by Jeff Bauman
“Awesome to see you again, Jeff,” he said when I met him on the field.
Carlos had chosen Big Papi, so I shook his hand as well.
It was surreal. We were on the field at Fenway, chatting with Salty and Papi, while thousands cheered. Thousands. I didn’t think it could get any better, until someone came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned around. It was Pedro.
“What… what are you doing here?” I managed to say.
“I came to see you, buddy,” he said.
We started talking. Pedro was funny, like he’d always been on television. I was so nervous, but chatting with Pedro calmed me down. I asked him for advice on my pitch, and he showed me how to grip his fastball. Then he showed me the changeup.
Someone came over and said it was time. I looked up, and Pedro and I were surrounded by cameras. I was near the fence, and I noticed people in the front row reaching toward me. They wanted my autograph. I started signing as fast as I could, trying to talk with everyone, and I remember looking over, a big smile on my face, and Erin giving me a thumbs-up.
Maybe those people remember meeting me. I hope they do. Because you know what I remember? Meeting them. I remember seeing them so happy, especially the kids. I would have signed autographs all day.
Unfortunately, it was time to throw out the first pitch. “Get ready,” I told Salty, as he jogged off toward home plate. That was another reason I’d chosen him. As the catcher, it was his job to make pitches look good. And I wanted all the help I could get.
I didn’t need it, though. As soon as they introduced us, the crowd was on their feet. It was loud, and as Carlos rolled me to the middle of the infield, it kept getting louder. I pointed at Carlos, that’s my guy, and the stadium erupted. It was like a full count with the bases loaded. I counted down with my left hand, “Three, two, one,” and we threw. Carlos wasn’t close. He was three feet outside. It didn’t help that Papi dropped the ball.
Salty barely had to move his glove. I painted the corner.
On the video, you can see me yell, “Strike!” with a big smile on my face. My favorite part, though, is the television announcer, who’s just talking and then, “Whoa, nice pitch by Jeff Bauman. From the wheelchair.” He seems genuinely surprised.
Afterward, we headed toward the EMC level, where the Sox had a section reserved for us. There were a lot of people talking to me, yelling “Boston Strong” and “We’re with you, Jeff.” Big D was pushing me in my wheelchair, so that I could shake as many hands as I could, and somehow we got lost. We were in a crowd, and we thought we were heading toward a ramp to the EMC level, but it turned out we were being funneled onto an escalator. Suddenly, we were swallowed up, and everyone was pushing forward, and there was no room to double back. When we tried to move to the side, the whole process jammed. Fans ten people behind us were screaming “Come on,” and “What’s going on up there?”
This was my nightmare: the invalid on the escalator. But before I could say anything, Tim and Big D lifted my wheelchair and stepped onto the escalator, holding me between them. I could hear the yelling slow as people realized what the problem was, and I think I heard someone in the crowd say, “That’s Jeff Bauman,” but I’m not sure, because I wheeled away as fast as I could as soon as we reached the top.
I spent the rest of the game between my best buds, Carlos and Erin, with a beer in my hand. It seemed like a hundred photos were taken; everyone wanted a photo. We had rounds of food, and rounds of drinks, and eventually my friend Blair—the guy I’d been going to concerts with at the bars in Lowell—was cut off by the bartender for being too drunk, and we all had to let him have some of ours or he wouldn’t stop complaining.
After the game, we headed down to the players’ parking lot, where a car was waiting for us. I was almost to the car, when I heard “Hey! My friend! Wait up!”
It was Pedro. He said he wanted a photo, so Carlos and I squeezed in with him for a snapshot. Then my friend Blair tried to squeeze in, too.
“I think he’s had too much beer.” Pedro laughed.
We chatted for almost thirty minutes, while fans in the decks above yelled down at us. Pedro talked with Big D and Tim and everyone, even Blair. When we got in the car, Pedro got in, too, like he was coming home with us.
“All right, Pedro,” I said, “let’s hit the town.”
He laughed and clasped my hand. We did some sort of modified bro shake. “It was great to meet you, my friend,” he said.
