The Best Throwing Partner

For more than a century, baseball has been known as America's pastime. Millions of people each year trek to major cities across the United States in hopes of catching a glimpse of a long home run from an all-star slugger or a wicked curveball from a big league ace. Sometimes those individuals are fortunate enough to catch a foul ball in the stands or even more fortunate enough to obtain an autograph from one of those larger-than-life baseball players on the diamond in front of them.

The game of baseball stems much further than those gloriously beautiful cathedrals of stadiums. It extends well beyond the multi-million dollar contracts and one hundred mile per hour fastballs that are so frequently on display at the ballpark. The game of baseball, at it's purest, is a child's enjoyment. It is, after all, a game.

My earliest recollections of baseball occur in the playground behind the apartment building I used to live in with my parents in the suburbs of New York City. I'd play ball for hours with my mom, swinging one of those flat "Little Tikes" whiffle ball bats at the fluttering plastic ball floating in from the imaginary pitching mound that she was perched on top of in front of me. As I grew older, my time was spent with a real bat and a real ball, often times at those sandlot style parks around my hometown. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the hours I spend running around the field throwing and hitting and fielding the ball were some of the most influential moments in my life as a developing baseball player- and all I was doing was having fun. I would be out at the field from dawn until dusk with my friends, enjoying whatever friendly competition we'd have with each other and continue to laugh our way through every game we'd play.

In middle school I befriended a boy who's father was a ticket broker and would receive free tickets to a Major League game every once in a while. Rather than spill the beans right away, he decided to make his son and I "work" to "earn" the tickets. After school we'd set up in his backyard and he would throw a tennis ball off of the wall of the house. It would bound outward diagonally and soar through the air, often times beyond our outstretched gloves. The rule: if we caught ten balls in a row, we could go to the game. If we didn't catch ten balls in a row, we could keep trying until we did. He'd throw and throw and throw these tennis balls and his son and I would dive after each and every one of them like our life depending on it. After a good amount of unsuccessful attempts at securing ten catches in a row, my friend's dad would begin to throw them a bit softer and ensure that the balls were easily catchable. After the tenth catch we'd go crazy, jumping and screaming and high five-ing each other. Then we were told to go shower and get out of our mud filled clothes and get ready to go to the game, so that we too could watch our idols play the game we love.

This week happens to be spring break from college and rather than travel to Fort Myers, Florida with my college teammates it was agreed upon that it would be more behooving for me to spend time at home and continue to do rehab with the physical therapists here in the New York City area. Upon awakening this morning and finding that the temperature was astonishingly hovering around 70 degrees, I figured that it'd be easier to hop on a local field rather than using an indoor facility to get the throwing portion of my rehab in. The only problem was: I'd need a catcher. The athletic trainers who normally catch for me are three hours away at school, and my college teammates are on the gulf coast of Florida until Friday. Any friends from home that may normally be able to catch me are at school in their respective seasons, or are working full-time jobs and wouldn't be able to help me out until after their workday ends. My best possible throwing partner, in the end, was my father.

My father manages a wholesale bakery so his day begins in the wee hours of the morning and is usually done by early afternoon. I called him on his cell phone and asked if he'd throw with me when he was done, to which he replied yes. We hopped in the car a few hours later and drove to a local park, where the mound would suffice in providing me with the adequate facility to complete my required throwing for the day (30 fastballs at 50% velocity and 45 fastballs at 75% velocity). We stretched and loosened up our arms on the side of the field, and then proceeded to assume our positions on the mound and behind the plate, respectively. Armed with my younger sister's softball glove and sitting on a bucket, my father opened up his glove wide and gave me an easy target. I wound up, cocked the arm back, and released the ball home. A split second later I heard the pop of his mitt and stood on the bottom of the mound awaiting his throw back to me.

I approached my throwing session with extreme focus and persistence, attempting to maximize my pitches to the best of my abilities so that the end result would be beneficial. Needless to say my father didn't have too much difficulty catching my pitches because of the severe lack of velocity, and I didn't worry too much about anything other than succeeding in accomplishing what I needed to accomplish for the day. Upon completing my 75 throws, I embarked on the obligatory post-throwing cardio training that I have become so accustomed to over the years, beginning to drip with sweat. I finished, iced the arm down, and hopped in the shower.

I didn't think too much into the experience of throwing to my father this afternoon while I was doing it because the significance wasn't that much of an importance to me. But in retrospect, it causes me to smile. Baseball- America's pastime- has a reputation of being perhaps more of a father/son bonding experience than any other event. My father had a passion for the game of baseball that extended onto his son, who's passion for the game has allowed him to continue playing into his 20's. Regardless of the fact that the necessity of rehab caused me to reach out, the underlying theme remains the same to me...

The words, "Hey Dad, wanna throw?" are forever eternal, and will be forever cherished.