My hamstring is fine, but…

My hamstring is fine, but that's because I iced it really good, twice—once after I tweaked it, once the next morning—and throttled back my running by about 10% in the first of two games today—day two—of the Rockies Fantasy camp.

My hamstring is fine because I was able to take my mind off of it in the second game. Playing right field, I misjudged a fly ball. Everybody does it at one time or another, especially when you're just learning to play the outfield. (Note to my next-lifetime-self: learn to play outfield long before you're 45.) It's tough to judge just where that thing's gonna come down when you're standing 200 feet from where it was set on its trajectory. Scores of men and women I've played softball with over the years have had balls come down next to them, five feet behind them, or simply bounce off their glove. I, however, was much closer in my misjudgment. The exact distance by which it missed my glove was negligible. The exact distance by which it missed my mouth was not negligible.

My hamstring is fine because the feeling of a baseball landing on your mouth from out of the heavens is the kind of feeling that forces you to feel little else.

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For those of you who remember the Rockies game known simply as "The Play-In Game" back in 2007 when they completed their magical run to the playoffs, and eventually the World Series, you will no doubt remember the game-winning slide into home plate by Matt Holiday where his head violently banged the ground as he slid. The guy from the Rockies dugout, the Rockies head trainer, who was quick to Holiday's side with whatever tools of his trade he used to assess the damage is a guy named Keith Dugger.

Even though the first person I remember seeing after I finally reopened my eyes was our second baseman Susie Wargin, from Denver's 9News, Keith Dugger is the man with whom I spent the next six-and-a-half hours. He got me off the field, into the locker room, to the ER, and back to the hotel. I am very thankful for having him to BS with. To be reassured by. To be made to not feel stupid for catching a routine pop fly with my mouth by. The Rockies are lucky to have such a great guy in that position.

As for my mouth, well, I'm gonna live. It doesn't look like I'm going to lose any teeth. Two or three of my front teeth have been reassigned a new angle from which they jut out of my gums, and I have a small fracture in the bone between my mouth and nose. My lip is swollen and hamburgery.

As for the rest of the Camp, I'm gonna do my damnedest to continue to enjoy the hell out of it, but it won't involve me being too involved in any games. Head trainer's and doctor's orders. But I still might be able to play soft catch and swing the bat in the cage, possibly even as a pinch hitter. I can still root for my team and enjoy the building camaraderie. I'm not going down. I'm not giving up. But I am going to be swallowing some blood for a few more days.