One crisp October morning in two-thousand fifteen,
A receptionist typed on her computer screen.
At a sports medicine center in Birmingham town,
She checked Dr. Andrews’ schedule up and down.
Dr. James Andrews, a surgeon so famed,
With athletes and stars his skills were acclaimed.
His days were all booked, surgeries galore,
But today, no conflicts—just the usual chore.
She moved to her calls, confirming each name,
Ensuring tomorrow’s patients all came.
Next up on the list—a pitcher of skill,
A red-haired tall Brady, with an elbow to heal.
She dialed his number, prepared with her spiel,
But the man who picked up didn’t think it was real.
“This must be a mistake,” the trainer declared,
“Brady had surgery months back, fully repaired!”
The receptionist froze—this didn’t make sense,
She’d just seen the man at a recent dispense.
Six-foot-four, red hair, and a beard to his chin,
A baseball pro pitcher—no doubt it was him!
They went back and forth, descriptions aligned,
Yet still the whole thing tangled their minds.
Two men with one name, the same height and hair,
The same rare injury—how could this be fair?
The truth, when revealed, left jaws open wide,
The trainer and receptionist both were right, side by side.
For tomorrow, one Brady was set to be wheeled,
While months ago, another’s elbow was healed.
Both pitchers, both redheads, both tall as can be,
Both minor leaguers in the same industry.
They’d never met, never known of the other,
Yet looked like a twin, a lost baseball brother.
A mix-up of contacts had twisted the fate,
Till surgery day brought them face-to-face late.
A DNA test was the next thing they tried—
No family connection, science flatly denied.
Just perfect doppelgängers, uncanny and strange,
In a world where such odds are wildly out of range.
Two Bradys, one story, both living proof true,
That life sometimes writes coincidences for you.