He Trusted Him

First I'd like to say that tonight was quite possibly the single greatest night in regular season baseball history. It is about 2 AM (now 9/29/11) here on the east coast and I am still stricken with incredible energy from simply watching the events unfold on TV. The Braves collapse in extras, the Red Sox fall in the bottom of the 9th. The Cardinals yield a miraculous comeback to upstage Atlanta in the Wild Card and Joe Maddon shows his true coaching brilliance to steal the four-seed away from the Sox. And all of this happened in a span of about ten minutes. Literally.

For me, the true outline of the night stood in the Braves-Phillies game. The Braves' normally invincible closer, Craig Kimbrel, blew a save in the ninth inning by giving up a sacrifice fly to the always dependable Chase Utley (and mixing a few walks into the inning as well). Resting in the bullpen were a handful of pitchers eager and ready to enter the game, arms that have been fresh and performed throughout the entire year at Turner Field. However, manager Fredi Gonzalez motioned to the bullpen to have Kris Medlen jog to the mound, facing the daunting task of keeping the bases loaded and the game tied.

Kris Medlen was a tenth round draft pick out of a California junior college in 2006. He made his Major League debut in 2009 and from that point up until August of 2010, he held a respectable 3.90 career ERA in 176 1/3 innings. On August 18, 2010 however, Kris Medlen went under the knife and had Tommy John Surgery. He actually started a blog, obviously with a similar idea as the one I am keeping up right now (http://krismeds.blogspot.com/) but unfortunately did not continuously keep it up.

Medlen worked very hard during his rehab and was able to return to the big leagues this year. Over the weekend he made his post-op MLB debut, and threw a 1-2-3 inning against the Nationals. This was obviously a huge accomplishment for Medlen, and I am sure that he was ecstatic.

The significance of tonight's game was glaring: the bases were loaded with two outs in the 9th inning, and the game was tied. The Braves needed to win in order to not be eliminated from the playoffs, and their opponent had the best record in baseball. Craig Kimbrel, who throws 100 mph with a devastating slider, had obviously been overworked as the closer throughout the entire season and it showed through his command. Fredi Gonzalez needed a show-stopper kind of performance, and he needed it quickly.

Enter Medlen, with one Major League inning in over a year. 13 months ago, Medlen was probably sitting in a La-Z-Boy chair, his arm swollen and bandaged and sore. He had just received a new ligament in his elbow, a drastic surgery that could wreak havoc on a person's career. Tonight, he stood on the mound at Turner Field in what was, at the time, the single most important moment in the Braves' season.

Medlen calmly got Michael Martinez to pop up an 0-2 changeup into foul territory, where Chipper Jones reeled it in. Then he smoothly walked back out to the mound for the top of the 10th inning where he throws 13 pitches in a scoreless inning, which included punching out Carlos Ruiz on a 92 mph fastball to end the inning.

Medlen exited the game after the 10th and unfortunately for him and his fellow teammates, the game was won by a Hunter Pence single in the 13th inning...eliminating the Braves from the 2011 playoffs.

The excitement of the night was obviously unparalleled, but I viewed the particular situation with Kris Medlen by a different approach. I know Tommy John is, for the most part, successful. I know that there have been hundreds of great examples of past players who've overcome the injury. I know that generally speaking, most that have the operation continue on successfully. As I stated in past posts, I have followed Stephen Strasburg very closely. I followed his rehab, his progression, his debut. Strasburg has been lights out since he returned a few weeks ago...absolutely outstanding. But Strasburg hasn't thrown in a situation quite like Medlen's.

Medlen's arm wasn't what was so flabbergasting to me. As he says in the header to his blog...11.6 months is the average time for Tommy John recovery. It's been 13 months since his...so I assume he should be fine. His fastball velocity and movement was consistent, his offspeed offerings were polished and repeatable. Everything worked, and it did seem like my assumption stood correct. What flabbergasted me was the trust instilled into the coaching staff. How many coaches in their right minds would put a pitcher into a game of this magnitude that only had one inning of pitching under his belt all year? Well, a Major League manager did just that tonight.

I am not writing this to start some sort of banter about Fredi Gonzalez and his decision-making. I know it's been a topic of controversy in the past and being that I don't follow the Braves as closely as many others, I am not knowledgeable enough on the topic to come to a foregone conclusion. What I know is this: Gonzalez trusted Medlen. Gonzalez knew that he had the operation, that he'd spent a year rehabbing. Gonzalez knew he hadn't pitched more than a single inning in the Major Leagues since last August. Gonzalez knew the significance of the situation of the game.

