DOGFISH, miyuki kazuya

rough as a thousand sharpened nails

Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing
kept flickering in with the tide
and looking around.
Black as a fisherman's boot,
with a white belly.

If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile
under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin,
which was rough
as a thousand sharpened nails.

And you know
what a smile means,
don't you?

━━━━━━

Okay, you know you are severely concussed but, like, the bruise kinda fits your look, right?

You echo this question to Dr. Peña, who levels a deeply unimpressed look at you in response, then resumes scribbling down your vitals.

Okay. Alright. You think it does and that's all that matters in the end, anyway.

You continue to eye the baseball-sized bruise sitting above your temple in the handheld mirror the nurse had given you. Since it's so fresh, it's still just a deep red, the area swollen and incredibly tender. You amend that when it purples, then it will fit your look. But until then, it just looks... really nasty.

Either way, you are just trying to stay positive. No one can blame you for that.

Because of course it is just your luck that you get knocked out (and consequently concussed) by the winning home-run of the World Series.

Bottom of the ninth, the sky is dark, the floodlights on, the atmosphere of Petco Park absolutely electric. You're just trying to get a good shot of the field with your camera and then boom.

Baseball, meet face.

You don't remember much after that.

Nothing, actually.

As soon as the ball had connected with your head, you were out, crumpling like a leaf. You were told you'd fallen backwards first, which explains the ache in your back, no doubt from roughly meeting the plastic of your seat, then you'd sort of... flopped forward, onto your face. Totally crushed your camera underneath you.

Your broken camera is probably the thing you are most upset about.

But the San Diego Padres won at least, right? That home-run broke the 4-4 tie — a walk-off home-run. Their first World Series win ever and their first World Series appearance since, like, the 80s or something. (You don't know, that's just what you heard on the news before Dr. Peña shut it off.)

In no small part due to their trailblazer of a catcher, a foreign player, actually, the only Japanese starting catcher in the Majors currently — Miyuki Kazuya.

"Good for them," you say idly.

Even if he is the guy to (technically) blame for concussing you.

Dr. Peña sighs deeply, then sets the clipboard down. "Follow my finger." He clicks on his penlight, shining it directly in your eyes.

You let out a colorful curse at the brightness, closing your eyes. The throbbing in your head increases sharply. Whew. Okay. You don't feel so good now. The world tilts on its axis. You clench your hands in the heavy hospital blanket over your lap.

"Sorry," he says, actually sounding apologetic for once, a semi-comforting hand laid on your arm. "I have to. Just take a breath."

You try.

He clips the penlight back to the breast pocket of his white coat when he finishes, looking particularly serious and doctor-like as he does.

"Am I gonna live, doc?"