The Official Second Chance

On Saturday morning, I packed my car up and headed west out of Washington D.C. As I continued to progress further on I-66, the scenery quickly became more rural. I reached the intersection of I-66 and I-81 in about an hour, and headed south. Once I got off the exit for Strasburg, Virginia, my inner-GPS took over.


I pulled into the parking lot of the field about a half hour before I needed to be there. It was familiar territory for me, being that I had spent about three weeks in the Valley League last year. I met up with the coaching staff, received my uniforms and gear, and hopped on the bus with my new set of teammates.


I watched from the dugout in my turfs as I uncomfortably fidgeted around with my jersey, trying to tuck it into my pants just right. It was, after all, the first time I'd put on a baseball jersey in about a year. I watched as the team competed on the field in front of me, taking in the atmosphere of the diamond and the environment of the stands. Once the game was over, like I'd grown so customarily used to in the past, I got back on the bus and went back to Strasburg.


My inner-GPS took me from the Strasburg field to my host family's home about 15 minutes away, where I was greeted excitedly by Corey, my 10-year-old host family brother and his parents, Debbie and Glenn. It was wonderful seeing familiar faces who so generously welcomed me into their home the previous year, and who were willing to once again put up with my ugly face for yet another summer...albeit in somewhat of an unorthodoxly inconsistent fashion.


They asked if I'd be interested in joining them for breakfast at the local diner on Sunday morning, which I hesitated to commit to. I knew breakfast would be around 8 AM, and I wanted to get enough sleep. But I realized that it was already near midnight and they were exhausted. I decided to say yes to breakfast, being that I wanted to spend some quality time with them once again. But most of all, I didn't want to be disruptive of my daily routine...which waking up at noon may cause.


I coasted through the day eating breakfast and playing video games with Corey, and toiled around the house waiting for 3 o'clock to roll around. I grew anxious as the day went along, knowing that the evening would find me on a mound in a game for the first time. Around 1 PM my parents showed up, having driven straight in from New York. We all went out to a restaurant and enjoyed a nice lunch, and I departed for the field while my host family and my real family went back to the house.


After a slight transportation malfunction that required the replacement of our bus, we arrived at the ballfield in Haymarket, Virginia. I once again paced around the dugout, watching my teammates warm up in the outfield. The clock seemed as though it was ticking as slow as molasses, and I sensed I was required to endure through the painstaking feeling of never actually getting on the mound.


About 45 minutes before game time I departed for the outfield to begin my pregame stretching routine. My catcher for the day was made aware of the situation and did a great job of keeping me relaxed and calm during that pregame session. Being from Lubbock, Texas, he and I had no mutual friends and not too much in common- except for the game of baseball of course. I got through my long tossing and my bullpen and proceeded back towards the dugout. I watched the top of the first inning from the bench, and exited towards the mound.


The walk from the dugout to the rubber seemed like it went on for miles. My throat was dry, my brow already filled with sweat. Music was playing over the loudspeakers and the crowd was conversing. I was trying to focus.


I kicked the dirt around and peered into home plate. I wound up and began my warmup pitches, before the throw went down to second base. I received the ball back from the third baseman and took a deep sigh. I kicked some unwanted dirt off the bottom of my cleats with the spiked contraption on the back of the mound (I don't know what its called), and made my way up the ten inch mountain.


I got the sign. I stepped backwards. I lifted my leg. I strode towards home plate. 


I reared back and threw the ball about as hard as I possibly could, muster up every ounce of energy to try to start the game right. The ball left my hand smoothly with a four-seam spin, and soared through the air towards my catcher's mitt, which was resting on the outside corner.


A split second later, I heard a thud.


Strike one.


I received the ball back and immediately got lost. I no longer worried about my arm. I no longer worried about the crowd. I no longer worried about the batter. I no longer worried about the months and months of rehab.


Gone from my mind was the demoralization stemming from having your father lift you into a rental car after you don't have enough steadiness to stand yourself up immediately post-op. Gone from my mind was the excruciating pain stemming from the range of motion during the early phases of my rehab. Gone from my mind was the strenuous daily strenghtening, attempting to retrain my muscles back into adequate form for throwing. Gone from my mind was the unbelievably frustrating roller coaster ride that was my months of throwing, progressing up to the point where I could throw in a game.


There was only one thing that mattered...pitch number two.