He trusted Medlen. He trusted that Medlen was at the same level he was before surgery. He trusted that Medlen had rebounded appropriately and that he was able to perform at the level that the Braves needed him to during that particular spot in the game. And Medlen came in, and he performed.

He trusted him. He trusted him. Those words keep ringing through my head as I type deep into the night. He trusted him. Fredi Gonzalez made the decision to hand the ball to Kris Medlen to work out of the situation at hand. The same Kris Medlen who had Tommy John surgery performed on August 18, 2010. The same Kris Medlen who, on September 27, 2010, discussed the troubles he had in everyday life (some of these included opening doors and shaking someone's hand). The same Kris Medlen who stated the first week post-op felt like a month. It probably seemed like it was going to take forever to recover, and sometimes felt like it'd probably never happen. And yet Gonzalez put him on the mound in a tie game in the bottom of the 9th with the bases loaded in an elimination game against the best team in baseball. And he did his job.

He trusted him.

Today marks ten weeks post-op for me. In about a month and a half I'll pick up a baseball and for the first time since June, throw it to someone. And soon after that, hopefully someone will be able to trust me just like Fredi Gonzalez trusted Kris Medlen.

Prosaic Protocol

Yesterday marked the two month post-op milestone for me. These last few months have been filled with a lot of emotions...a lot of highs and lows, ups and downs. I've been mentally and physically drained, enduring painful days and worrisome experiences. The two month mark, in the case of most injuries, is an important landmark. And yet I lay here, after an exhaustingly long day of classes, writing this blog post with an honest evaluation of my feelings pertaining to my current situation:

I'm bored.

It's a conclusion I began to dubiously come to sometime over the weekend, and one that has cemented itself as the truth. My physical therapy differs a bit every other day, largely dependent on how I feel and what the printout says I'm supposed to be doing. There are some days when my tricep may feel abnormally tight, and I have to adjust my exercises accordingly. And I may be on a day when I am to add an exercise to my routine, or increase the resistance weight on a particular exercise I've been doing. But as a generalization, my rehab program really doesn't change all that much.

Gone is the stiffness and the pain. I've banged my elbow on a desk and I've leaned against a wall with a stiff arm and I've pushed myself up out of bed with just my left arm, and none of it bothers me. Gone is the muscle atrophy and ligament swelling. For the most part, my arm looks completely normal outside of the Tommy John scar. It's still a bit smaller than the right arm, but that has even gradually been progressing...my muscles get stronger everyday. Gone is the torment of limited range of motion. I can extend my arm fully and touch my shoulder with no problems whatsoever. I can eat, write, wipe myself, scratch my back, drive a car, carry a backpack...with no problems whatsoever.

"Phase Two" of the protocol provided by Dr. Andrews is considered the strengthening phase, when ROM and re-injury prevention take somewhat of a backseat. Now, the main focus is getting my arm back to full health by rebuilding the strength I've lost. The arm has pretty much learned how to adapt to it's new ligament at this point, now it's just a matter of being able to use it successfully.

The strengthening phase is important, of course. Every aspect of the recovery is crucial, an equally substantial piece of the puzzle. But it is very monotonous. Every other morning I arrive at the trainer's room dressed in gym shorts and a t-shirt. I turn the TV on the wall to ESPN and grab myself a heat pack. I lay down on the bed and heat my arm for 20 minutes. Sometime during that period, the head trainer comes over and hands me my folder. The folder, and the papers inside, are the same ones I've had since my departure from the Andrews Institute two months ago. We take about five minutes to discuss any changes I am to implement for the day, and where I am in relation to the overall picture of the progress. Once the 20 minutes rolls by, I place my heat pack back into it's holder and begin my rehab.

