Change in Me -1- Signing Bonus

We left the field a little dejected because we had just lost our last game of the season. If we’d won, we’d be going to the finals, but we lost twice in the best of three first round, so we were out.

It seemed a shame, late August and no more organized baseball for most of us until college leagues got started in February. Well, it would be worse than that in some parts of the country where they would have to wait till March or April. There would be winter ball played in the Caribbean, but my Spanish was not that good.

Winter felt far away. Lancaster in the Antelope Valley north of Los Angeles is a desert, hot and dry most of the year. The USBank sign in centerfield showed a temp of 101°F, actually a bit cooler than you could expect this time of year. I wouldn’t miss the heat, I decided. Sometimes the wind blew when it was this hot, and it could suck you dry of all juices in a few minutes. Which is why our nickname in the local papers was sometimes the California Raisins.

“Hey, Addy,” Coach Lees waved me over. “I got some news for you.”

He was smiling, so it might be some good news. “Hey, Coach,” I joked. “Did I win a car for hitting that double, after all?”

“Ah, no,” he admitted. One of our local sponsors offered a car for any home team player who hit a homer through a particular hole in their sign above left field. My ground rule double had bounced through the sign, but we all knew that didn’t count. It was a good hit, though, and I had made it to third on a poor throw later in the inning, but that didn’t count as a triple, either.

“Mr. Garcia called,” Coach explained. “He’s got a place for you in the Arizona Winter League.”

I just stared at him. I’d played two seasons in college ball and two in independent leagues, but the Arizona Winter League was a development organization for the Major Leagues. I hadn’t applied myself because I didn’t think I really had a chance; Coach must have put me up for it.

Coach grinned at me, enjoying my dumbfounded reaction. “There’s a signing bonus, too.” He handed me a card, then another. “That first card is Mr. Garcia’s number. Call him tomorrow, he said. The other card is the number of some doctor who called for you. He said, call back soonest, but Frenchie didn’t get his name.”

“Huh?” I responded. I was still processing the thought of the AWL and maybe a chance at the bigs. It took a moment for the idea of a call from a doctor to sink in. I looked at the second card first. It actually had, “call back soonest” written above the number in the spidery script of Mrs. French, who answered the phones for the Lancaster Hilltoppers.

That didn’t sound good. I made my way toward the showers, mingling with my teammates and the visiting squad, the Ventura Blue-Greens. Even their away uniforms were colorful with blue and green stripes over one shoulder. Our colors were gold and blue, but our home jerseys had only blue collars and gold piping that looked brown.

I avoided conversation which wasn’t too hard. No one much wanted to talk on our side after the loss. I had a lot to think about. Mr. Garcia’s call was good news, but the other one, not so much.

Late in May, I’d been hit in the groin with a line drive while pitching on my college team. I’m not normally a pitcher; my natural position is middle fielder, but I can get the ball over the plate, so I sometimes pitched relief in late innings when we were probably losing anyway.

The pain had been intense, but with some ice and Tylenol, I’d been okay enough after a few days. The school doctor had seen me a couple of times. He was worried enough to give me a referral to a specialist who I had also seen a couple times. Then, two weeks ago, I woke up with pain in my groin and—this is gross—some bloody discharge.

Back to the doctor, some stronger pain pills, some tests, a painful and embarrassing biopsy I don’t want to talk about. Now an urgent-sounding phone call, late on a Thursday afternoon?

I took a shower and changed into street clothes, having a few conversations with teammates in the process, none of which I remember now. Cleaning out my locker was the last task before heading out, but once I had everything in my backpack and a hanger bag, I dug my cellphone out, and the two cards Coach had given me.

Phones are forbidden on the field, which is why the message to me had gone through Mrs. French in the office, but yeah, someone from the same number on the second card had called my cell, too. Easy enough to hit call back, then wait for an answer while lugging my gear toward the back lot where I had parked six hours before.

“Is this Addison March?” a voice demanded after a brief exchange of hellos.

“Yes, it is,” I responded. “What’s this….”

“How soon can you get to UCLA Hospital? Where are you?”

“Lancaster, about two hours, I guess.” If my ancient Mustang would even make it. I didn’t say. Normally, if I traveled anywhere that far away for the last few months, I’d be on the team bus.

“Good,” said the voice, shortly. “Come in through Emergency, up to Surgical Admissions, second floor. I’ll have someone meet you there.”

“I—?” I stammered in confusion. “W-what’s this about?”

“It’s about saving your life, man! I’m Dr. Villanova. If you get lost in the hospital, ask for me. And can you give this number another call when you’re on campus?”

“I guess,” I answered.

“Good,” he said again, just as shortly. “I’ll have everything ready for you.”

“What exactly,” I began, but he interrupted.

“If you’re not already on the way, you should be. I’ve got to call your parents, since you’re not 21 yet.”

“I—,” but the line seemed to have gone dead.

I found my car where I had left it, the faded gray-green the color of bones bleached in a desert sun. It had been my father’s car when he was in high school and already old then, but the five-liter engine started immediately, and with only a half-hearted rattle or two, I was soon on my way to UCLA.

Fourteen hours later, I woke up in a hospital bed in Westwood after an emergency sex change operation.