I escaped the first inning with two groundouts and a strikeout, yielding a walk to the #3 hitter in between. I froze the cleanup hitter on a backdoor curveball for strike three, and made my way back to the dugout confidently behind the crowd's support in a sort of dramatic fashion. My mom at that point was in tears, telling the people around her that she didn't know if she'd ever see me pitch again when I had surgery.


When I arrived on the mound for the second inning, however, I struggled during warmups. The adrenaline had begun to wear off, and my focus was a necessity. The first batter of the inning smoked a double into centerfield. The second lay down a bunt single towards third. After picking off the first base runner, I walked the following hitter (much to my dismay). Falling behind once again, I left a fastball belt high and watched it sail right back over my head into centerfield for an RBI single.


I stepped off the mound and took a slow, long breath. I began telling myself to slow down, to focus, to remember all of the things I did previously to be successful. This situation was no different. It was the same game, the same Josh. I stepped back on the mound and pumped a quick strike, finally getting ahead of a hitter. That eventually led to a strikeout, and to end the inning was a groundout to first base on a first pitch changeup. I had escaped. I had accomplished good damage control.


I cruised through the third and fourth innings with no real trouble at all, and was greeted by my head coach with a firm handshake upon returning back to the dugout after inducing a popout to shortstop to end the 4th inning. I was told I was done for the night, I had reached my doctor-prescribed pitch count limit. I smiled and nodded, and walked towards my bag to change into running shoes.


I did it. I pitched in a game. 


Box Score

Passion- Rebirthed

Ironically my phone rang just a few minutes after publishing the blog post I wrote last week. On the other line was an old pitching coach of mine, who caught wind of the fact that I am now a resident of Washington, DC. He told me that he was actually in Arlington, Virginia doing consulting work and he'd love to meet up.

I took the metro (my first public transportation experience in our nation's capital) and met him at a bar near where he was staying, and we got cracking talking about baseball. I told him all about the surgery, the rehab process, etc. After a few hours and a few too many drinks, we started going through phantom mechanics at the bar...with most of the patrons staring at us and laughing. After a few minutes of heated discussion, he mentioned that he was leaving for his house in Raleigh for Memorial Day Weekend to see his wife and four kids, and then would be returning the following Monday back to Arlington for work. I followed that comment up by informing him that I needed to throw a bullpen on Friday, and he surprised me with a quick response.

"Come with me to Raleigh. We have an extra bedroom and I have a mound in the backyard."

I paused for a second and was a little taken aback by the offer. Raleigh is quite a trip from DC, and I was just settling in. But I did need to throw- and it'd be nice to have him watch and critique. Plus, I remembered two of my roommates saying they were leaving for the weekend to go home with their families, and being in a house alone in an area in which I know no one is not too appealing. So, I accepted the offer.

Memorial Day Weekend in Raleigh was great, minus the fact that it was about a million degrees and humid. Nonetheless, the trip produced this: Bullpen Last Friday

The entire bullpen lasted a total of 91 pitches, split into 7 simulated innings. Afterwards I completed my customary post-throwing running, which is immeasurably harder in the North Carolina summer sun. I iced my arm, showered, and sat down on the couch afterwards. I was absolutely exhausted, with my legs aching so badly I couldn't get up and my arm so tired I could barely reach my glass of water. But, there was no pain.

I pulled out my laptop to double check the protocol from the Andrews Institute, and reassured myself by seeing that I was not scheduled to complete any more tasks. I was done with the program.

I thought about it all weekend- the fact that I didn't have anything else to do. The protocol packet was like my Bible for so long. It was my guideline, my treasure chest. It was both the demon that withheld me from the game I love and the pillow that I comfortably relied on. And suddenly, it was gone. Swept away from me as quickly as a Justin Verlander fastball. I was both excited and nervous. I didn't know what was in store for me next.

When the clock hit 9 am Tuesday morning, I picked up the phone and placed a call into Jeremy Geus, the man at the Andrews Institute who has facilitated this entire process for me and whom I have become almost friends with during that time. I left a message and asked him to call back, which he did around lunch time. I told him I was done with the protocol, and explained to him the feelings I had after my bullpen. I forwarded along the link to the video, and he said he'd speak to Dr. Andrews for me.

I knew I wouldn't be receiving a phone call from Dr. Andrews on Tuesday because he's in surgery all day on Tuesdays (as I recall). I awoke Wednesday and anxiously awaited some type of response, pacing through my house all day and not particularly thinking about much else. I wanted to know so badly if there was anything else I was required to complete. 