It is difficult at times to look forward to the next day of rehab, knowing that it will most likely be just like it's previous. Sometimes I'll be in between sets of exercises and try to relate it to something talked about often: the grind of a Major League season. I try to envision my rehab...just two months in...as an entire MLB season, 162 games, a full April-September full of cross-country trips exacerbated by hitting slumps and bloated ERAs. I tell myself that it's all part of the process, I just need to continue pushing. My end success is heavily reliant on my stamina and perseverance, much like the Major Leaguers. And similarly to their season-finishing goal- playing in October- my goal is an expectation that seems lofty right now. It's as if I'm a .500 team in the middle of May, with a #2 starter on the DL and a top prospect mashing his way through Triple-A. Every win is important if a Major League team wants to make the playoffs, even those early spring games. And if I ever want to pitch again every therapy session is important, even these humdrum morning sessions.

With the dreary rehabilitation comes the differing reactions from the people surrounding me. I no longer have an incredible outpouring of support, I no longer have a sympathizing collection of acquaintances. Most people know what happened to me, and have a small idea of the after process with which the surgery comes with. But simply put, people aren't as openly compassionate after two months. And I am more than fine with that. It gets a bit old answering the questions after a while, the "what happened?" and "does it hurt?" and "when will you be able to pitch again?" type of things. I don't mind blending into the crowd at school, being just another student. The languidly ubiquitous benign compassion is a presence that is a natural change of pace.

The two month mark wasn't as glamorous of a feeling I anticipated it to be. I woke up and went to PT, did my work, and went to class. I didn't get people stopping on campus asking me how my arm was, or find myself hesitant to make contact with anything. I am just another kid now, at least in the eyes of the general public.

With respect to the rehab, well, who knows? Maybe that #2 starter will heal quickly and come back and pitch well. And maybe that minor league slugger will be called up and win Rookie of the Year. That won't be determined tomorrow, or next week, or next month. For now I just need to stay on the grind of this protocol, and recognize that there eventually will be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Distraught Disaffiliation

My college coaching career was supposed to start last week, but was quickly put on hold because of the gruesome storms that have devastated upstate New York. Thankfully, the city of Oneonta wasn't hit nearly as badly with flooding as some of the neighboring towns were. Being that the baseball field is at the top of a hilly campus, we resumed our delayed fall practice schedule over the weekend.

My first few days of coaching were filled with fairly typical assignments of someone that was predominantly assigned the pitching staff. I was equipped with a radar gun and a clipboard. I was to stand behind home plate during both the bullpen sessions and the intrasquad scrimmages that were being held and evaluate velocities, movement, mechanics, consistency and overall polish of each pitcher. I jotted down the miles per hour I read, wrote notes about my opinions, and presented the head coach with my final reports.

Those responsibilities lasted a few days, until the tryout number was whittled down to a more workable roster, and that's when I figured I could get to work. I was then gravitated towards a particular freshman pitcher, who's front side glove needs some work, and a junior returner who wishes to throw sidearm. I stayed in the bullpen and consulted with all the pitchers, with particular focus on the two mentioned.

It was an odd predicament to find myself in, watching both new and returning teammates sweat their way through the afternoon sun of fall practice. Running sprints, turning double plays, throwing changeups. Laying down bunts, hitting and running, relaying a ball from the gap to the plate. I stood on the side observing the action, not necessarily upset at the fact that I couldn't be out there participating but seemingly detached from the action. For the first time in my life I felt like a casual bystander at a baseball field and not someone directly involved with the happenings of the game being played in front of me. Even when I go to a Major League game, where it is rare that I am familiar with someone on the field, I feel a sense of connection because I can relate to the actions being brought out on the field, I can feel the situation along with the players.

The disengagement frightened me. It's been eight weeks since surgery, and yet for some reason it feels so much longer. I haven't participated in a competitive baseball game since that fateful first inning pitch on April 22, and won't be able to participate in one for many more months. Now that the fall season has begun, I thought I'd feel more involved, more worthy of my temporary position as a volunteer assistant coach. But for whatever reason, I don't.

I have spoken with some professors of psychology and done some research of my own on the topic and the consensus that I've found is that the feeling is somewhat natural. When someone becomes removed from a particular action for an extended period of time, the connection that they feel begins to diminish. It doesn't necessarily mean that a person becomes less interested, it is just that the mind refocuses onto things beyond the game. Competing is not in the forefront of my mind, and thus the feeling of competing is not affecting me as much as I thought it would.

