"You'll understand soon enough."

I remember the first conversation I had with Dr. Andrews so vividly I believe I could probably recite every word of the exchange between myself, my father, him and the orthopedic fellow that accompanied him. I was in an examination room, a very typical examination room. It was full of very ordinary examination room items...cabinets, blood pressure cuffs, a computer, a whole bunch of diplomas hanging from the wall. The view from the room was quite nice, overlooking the front entrance of the Andrews Institute, where a few palm trees surrounded a very aesthetically pleasing fountain. When Dr. Andrews walked in and shook my hand, the information began to roll in. He went over the MRI of my ruptured UCL, which was conveniently displayed on the computer screen right in front of where I sat on the patient bed. He asked me what my dad did for a living, what my life plans were, how the flight was ("Miserable," I responded). We got into details about the actual surgery after the few minutes of small talk. He spoke about the specificities in the operating room, the protocol that would be necessary in order to recover immediately after everything was completed.

My dad asked him how quickly his patients normally recover from Tommy John. He said the absolute fastest he's ever seen is nine months, and typical is a year. He quickly added that it sometimes takes pitchers an additional six months to "feel like themselves." I chuckled and jokingly asked if that was a medical term and he smiled and responded quite simply: "You'll understand soon enough."

My throwing program began on November 14th, a little more than a month ago. I started by standing on a line 35 feet away from my throwing partner and lobbing the ball as softly as possible 25 times. Feeling like myself, as Dr. Andrews alluded to, wasn't even a thought in my mind at that point. The discomfort that was present during my throwing sessions was so profound that it seemed as though I had never even thrown a baseball before. It somewhat felt as though it'd be forever until I'd be able to "feel like myself" again, and attempted to the best of my abilities to not look that far ahead into the future.

Fast-forwarded to the present time and of course, that future is now. The irritation that I experienced last week in my arm has dwindled away and I am back to normal (whatever normal may be five months post-op). This morning's throwing session marked my final day at the 60 foot mark and Monday's will be my first at the next step...the 90 foot mark. I am no longer lobbing the ball ever so carefully to my throwing partner, but rather crow-hopping and releasing the ball with authority and with a purpose. I can hear my arm whipping past my ear, the ball coming off my fingers quickly, and the seams spinning through the air. I hear the ball hitting the mitt 60 feet away from me with a profound thud, and await the reception of my partner's throw after I follow through. I feel as though I'm a full-fledged machine, rearing back and letting the ball go with authority.

Every few throws, however, something occurs. I crow-hop into my throw once again, just as I did in every throw previous. I stride out towards my target and bring my arm up into the optimal throwing position. I begin to rotate my hips inward and bring my torso forward, starting the momentum that will allow for my arm to release the ball. Everything goes smoothly and in sync, just as it did in every throw previous. I feel normal, regular, good. Everything is working well. When I release the ball and come through the throwing zone, my eyes track the actual location of the ball. In that moment, I see my partner leaping and diving to his side, attempting to catch what turns out to be a widely errant throw. The ball sails well beyond his glove and rolls to the wall behind him, slamming against it with authority and kicking back his way.

I stand silently staring at him in disbelief. How on earth did the ball end up traveling to the location that it ended up traveling to? How on earth did my arm cause a throw to be that far away from my target?

As I stand 60 feet from my target, I am dumbfounded. My mechanics did not alter, my approach did not differ. I threw that ball EXACTLY the same way I'd thrown every ball before it. Why, then, did this particular ball end up so wild that my partner couldn't even catch it?

I sit here now resting comfortably on my couch at home, enjoying the festivities of the holiday season with my family. My thoughts are not on the Christmas tree that rests on the other side of the room, or the college basketball game that is on television. My thoughts are on that initial meeting with Dr. Andrews the day before my surgery, on July 20th. His last words continually resound in my memory: "You'll understand soon enough." I wasn't too sure how to interpret this when he first said it to me. How do you not "feel right"? How, if your arm is fully and completely recovered medically, does it take extra time to get back to your old self? Yet I sit here writing this blog post, five months post-op, now beginning to gain an accurate conception of what Dr. Andrews meant.

There is no explanation for why I can't consistently throw the ball to my target accurately, nor is there any medical diagnosis for the instances. The old adage that is connected with the surgery is quite simple: "it's as though you have a new arm." While this is obviously not medically correct, it is certainly mentally conceivable. To put it plainly and simply, it's sort of like I need to learn to throw the ball all over again.

As I progress with the throwing program I will keep in mind that the frustration should be tamed to the best of my ability. After all, Dr. Andrews says it takes a while to "feel like yourself again". Wise words from a wise man.