Agitating Claustrobia

The winter isn't a fun time for me. It never has been and unless I leave the frigid northeast, it may not ever be. I look back to high school and wonder what possessed me to want to attend college in upstate New York, where temperatures are rarely above freezing throughout the season. When I was a kid growing up just outside of New York City, all of my peers would be out building snowmen and having snowball fights and frolicking about like young children typically do. But young Josh would sit inside, with no expressed desire to join in the festivities. I've never liked snow or cold weather. And I really never will.

As the month of December nears closer, the cold weather looms even greater. And while my annual misery begins to set in- there is a greater issue that could be overbearing to me. It is something that I've thought about for quite some time, and knew that eventually it would occur. That reality, however, is upon me.

My college team spends our preseason indoors because we have no desire to fight the elements outside. Often times our first time on the field is during our annual trip to Florida to kick the season off, when we can finally set foot on the glorious dirt and grass of the minor league facilities we play on. From the time fall ball ends until that opening day in the 85 degree tropical sun, we spend all of our days indoors preparing ourselves for the season. As preseason rolls along and we progress in our workouts, we begin two-a-days. Waking up every day of the workweek before sunrise to head to the gym and sweat and push through our body's warning signs in order to be physically fit to perform once the season comes. After a while, all of the indoor work that we put in becomes rather frustrating. It is a depressing claustrophobia that sets in throughout all of my teammates. And for me, this winter's claustrophobia may very well be the worst of all.

Having not participated in a competitive baseball game since April, my time has been spent focusing on both the physical progression in the post-op recovery and the immense amount of schoolwork my professors have dumped on me this semester (note to college students: whoever tells you senior year is supposed to be easy is playing a mean joke on you). Much of the mental strength I've developed throughout the process has been outlined here on this blog, and has been found within my friends and family. The support group I have has been incredible, and continues to provide guidance as I move further along. But no one can control the weather. And it is the weather that is going to most likely frustrate me the most coming into the future.

In the past I've pitched competitively until the end of the month of October and then taken a few months to rest the arm. Then it was back on the grind again, getting ready for the upcoming season. Sequentially this makes sense- when the weather gets colder baseball players go inside. But that doesn't mean it is a preferable occurrence. I typically grow antsy as the winter goes along and I yearn to step back out on the field and continue playing the game that I love competitively...and that break is only for a few months. Thus far I've sat through a college postseason, an entire summer season and an entire college fall season without being able to step on the field. Now of course, that is not to say that I didn't enjoy the weather because I did. I just couldn't enjoy the baseball field.

Now that the winter is beginning to set in, that claustrophobia is magnified to an extent that I am highly unfamiliar with. Not only can I not enjoy a competitive game of baseball, but I can't even enjoy being outside anymore. My girlfriend has proclaimed that she's bracing herself for the misery I am most likely going to cause with my complaining, and to tell the truth she is probably right (if you read this Nicole I just publicly stated that you are right...you're welcome). And when the weather turns once again, I won't be able to enjoy the field with my teammates for several months after that.

One particular reason I feel as though this winter will wreak havoc on my mental ability to stay sane indoors is because of my throwing session yesterday. Yesterday marked the first day in which I was due to move up in the throwing program, and I threw 50 throws from 45 feet at about half effort. After warming up and releasing the ball a few times, I let one go and my throwing partner caught it right in the middle of the web. I instantly heard a loud pop that echoed throughout the arena. I smirked a little bit, reminiscing. I missed that sound...the pop of the leather mitt when the ball has enough velocity to make that sound. I didn't realize how much I missed it.

Tomorrow I'll step back into the arena and throw once more, and continue to do my physical therapy exercises. I hope that I hear the popping sound once more...that it'll give me the ability to build my confidence up ever so slightly. In the upcoming weeks I'll do the same, over and over and over again.

Unfortunately all of this will occur in the confines of Dewar Arena at the Alumni Field House. I'll have to trudge through the sorrows of winter entrusting the man-made radiators to dictate the temperature of my surroundings. And when the sun creeps out and the snow begins to melt in the spring, I'll be ready. Whenever that may be.