Hey, Pedro, man, you don’t know how great it was. You don’t even know.
25.
The next morning, I received my legs. There’s part of me that wishes this book was more like a movie, or the video game Battlefield 4. I wish this scene was a close-up of a bulletproof vest being put on, and the strap pulled tight. Then the extra ammo clips, the serrated knife, the flash grenades. We see two hands pick up a big gun and lock in a clip, then the camera pulls back and we see two eyes, the only white staring out from a camouflage-painted face, and it’s like, You bombed us, motherfuckers, now it’s our turn.
I don’t want that for the real world. I don’t want anyone being bombed or the SWAT team kicking down any doors. That would mean some kid, in some other part of the world, would lose her legs, too, and she wouldn’t have the advantages I have. She’d probably never walk again.
But it’s like that movie 8 Mile. It ends with Eminem going back to work… at a factory! Wouldn’t it have been better with a ninth mile, one that involved hacking up zombies with a chain saw?
Now that would be a good story.
Instead, here’s how the story really went down: I sat in a wheelchair, in a small examination room, in a nondescript building in Dorchester. I lifted my leg, put a sock on the end, and unrolled it to the top of my thigh. Then I put on the liner, a thin fabric designed to grip the socket, and unrolled it the same way.
I picked up my artificial leg. I put the socket, a large, thigh-shaped piece of plastic, onto the end of my leg. It wasn’t camouflage or black. Maybe those were options, but I’d chosen tie-dye. I shifted my weight, pulling the socket up my thigh, working carefully so that my flesh wouldn’t pinch. The fit was tight, but it had to be. Any free space would diminish my strength and could lead to injuries. So I made sure to pull firmly, working the top edge up to my undercarriage, until I felt the raw tip of my leg touching the bottom of the socket. I tightened it once more. Then I grabbed the Velcro near the bottom, pulled it tight, and strapped it along the side of the socket. I guess, if I think hard enough, it was a similar motion to fitting a bullet and locking a rifle, but it didn’t feel like that.
I had imagined the moment being like in Elysium, when Matt Damon has all the metal parts, and he’s kind of bionic. But I didn’t feel like Matt Damon. I felt like a gimp.
Mr. Martino checked the legs. I’m not sure what he was doing exactly, but there were screws to turn and electronics to adjust. After a while, I rolled out of the exam room to a hallway with a bar along each wall. I grabbed the bars, and Mr. Martino and his assistants helped me to a standing position.
Wow, what a feeling, to be standing. I felt tall. I had been seeing the world from little-kid height for months; now I felt like an adult again. I felt solid. That’s what I remember: I felt solid on my legs. It was an ideal condition. The technicians had helped me to the upright position. I had bars to hold on to. I had people with their hands on my hips in case I slipped. But that didn’t take away from the power of that moment. I hadn’t expected to feel so good.
“Any pain?” Mr. Martino asked. He was crouched down behind me, examining my legs.
“A little at the bottom.”
He adjusted. “How about now?”
“It’s pinching.”
“That will happen.” Another adjustment. “You’ll get used to it. The liner should protect you. Does it rub your thigh?”
“Is it supposed to?”
My legs hurt. There was no denying that. But it was a persistent pain
, the kind I had learned to live with over the past six weeks. I looked down at my feet. The metal disappeared into a pair of brand-new black Nikes.
I looked up. I could see my reflection in the mirror. I could see the legs extending down from my shorts. The thighs looked huge, but my lower legs were so thin. I was holding myself up with my arms, and I looked strong. Really strong.
“How does that feel?” Mr. Martino asked. He was behind me, making another adjustment.
“I feel good,” I said.
I let go of the bars, just for a moment. I was solid.
“Did you see that?” I asked Erin, craning to see behind me.
“See what?”
I lifted my hands again.
“No! Be careful.”
I put my hands down on the bars. Erin must have stepped behind me, because I felt her arms around my waist, and then her cheek on my neck. She kissed me. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Not at all.”