I walked to the Yates Fieldhouse on the Georgetown campus to meet up with our catcher for a workout at 3 o'clock, and as I was walking in, my phone vibrated to inform me I had just received an email. I glanced at the notification and saw this:

(Click on picture for larger view)

I'm cleared. I called my parents and told them the news. I called my girlfriend and told her the news. I called a lot of my friends and told them the news. The catcher impatiently waited for me to begin lifting, but I didn't care. I was cleared.

Ten months, one week and two days later. I no longer have to go through Tommy John rehabilitation. 

This Sunday I will be the starting pitcher for the Strasburg Express of the Valley Collegiate Summer Baseball League against the Haymarket Senators in Haymarket, Virginia. It will be June 3rd- 408 days since I last threw a pitch in a baseball game.

Rehab is over, but the process has just begun.

Opposing hitters, be forewarned. I'm back.

I'm Ready

This past weekend has been quite a busy one for me, being that I moved out of my house in Oneonta, New York on Thursday and left Friday morning from my parent's house in White Plains, New York into my new house in Washington, DC. Yesterday was my first official day of graduate school classes, which is a shocking and amazing statements considering just four years ago I was moving into my dorm for my first day of undergrad- and I remember it like it happened this morning. During this time, it may have been easy for me to lose track of my rehab protocol, and that was something I very much didn't want to happen. I made sure that I gave myself ample time and opportunity to take advantage of the facilities on the Georgetown campus and complete what was required of me to continue with my program, and completed everything that I needed to complete.

After Monday's throwing session I had a long phone conversation with my girlfriend, who is still in upstate New York working as a nurse. I told her my arm was feeling good and the specifics of what throwing I completed that day. Needless to say she was pleased with the update of my status, and we continued to talk. We shifted the conversation over to the logistics of her visit to DC- which is in a few weeks- and the plans we have during that time. I told her I couldn't make any set plans yet because there was a good possibility I'd be pitching in a game then. She knew i had received a preliminary roster spot offer from a team in the Valley League, a competitive summer collegiate league based in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, but none of us were totally sure when I'd be able to get cleared and get on the mound once again.

Monday also marked the ten month anniversary of my surgery. There is not too much significance in the thought of ten months, other than another indication of continued progression towards the ultimate goal of health. I hadn't really put too much thought into that significance and really just mentioned it during conversation as a fact more than a relevance. During those ten months of rehab I've had great days, terrible days and everything in between. If there is one person in this world that knows about all of those fluctuating emotions, its my girlfriend Nicole. She's the one that's heard the brunt of what I feel and has been with me every step of the way. She also has never heard me say something that I said to her on Monday.

In the past, I've told her my fastball command feels great and my arm strength keeps increasing. I've told her that my curveball and changeup are progressing, and that I'm getting closer and closer. but she's never heard me say one thing:

I'm ready.

I've been mentally ready for months...ready to focus myself and get on the mound and throw. And my arm hasn't hurt in months either, so pain- or the thought of pain- has not held me back either. But I am a realistic person and know my limitations. I knew that I was not physically capable of successfully stepping on a mound and competing in a baseball game to the best of my capabilities.

Until now.

I'm ready to pitch. I feel confident in all of my offerings. I feel confident in my ability to repeat my mechanics. I feel confident in my stamina, which I've built up gradually in my live simulated games. I feel confident that I'm able to pitch.

This sentiment is something that I have not said since the day I went in for surgery. As I've mentioned in past posts, the thought of pitching was a pipedream for me, a thought so unrealistically unreachable that I didn't much think about it at all at first. I began pondering the notion when I first began throwing a baseball 16 weeks post-op, and continued to ponder it from there. Daydreaming about pitching has occurred while I'm in class, at work, at a party, at dinner. I've found myself in the middle of a conversation with someone and suddenly looking at my reflection in a window while going through my pitching mechanics- without even realizing I'm doing it. It has gradually become all-consuming, the thought of pitching. But I never actually thought I could do it.

It is only a matter of time until I get on the phone with the fine people at the Andrews Institute in Pensacola, Florida and get my clearance to begin competing in a game. It could happen this afternoon, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now. Nonetheless, I will work as best as I can to display patience as best as I can. I've waited this long, and now it is up to the medical professionals to determine when I can step foot on that mound again in a game and throw. But when they finally do call and say I'm good to go, I'll be prepared. Because this is the only thing I've thought of since last July, and I'm excited beyond belief at the potential of it happening.

I'm ready to pitch.