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It is only later, when everyone else has left, that he lets himself fall apart.
In the dim hospital half-dark he starts to weep, one fist shoved in his mouth to muffle the desperate sobs. His shoulders shake as he tries to choke down the wail that threatens to crawl up his throat and lay bare his devastation.
It is gone. The only thing he has ever wanted, the only thing he can ever remember dreaming of, is gone. Taken from him by cruel gods and the failure of his own heart. His heart. How could his heart fail him? He'd never lacked for heart before.
He wants to scream. He wants to tear at the leads attached to his chest, monitoring that faulty organ, and slam his fists to the bed again and again until something breaks. He wants to destroy the fragile equipment, the fragile world. He wants to rend the sky apart. But he can't. He is suddenly afraid - such a show of emotion, such exertion, could kill him - push his heart too hard one too many times.
So he is stuck, tears running down his cheeks, biting hard on his fingers to muffle those sobs, wondering what he could possibly do with himself now.
He has nothing if not the game he loves. So as he tries to keep his spirits up, keep jovial, he wonders when his now-former teammates will tire of him.When they will get sick of his presence always reminding them that one day it could all be taken away. He feels the hard pangs of jealousy when he thinks of his teammates. Why did it have to be him?
Who is he without the game?
He is afraid. He is afraid to find that without the game he really is no one, nothing. He is afraid of dying, mortality suddenly so immediate. Thinking back to all those moments in the gym where he pushed his body as hard as he could - was he just one moment, one beat, away from catastrophe? When he felt the surge of joy at victory and triumph, was he one breath away from death? Has he really caught this in time?
And there in the twilight of the hospital hallway, the thought comes to him, insidious and cruel - maybe wouldn't it have been better to die doing that? To raise a bat for a century then crumple to the floor? Then he wouldn't be stuck with this yawning future that he can't predict, the open-ended years with no dream to guide him. He's not sure it wouldn't have been better to die doing what he loved. He can't imagine loving anything else as much ever again.
He bites down harder on his fist but it doesn't stop the whimper emerging from the corner of his mouth. The sound, echoing amongst the buzzing, humming equipment, stills him. He prays that none of the nurses patrolling the corridors has heard. He is not supposed to cry. He is not supposed to rage. He is supposed to be upbeat, keep that stiff upper lip, and be thankful for being alive when it feels like his life is over.
His heart has failed him. He prays that his hope won't fail him too.