Maybe the disassociation is a good thing though. I have become much less emotionally attached to the thought that I'd be missing out on playing the game I love and much more focused on the task at hand in front of me...namely physical therapy. I have made amazing progress through my rehab program, and the exercises are now beginning to feel easier and easier by the day. I can bang through sets of rehab in a breeze, and move onto the next set with a simple deep breath. The focus is better, the stress is more diminished. I've found a daily routine, honing in on my responsibilities and worrying less about the environmental things I can't control. I didn't want to tear my UCL. But I did. And I got Tommy John surgery. Why bother myself with anything else other than getting better?

But there's still hefty amounts of anxiety. While assuming my customary coaching responsibilities yesterday, I arrived at the field for some early work with the infielders. As I received balls being thrown in from the first basemen and fed the machine that was spitting out groundballs to the infielders at shortstop, I glanced down at my scar. I'd been at physical therapy just a few hours before, working hard at another successful session. But I hadn't really looked at my scar after icing the arm down post-PT. On the upper portion of the scar, near the bicep, a small trickle of blood dripped down my arm and onto the dirt surrounding home plate. At a closer look, there was a small white object protruding out of my skin, causing the blood to come out of the scar.

I yelled to one of the freshman to continue what I was doing and sprinted to my car. Doing what felt like 100 mph on the road around campus (I drive a '99 Civic, it probably can't actually go that fast), I rushed into the arena building and flew down the stairs to the training room. I walked in, past the volleyball and field hockey players that were getting taped and heating for their practices, and let myself into the head trainer's office unannounced. I was greeted with a blank stare, almost as if to say a combination of "What's wrong?" and "What do you want, Josh?" I spoke quickly...

"Danielle, I think something is wrong with my scar."

"Let me see." I displayed the scar to her, and she closely examined. She said nothing, but went and got a pad and began wiping the blood off my arm.

"Danielle, what is that?" I said, a bit exasperated.

"A suture."

"What do you mean a suture?"

"It's one of the inner stitches. You had 12 on the outside and 12 on the inside. The scar must've opened up during your massage earlier. Normally they dissolve."

"So I'm OK?"

"Yeah c'mon let's go get tweezers I'll snip and get it out of there so the scar will fuse back together."

Upon hearing that, I let out a sigh of relief. Then Danielle spoke again...

"What did you think it was?"

"I don't know, maybe my ligament was falling out. I'm sweating, I need water."

The entire staff of trainers and several of the athletes bursted out into hysterical laughter. They'd just witnessed me darting into the training room as if someone had just broken their neck, and came to find that I had an open scab that caused tiny drops of blood to fall out of my arm. And my reasoning: I thought a ligament, which is attached to two separate bones in my body, randomly moved to the surface of my skin and was literally falling out of me. Looking back, it was a pretty ridiculous thought, but it seemed reasonable at the time.

Apparently the NATA (National Athletic Trainers Association) has a Facebook page on which trainers share funny stories about comments made by their athletes. I was quickly informed that upon the first break the trainers received yesterday, my quote would be instantly posted on the page for everyone to read. The jokes continued as I sipped on my water (I really was thirsty) and figured it'd be customary to sit back and take the beating in stride.

I suppose that my stupidity being displayed to the members of the NATA Facebook page is a sacrifice I'm willing to make...just so long as my new UCL is still in tact. Which it is.

Whew.

September 11

This blog's sole purpose is to be informative and descriptive about the process of Tommy John Surgery and the recovery that it involves. I believe that up to this point, I've done a good job focusing on that aspect of the mission of the blog and not strayed away from that. However, this post has nothing to do with Tommy John. It is simply something that I feel very strongly about and something I wish to share.

As an 11 year old, I was diagnosed with a staph infection in my blood and spent some significant time in and out of the emergency room throughout four months of my life. I missed a good chunk of sixth grade and spent the majority of my time in an arcade down the hall from my hospital room.

At around 8:30 a.m. on a Tuesday morning during my hospital visit, my mother thought it would be a good idea to watch a movie. I had just discovered a liking for dramatic thrillers, and wanted to experience watching a "real movie" (being 11 years old, anything rated PG-13 and above was a big deal). She went to Blockbuster and rented a copy of Air Force One. Air Force Ones to me were a type of sneaker distributed by Nike, not an airplane that flew around the president of the United States. I didn't know the name of the man who starred in the movie was Harrison Ford, only that I'd seen him in Star Wars and Indiana Jones. And I had no clue that a movie about a Russian terrorist group hijacking the president's airplane would alter my life as much as it was about to.

