Strike One

I've written several times in the past about particular milestones that are deemed to be important in the timeline of my recovery, at least in my opinion. Some of those milestones have included the first day I was able to walk around freely in public without my bionic arm attached, the first day I was able to begin throwing a baseball, the first day I was able to throw a baseball off of a mound. Throughout the course of time that I have been embarking on this journey, those experiences have stood out in my mind due to the perceived importance of the activity- each step provided me with a symbolic notion that I'm one step closer to my goal of returning to game play.


As I continued on in this journey last week, I came upon yet another notably important change in the protocol that I have from Dr. Andrews. I was supposed to begin throwing a simulated game. I had a pretty good grasp of what this entailed, but wanted to get the entire outline from the source(s) that produced the program, so I called down to the Andrews Institute. I left a message for Jeremy Geus, Dr. Andrews's program director whom I have been collaborating with fairly often throughout the past year, and received a call back later on that afternoon. Jeremy explained the simulated game to me in a very simple manner:


"We want you to throw all your pitches, just like it's a game. You'll be facing live hitters in live situations, and we want you to get them out."


That seemed like plenty enough information for me. I texted a few teammates of mine, as well as my school's starting catcher, and worked out the best logistical time to meet at the field all together so this could be completed. I arrived about 30 minutes before everyone else did and completed my daily slew of exercises, stretches and warm-ups. Once the catcher showed up I loosened up my arm with some long toss, threw my pregame bullpen, and proceeded to take the mound.


I moved the dirt on the mound around a bit so that I'd be comfortable with repeating my mechanics, and brought my hands together in front of my chest. My legs rested motionless and strong about hip distance apart, and slightly angled towards the first base dugout in order to appropriately position myself to begin my windup. I peered into home plate as my catcher lowered himself into his crouch and the opposing batter dug into the batter's box.


I took a deep breath and stepped off the rubber. The plate looked abnormally far away. My catcher looked atypically small. The hitter looked bizarrely massive. I closed my eyes for a moment and told myself to focus. This was no different than the past. I needed to throw strikes, to get batters out.


I toed the rubber one more time and brought my hand into my glove once more. I glared in for my sign- and like deja vu- stepped off the rubber again.


I walked down the back of the mound and gazed around the field, taking the ball out of my glove and rubbing it with both of my hands as I slowly lapped the grass just beyond the sloped dirt. I wasn't nervous. There was no reason to be nervous. I was excited to embark on this next step, for sure. But I wasn't nervous. I knew the time would come when I'd be facing a live hitter off the mound again, and I knew that it would be this day. I knew I trusted my arm and I trusted my stuff. I knew what I needed to do and what was required in order to successfully complete the day's portion of the protocol. But for whatever reason, my mind would not comply with what my body wanted to do.


The batter stepped out of the box again and my catcher stood up and took his mask off. "You alright, man?" he said, obviously curious as to why I had stepped off twice without throwing a pitch. I told him I was fine, and continued gazing around the field. 


It had been 293 days since my operation. I looked down at my left arm, with my scar beginning to shrink and fade on full display on the inside of my elbow, and I smirked ever so slightly. 293 days.


293 days before, I was being pushed out of the Andrews Institute and into my father's car in a wheelchair. I barely had enough strength or awareness to walk myself from the curb to the passenger seat. I arrived at our hotel room in Pensacola and took a nap for the entire remainder of the afternoon, and arose with an ache that reached from head to toe. My left arm lay limp and motionless, splinted from shoulder to fingers against my chest. I was, just a few hours previously, given a new elbow.


293 days before, pitching against a live hitter was a pipedream. I dreamed about it. I envisioned it. But I couldn't translate it into reality. It seemed like a distant odyssey, an accomplishment too extremely far in the future that it was perceivably unreachable. The swelling of my arm was too great, the packet of physical therapy information laying next to me on the nightstand too ominous. I imagined myself standing on the mound pitching once again against live hitters, and then fell into the harsh reality of the moment by looking once again at my left arm, which had been sucked of all life that I had grown accustomed to seeing.


It had been 293 days since my operation. I looked down at my left arm, with my scar beginning to shrink and fade on full display on the inside of my elbow, and I smirked ever so slightly. 293 days.


I took one more deep breath and ascended back up the mound. I repositioned myself on top of the rubber, with my feet the same distance apart as always and my toes pointed in the same direction. I fiddled around for a slight moment in my glove to find the ball and settled on a comfortable starting grip. I settled my stare back on my catcher, who looked to be closer to me than he had been just a minute before. The batter got set in his stance- with his muscles not so big as I thought they were- and was ready to hit. I got my sign from my catcher, fastball away. I began my windup, cocked my arm back, and threw.


I heard the snap of the ball leaving my fingertips, and the whistle of the seams quickly spinning through the air towards home plate. A split second later, I heard the thud of the catcher's mitt as it engulfed the ball on the outside corner, with the batter standing motionless in the batter's box watching the pitch go by.


And so it begins. The next phase of the journey.


Strike one.