Mom pulled out her camera. Erin stepped back, and I slowly positioned myself over my thighs until I felt the weight line up, and I was in control. I looked up, smiled, and slowly lifted my hands until they were as high as my shoulders. Mom snapped a photo.
I put my hands back down and then, without really thinking about it ahead of time, I took a step with my right foot. I could hear people gasp.
“Jeff…”
I shifted my left foot and swung it slowly in front. I was staring down at my feet, concentrating. I swung my right foot in front, stopped, and caught my breath. I felt sweat running down my face. My whole back was wet. These steps were taking more effort than I realized. But I wasn’t going to quit. I set myself, shifted my weight, and stepped again. Then I looked up, saw Erin, and smiled.
Mom keeps the photograph from that day on the refrigerator at home. It’s her favorite picture of me, because it’s a picture of triumph. She made three thousand postcards out of it, and she sends them to people who write or send me gifts. Greetings from Boston, Mass., it says right there on the front of my T-shirt.
Thank you, Mom writes on the back.
26.
Boston had turned out for the marathon bombing victims. People had created slogans and wristbands; they had started websites and Facebook pages. The outpouring of support from around the world was so generous, and so many people had started fund-raising efforts, that the state of Massachusetts and the city of Boston created a charity, the One Fund, to organize the contributions. The money raised would be shared among the victims of the bombing based on the severity of our injuries. The primary fund-raising event was a “Boston Strong” concert on May 30—the day after I received my legs—featuring some of the biggest bands in Boston history: Aerosmith, J. Geils Band, New Kids on the Block.
James Taylor, who lived in Brookline, was one of the headliners, and he had invited me to his night-before-the-show rehearsal. It was scheduled for the TD Garden, but the Bruins were making a run to the Stanley Cup finals, and the building was booked. So after I was finished working on my legs (I left them at United Prosthetics for two more days for final adjustments), Kevin picked up Erin and me and took us to the House of Blues, across the street from Fenway, where James Taylor and his band were setting up.
I didn’t realize it, but the invitation was the result of weeks of work. Within an hour of our conversation about James Taylor during my first week in the hospital, Kevin had called the media buyers at Costco headquarters in Seattle, Pennie Clark Ianniciello, Stacy Thrailkill, and Judith Logan, who had worked with James Taylor’s record label in the past.
“Do you think James could drop by and say hi to Jeff?” he asked them. “It would be a real pick-me-up for him and his girlfriend.”
Within twenty-four hours, James Taylor’s assistant, Ellyn Kusmin, called Kevin. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor had been following the story; they would be honored to meet me. Kevin worked for weeks to try to coordinate a visit, but it was always a zoo at the hospital, and there wasn’t going to be a good time for a quiet visit. Then the concert was organized, and Ellyn told Kevin that James Taylor had “bigger plans than just a hospital visit.”
If I had known that part of the story, I would have been more excited. I probably should have been more excited, anyway, even without the details. Instead, I grumbled all the way to the House of Blues. More than once, I tried to back out.
I was crushed. Absolutely exhausted. The Red Sox game was my biggest outing since the bombing, and it had worn me out. Then I had received my legs, and stood for half an hour, and walked those four steps.
I know that doesn’t sound like much. I sat in a wheelchair talking with strangers. I threw one pitch, while sitting down. I walked four steps. Four!
I know it seems easy. People see me smiling and shaking hands, and they think, it’s not so bad, what Jeff has been through. He seems to enjoy it. I’ve never seen him sad.
It’s not like that. Not at all.
I’m not saying I’m faking it. I’m not. I love seeing the people of Boston, and knowing I’m giving back makes it worth it to be alive. But it takes me hours to get up for an event. There is always crushing doubt. I get depressed. Usually, when I arrive, I feel overwhelmed. I don’t want to get out of the car. Erin or Big D has to talk me into it. Afterward, when the high of the event has passed, I’m so wiped out, physically and emotionally, that I just want to curl into a ball.