A few scenes into the movie, someone knocked on the door to my room. A lady was there to delivery the daily newspaper, and explained to my mother that she might want to turn off the movie and turn on the news. Curious as to why the lady was so serious, Mom obliged. As she changed the channel to NBC, we watched as a camera from Jersey City panned across the sunny sky and watched a commercial airliner speed unusually low across the New York City skyline. Seconds later, the plane disappeared, exploding into a cloud of smoke, much like the one that the camera displayed right next to it.

It's been 10 years since the newspaper lady at White Plains Hospital told my mom to turn off Air Force One and watch as United Airlines Flight 175 sped 600 miles per hour into the 80th story of the south tower of the World Trade Center. The disaster that ensued was surreal. 2,977 lives were lost in the crash on September 11, 2001, the largest non-military death toll in the history of the United States on American soil. Officials dug around the site that is now known as Ground Zero for weeks, scrounging up various body parts and materials from the fallen buildings. The physical massacre was enormous, and the emotional aftermath was indescribable.

The anger that I have toward those involved with the September 11 attacks will never subside. How could people be so cruel that they feel it is necessary to brutally kill thousands of innocent people? What did these victims do to deserve this punishment? How could these families ... the men, women and children who lost loved ones at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, possibly continue to live happy lives after their well-being was gruesomely and abruptly taken from them by these tyrants? For years I have searched for an answer, a peaceful proposition. Trouble was- I couldn't find one. Not in the media, not in my friends, not in my heart. Not in my visits to firehouses around New York City that documented the brothers and sisters they had lost in the tragedy. Not in my visits to the 16-acre plot of land in downtown Manhattan that houses the Ground Zero monument for the thousands who perished. I just couldn't come to a personal justification, a satisfactory reason to cool my permanent anger just a bit.

I sat in my room on May 1, 2011, watching a movie when suddenly my friend's Facebook statuses began quickly changing, all having the same theme. I quickly turned to the news. CNN was reporting that they'd received word ... American troops had found Osama bin Laden, and he was dead. My heart sunk. The name Osama bin Laden had become a devilish term in my head, a person who I'd compared to Hitler or Mussolini. A person who'd become somewhat of a folklore, a ghost hiding in a mountainous land thousands of miles away. He was responsible for all those emotions over the last decade, and we couldn't find him.

President Barack Obama came onto the TV at 11:35 p.m. and delivered a 10 minute speech. It was true. Osama was dead. He was found in a mansion outside of the Pakistani capital of Islamabad and shot by a covert operation brought out by the Navy SEALS. His corpse had been covered in traditional Muslim attire and laid to rest at sea.

The death of an icon like Bin Laden brought about mixed emotions. For one, it provided an incredible sense of pride for my country. A man who'd caused so much hurt to myself and my people was finally caught and killed. I am proud to be able to say I am indirectly associated with the military personnel who have dedicated their lives to make ours safer...and done it with great levels of success. I feel proud to be able to see the relief and happiness displayed by the families of those that lost their lives on September 11, 2001. Yet at the same time, the angry emotions still come raging back to the forefront of my mind. Why? What is going to happen now? How do we recover? What do we do?

Many of the somber emotions surrounding the events that are associated with the notions of September 11 can be personified in a few events. Baseball has been a pleasant escape from the hardships of reality for nearly two centuries for millions of Americans. However, due to the events of September 11, the Major League Baseball season schedule had to be modified. In the days following the tragedy, no games were played.

In fact, the city of New York had been, for lack of better words, shut down in the days following the tragedy. Mayor Rudy Giuliani ensured that the city would remain a safe place, and security was excruciatingly tightened. It took 10 days for any professional sporting event to occur anywhere around the New York metro area. That game occurred on September 21, a baseball game between the Mets and the Braves.

The game was rather uneventful until the 8th inning, when Edgardo Alfonso of the Mets reached base against Braves' pitcher Steve Karsay. On an 0-1 pitch, Mets All-Star slugger Mike Piazza drove a fastball deep to left centerfield, off of the camera stand for a two-run home run, to give the Mets a 3-2 lead and what would be the game winning run. The place erupted. People jumped up and down and screamed and cheered and hugged and clapped. It was as if they'd found it, a nirvana-like peace. It was as if New York City breathed a sigh of relief, a load off the shoulders of the nation. It was the first time in 10 days that New York had something to smile about. As Mike Piazza crossed home plate, Shea Stadium burst into a chant of "USA, USA!" The game was halted for a long moment, as Steve Karsay stood on the mound and the rest of the players assumed a position of amazement, gazing around the stadium as tens of thousands of Americans joined together in jubilation.

