delusional.”

“I guess that’s a possibility. But do me a favor, will you. Is there someone here who could locate some photographs of Ty Cobb on the internet and print them out. There’s got to be a number of them. I mean, even though I’m not much of a baseball fan, I’ve certainly heard of Ty Cobb. Our patient’s 24 years old. Check out the year Cobb was born, let’s try to get some photos of him in his early twenties.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, playing to his delusions?”

“It may not be a delusion. Maybe he’s trying to tell us that he resembles Cobb. Could be a descendant, for all we know. I’ve seen grand kids who grow up in the spitting image of a grandparent. Could you have someone jump on this? I need to get to work on his face, pronto.”

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