First the Red Sox game. Then United Prosthetics, especially United Prosthetics. It was only four steps, I know, but I don’t think I’ve ever been that tired. The last thing I wanted was to spend another evening in a crowd, shaking hands and smiling.
Then I got to the House of Blues and it was… empty. They have an enormous space, and there was almost no one there but a sound guy at his board, and James Taylor’s band noodling with their instruments onstage.
Ellyn, James Taylor’s assistant, met us at the door. She set Erin and me up in the middle of the room, right in front of the board, where the sound was best. The sound guy came over, and we talked for a minute, and then James Taylor came out and started to play. It was difficult to hear clearly at first, because of the holes in my eardrums. The sound echoed in the empty room, and I couldn’t sort out even James Taylor’s mellow notes from the distortions and clanging.
And then he played the opening chords of “You’ve Got a Friend,” and the notes started to make sense with one another, and the echoes started to fade. For the rest of the set, it was just me and Erin, alone in front of the soundboard, with James Taylor singing directly to us. I put my arm around her. She put her head on my shoulder, and I thought of our kids, running around in the future on Popsicle stick legs. This was our first date since the bombing.
After the set, James Taylor came down to sit with us. He chatted with Erin, and then she moved off, and it was just him and me. We talked about my first pitch at the Red Sox game, and about receiving my legs. He asked about my future plans, but I told him I didn’t have any, I was just focusing on walking for now.
He told me about his life, about not making it in New York and then moving to London, where he auditioned for George Harrison and Paul McCartney, who were thinking about signing him to their record label.
“I hear you’re a guitar player,” he said.
“I can play a few chords.”
He went to the stage and came back with one of his guitars, a Yamaha Acoustic. It was the same guitar I had bought for myself that Christmas, only six months ago, but it felt like a lifetime ago now.
I was worried. I thought he was going to ask me to play with him, and the way my ears were buzzing, I wasn’t going to be able to hear the notes.
Instead, he pulled out a marker and wrote on it: Jeff: Carry on… James Taylor.
“Thanks,” I said, as he handed me the guitar. We talked about playing on the porch on a nice summer day, and about how fun it was to jam with our brothers. James’s brother Livingston taught at the Berklee College of Music in Boston and was a sick guitarist himself.
He asked
about my medical expenses. I told him I had good insurance, but beyond that I didn’t know, nobody had shown me any bills. Mom was taking care of that for me, through an irrevocable trust Uncle Bob had helped set up in my name. Nobody could get money from the trust, even me, without clearing it with the executors.
“I bet you get a lot of donations,” he said.
I looked at the ground. The topic made me uncomfortable. “Yeah, I get a lot,” I said. “I’m getting money all the time.” I rubbed my thighs, my new nervous habit. “I guess I’m going to need it.”
“Don’t feel bad about it, Jeff,” he said. “Just sit back and let people help you. It makes them feel good.”
I didn’t understand. I still don’t understand, not really.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
James Taylor laughed. “No need to call me sir.”
He invited me to the sound check at the TD Garden the next morning. I asked if I could bring Mom. He said sure, but Mom backed out at the last minute, and Erin had to work, so only Kevin and I got to hear the bands warming up. Musicians and crew kept coming over to us, saying hello, and chatting. Carole King joined James Taylor onstage for “You’ve Got a Friend.” When they got to the chorus, James Taylor smiled and pointed at Kevin and me.
“I guess this will have to be our song,” Kevin said.
I laughed. “Sure, Kevy,” I said. “Sure.”
After his set, James Taylor came over again. He pulled up a chair to sit beside me. He was walking with a cane—maybe he’d had some surgery, I’m not sure. We chatted for a minute, and then someone said loudly, “Move over, James.” James Taylor started to move over, but the chairs were spring-loaded, like in a movie theater, and something happened, and before I knew it, he was down on the floor.
“James,” the guy yelled, taking his seat. “What happened, James! What are you doing down there?”
It was Jimmy Buffett.
He helped James Taylor back into his chair, made sure he was all right, and then turned back to me. “Can you believe I’m missing fishing in the Bahamas for this?” he said with a smile.