After watching President Obama's speech on May 1, 2011, I turned on ESPN to watch an extra inning battle between the Phillies and Mets in Philadelphia. While hitters attempted to hit the sliders and changeups the pitchers from each team were throwing at them, the crowd quickly grew louder with each passing moment. It wasn't exactly a situation during the game that warranted cheers, yet they grew louder. Soon, the announcers grew quiet and the audio focused in on the stands at Citizens Bank Park. At that point, much of the stadium had received the news of Bin Laden's killing. And the same chant grew louder. "USA, USA!"

There are many different types of people who make up the 300 million-plus population in the United States of America. These people are all made of different DNA, different body parts. These people were all raised in different places, in different ways. These people all have different ideals, values and beliefs. But on the nights of September 21, 2001 and May 1, 2011, it seemed that the people of America recognized the one thing they do have in common: their nation. The pride and camaraderie displayed in Queens and in Philadelphia on those two nights are moments that will have a lasting impact on me, and will forever remain on my mind.

It's been ten years since the terrorist attacks on the United States changed our lives forever. As I walk around I see American flags hanging everywhere, memorials being held, and tributes being run. Reminiscing about the above events cause a proud feeling to come about in my mind...a feeling that I hope many people share with me. As the common denominator of baseball thrusted into the forefront of the nation's mourning, strength persevered.

Ten years later, I will never forget.

Exemplary Achievement

Stephen Strasburg arrived at the San Diego State University campus in the fall of 2006 with a live arm and a bad work ethic. As the story goes, something changed in the next three years under the direction of his college coach, Hall of Famer Tony Gwynn. Strasburg transformed into a physical specimen, a machine of sorts on the mound. Catcher's mitts popped, batters swung and missed and scouts drooled. He signed a record-breaking contract worth over $15 million after being drafted 1st overall in the 2009 MLB Draft, and was considered one of the best prospects in baseball history.

His MLB debut did not disappoint. 14 K's, 7 innings pitched, and a sold-out crowd of Nationals fan left in awe. He was throwing 100 miles per hour with a gravity defying curveball and a disappearing changeup. He was destined for stardom, set to live up to all the expectations.

A few months down the road, as he continued his overpowering of the Major Leagues, something happened. He threw a changeup to Domonic Brown of the Philadelphia Phillies in the fifth inning of the game on August 21, 2010, and winced during the follow through looking at his elbow. He was immediately pulled out of the game and sent to the doctor.

On September 3rd, Stephen Strasburg underwent Tommy John Surgery to repair the ulnar collateral ligament in his right elbow, which he tore during that game.

I have been following Stephen Strasburg's career since 2007, when a friend of mine was his teammate on the Torrington Twisters of the New England Collegiate Baseball League. He told me of a 6'5" righty from California who throws upper-90's and is "absolutely filthy." The following year, his sophomore year, he struck out 23 batters in a game. He dominated college baseball in all aspects, and was instantly the top prospect for the 2009 draft. He blew away the competition in the 2008 Summer Olympics...as the only college player on the roster. He lost just one game in his junior year of college...a 15 strikeout performance against the University of Virginia in the NCAA Regionals in which his San Diego State teammates couldn't muster up too much offense behind him. And I knew about it all, since that day I heard about him from his NECBL experience.

When I first got the news that I'd require the surgery, I began trying to find players that received it in the recent past. I quickly found Joba Chamberlain, who was operated on by Dr. Andrews on June 16, was documenting his experience via Twitter by pictures. I followed along with everything he'd post about the progress and kept a mental chronicle of everything to make sure I'd be prepared.

Strasburg, on the other hand, was well ahead of both Joba and myself in the rehab. Joba's surgery was a little over a month before mine, Strasburg's was about 10 and a half months before mine. I researched his development and where he was standing with everything...when he started throwing, when he long tossed, when he threw off a mound, when he threw a simulated game, and so on. I kept tabs on everything he was going through because I knew that the same path was mine in the near future. He was easy to follow along with because he's always in the news, and he's a good role model to have because he worked so hard through everything.

On Tuesday, Stephen Strasburg stood back on the mound at Nationals Park and toed the rubber against the Dodgers and threw five shutout innings, touching 99 mph on the radar gun. He looked cool, calm and collected, and looked as smooth as he ever was. I sat in the living room of my apartment, made myself some dinner and tuned into the MLB Network broadcast. As he walked out to the mound for the game's first pitch, I found myself ignoring the food in front of me. My heart was pounding and I began biting my nails. I shuffled around in my chair and tapped my foot on the ground, anxious for the game to begin. I was nervous to see the event, to watch the man that I had followed along with through his miserable rehabilitation make his comeback to the league. I wanted him to pitch well so badly, to have control of all his pitches and to be able to repeat his mechanics. I wanted him to be comfortable, to have his arm action flow, to see that he looked the way he did before the operation.

I watched every pitch he threw with eagerness and intent. He looked good...he worked both sides of the plate, his curveball had bite, and his changeup was down. His arm slot was consistent and fluid. He was the same old pitcher as he was before...a year and three days after going under the knife.

I went to sleep after watching the game with a calm smile on my face. Watching Strasburg's performance provided me with an extreme sense of pride and relief, knowing that in October of last year he was going through the exact same things that I am going through right now. I had followed his career since 2007, and felt an odd connection with him during this time. I know he is not the first person to have Tommy John, and I know he won't be the last. I know that one good start doesn't necessarily determine his future success, but it's a triumph nonetheless. It was self-gratifying.

Today is seven weeks post-op for me, and the mind games are in full force. Tommy John, as I've mentioned in the past, is a tricky animal, which can drain someone so much mentally that they could collapse. I've felt on top of a mountain and as small as an ant...all within the same 24 hour period. It's a tough time.

But after all, finding solace in something or someone always helps. And even though I've never met Stephen Strasburg, I am proud of him. I know what he went through and what he probably felt. I can imagine how relieved he felt to finally make it back on the bump and continue pitching the way he loves to. He has been a role model for me in the recovery process, and will continue to be into the near future. Comfort can be found in abnormal situations, and within unfamiliar people. But watching Stephen Strasburg pitch the other night made me feel good, simply because of the knowledge that he has the same scar I do, and he accomplished exactly what I'm looking to accomplish...getting back on the mound.

One Day At a Time

Six weeks post-op. Six weeks.

Six weeks was the amount of time we had for our preseason team practices before our season opener in Winter Haven, Florida. Six weeks was the amount of time I was given to finish my final term project last spring semester for my Corporate Finance class. Six weeks was the amount of time the orthopedists had originally informed me would be required to heal the torn flexor muscle before I'd be back on the mound again.

Six weeks seems to be a pretty standard timeframe that calls for some sort of change in one's life...for something to happen that alters the course of the norm. Exactly six weeks ago I had Tommy John Surgery, so I figured that something should change during my sixth week of rehab.

And boy, was I right.

This week's program consisted of several new exercises, commonly known as the Thrower's Ten program. The program can be found here:

http://ckm.osu.edu/sitetool/sites/sportsmedicinepublic/documents/Rehabilitation_Protocols_2010/Throwers_Ten_Exercises_2010.pdf

Thrower's Ten is a fairly well known protocol that attacks the majority of the muscular system that involves throwing an object overhand. When I was first informed that I would be starting the program, I was pretty excited. I knew that this meant I could finally begin weaning myself off of the range of motion exercises and begin the strengthening phase of the rehab. From what I remembered, the strengthening phase would last for ten weeks, right up until I'd be allowed to start my throwing program.

Ten weeks?! That's more than two months. I wouldn't need that much time to get my arm back in shape. I had surgery only 42 days ago, I was exercising before then. I was determined. I spend all weekend thinking about the forthcoming Monday morning physical therapy session, yearning to show the trainers that I was way ahead of the curve and I could bang through the Thrower's Ten exercises. I was going to kill it...and be back with a glove in my hand in no time.

I arrived at the training room on Monday morning for my scheduled session and began applying heat to the arm. I didn't say much to the trainers or anyone else that was in the room. I wanted to hone in and focus myself on the task at hand. I was going to treat it like I would an outing on the mound...all business. I had to devote all my energy to making sure this workout was done properly, and to prove to the trainers I could do more than what that sheet said I could.

After heating it was time to hop up and appropriately position myself to start the first exercise of the Thrower's Ten program. The trainer fastened the exercise band to the hook on the wall and lined me up. The sheet read "1a. PNF D2 Extension." I looked at it for a minute, pondering what exactly that meant and hoping that someone could translate it for me. The trainer waited a second and calmly said "it's like taking a sword out of your pocket and turning it outwards in supination. Do three sets of 10." I was provided with a subtle demonstration, and off I went.

The band felt pretty light as I just held it there and I thought to myself "three sets of 10? This will be awesome!" So I banged through it, no problem. Then onto "PNF D2 Flexion", which was simply just a reverse of the first exercise. I banged through those too. Then onto internal and external rotations at 0 degrees, which used to be daily exercises for me before the injury. I did those too.

Then, I started sweating. My shoulder felt a tiny bit heavy. Bicep grew weak. Tricep ached just a little bit. Onto the next exercise, internal and external rotation at 90 degrees. More exercises that were so common to me during practice and pre-game I could probably do them in my sleep.

After struggling through each of those exercises, I was dripping with sweat and my arm was completely numb. Each and every movement I made ached, and it felt as though I had a 50 pound weight on the left side of my body.

The entire program took me over an hour, and I didn't even attempt exercise number six. I iced my arm down after the session was over and lumbered my way out to the car. All I could do was praise the decision that was made last year to buy a Honda Civic that is automatic and not a stick shift, because I couldn't even grip the wheel with my left hand.

And so, here begins the true mental test of Tommy John Surgery recovery. Up to this point, the misery I felt was filled with Hydrocodone and self-pity. My arm hurt and I couldn't use it for anything. But now, there's no more pain in everyday life. I have completely full range of motion. Now I don't need to focus so much on making sure my arm is safe and out of the way of contact. I don't need to stress about rolling over on it at night, or keeping the swelling around the scars down. I don't have to learn to do EVERYTHING right-handed anymore because now my left arm can actually move. The elbow feels fine...better than fine actually. The elbow feels great.

But the rest of the arm is as strong as it was when I was ten years old.

A good friend of mine that had the operation done in 2007 explained it to me this way:

"You'll start off a week doing a new set of exercises, and it feels terrible. Horribly sore, like you'll never be able to do anything with your arm ever again. It's a miserable feeling, and you fall into depression. But by the end of the week, somehow, that same set of exercises is a thousand times easier. You don't feel the stress or the agony anymore. You feel so confident that you're progressing so quickly and you are anxious to keep going.

Then the next week rolls around. Since your last exercise session felt so good, you are scheduled to move to the next step. Sometimes that's more weight, or more exercises, or more throws, or longer distance. Whatever it is, it's further along. And then on day one, the cycle starts all over again. You're miserable, sore and depressed."

He told me that's how it is, for about ten months. Every single week.

(Note: He went on to full health and proceeded to have a very successful career pitching at an ACC school)

I prepared myself for this to happen, but I didn't realize to the extent with which he was correct. The misery I felt after that first day was awful. I was so tired from physical therapy I couldn't even feel sorry for myself. I couldn't even perform my nightly ritual of looking in the mirror with a baseball glove on and slowly going through my pitching mechanics...thinking of the day I'll be able to get on the mound again. I was simply too exhausted.

Yesterday's session was predictably easier. The exercises were still a bit tough, but considerably less than they were on Monday. I can only assume that tomorrow will prove to be infinitely less difficult as well. And I can only imagine how difficult next Monday's session will be, and so on and so forth.

Of course, things could be much worse. At least there is a progression. After all, I am still right on schedule with where the protocol says I should be, regardless of how dreadful the arm feels. I could be backtracking and having some sort of vicious setback. So while there's a vast negative connotation to the majority of the events that go into the rehab process, the prognosis for the future remains good. I will pitch again.

It's been six weeks since I had Tommy John. Six weeks from now I'll have countless new experiences, innumerable ups and downs in the process. And yet even then, I'll only be a quarter of the way done with the recovery. Another six weeks from then...and I'll be short tossing a baseball, hopefully.

Eventually the six weeks will begin to fade away, and I'll find myself on the mound.

For now, those six week increments are eternities in my mind. Tomorrow morning at 10 AM I'll have another physical therapy session in the training room underneath the basketball arena at school. That is the most important thing for the future at this point in my baseball career.

Forget all the six week stuff. It's all one day at a time. Over and over and over and over and over again.