Sequential Suspicion(s)

There's a running joke in my family that my mother is the second worst singer in the entire world...behind her sister. Since I was a toddler I remember being subjected to the monotone pitches that would shriek out of their mouths and somehow be construed as music. When I was in high school I would be awoken early in the morning to my mother singing along to her iPod while she was on the elliptical machine she had purchased. Normally I am a deep sleeper- but these sounds were quite overbearing.

I have dealt with small obstacles in my life that are filled with a rather mundane monotony other than just my family's dreadful singing (note: I'm pretty sure my mom and aunt will read this. I love you guys regardless of your lack of musicality). I've had insipid schoolteachers, humdrum jobs and repetitious social experiences. Monotony is something that is an aspect of everyone's life I believe...not everything can be exciting 24/7.

Two weeks ago my girlfriend moved into a new apartment after securing a job as a Registered Nurse at a large regional hospital. A few days into her tenure in the apartment she made an exclamation that she was very excited for the repairman to come the following day to fix the dishwasher. I responded by telling her that she sounded like an old person, getting excited over a dishwasher. That prompted an immature argument, with her trying to defend herself and me continuing to be obnoxious.

The last few days I spent reflecting on some of these circumstances. In reality, karma has finally come to bite me. All the years I teased my mom and aunt about their vocal prowess and the monotony of their craft is coming back to bite me. Calling my girlfriend an "old person" for getting excited over something that seems so inadequate is coming back to bite me. Of course, I should have seen it coming.

Tommy John Surgery seems to dictate a lot of emotions in my life and this is no different. The process is extremely monotonous and involves an incredible sense of gratitude for the small steps in life. So in a way, I have my mom and my aunt to thank- for allowing me to put up with their monotone singing. Week after week is spent in physical therapy, clawing my way through each exercise at a pace of progression so slow it is difficult to comprehend. The recovery process is, in my opinion, the pure definition of monotonous, and monotonous is something that I've become accustomed to putting up with over the years. I owe my girlfriend an apology for sarcastically ridiculing her about her enthusiasm over a dishwasher. My days are spent evaluating my success by fulfilling my requirements in physical therapy. I get excited over lifting an extra pound or throwing an extra five feet. These elations are rather trivial in the overall scheme of things, probably more so than receiving a dishwasher (I hate doing dishes as much as the next person).

Truth be told, the trials and tribulations of the emotional turmoil that is associated with the recovery are dwindling. I've outlined them many times in the past- the gruesome grind and unforgiving pain that are connected with the process. But the random aches and pains are subsiding. The constant roller coaster of desire and despair is diminishing. My rehab now consists of strengthening all parts of my body; from the toes to the scalp. Most importantly, of course, is keeping up with the throwing program laid out for me and making sure that my elbow is continually getting stronger. The daily grind is still very prevalent, the distress is not.

What has begun to set in for me is a difficult thought to process, and one that I haven't expressed to anyone up until this point. At week six I felt uneasy with the notion that my "bionic arm" would be removed and I would live life on my own. At week 12 I felt uneasy with the notion that I would begin lifting free weights without the guidance of resistance bands or mechanical spotters. At week 16 I felt uneasy about throwing a baseball. I presume I will be a little hesitant the first time I long toss, the first time I step on a mound, the first time I throw a curveball, the first time I pitch in a game.

All of the above are directly correlated with the intent of my rehab, to return to the playing field. I expect myself to do so and I expect myself to do so with success. My original motive was simple: I didn't want my last pitch to be a stray curveball to the backstop in the first inning of a game. I wanted to prove to myself that I could come back from this injury and continue to compete at which I know I can compete. I have no doubt in my mind that I will be able to return to the game and accomplish all that I wish to. But I have not competed in any sport whatsoever since that fateful pitch in April. And I will not be competing presumably until at least the summer of 2012. I am under the assumption that I will be satisfied with my performance in the future and then will thus be content with moving onto whatever my life has in store for me.

But what if I'm not satisfied? What if I'm disappointed in my performance or yearn for more in the future? What if I am filling my head with a false sense of hope and presumption? I have been telling myself I'm destined to succeed in my quest, and I am destined to compete at an adequately high level once I return to the field. What if this is not true, and I crave more? What if I panic and revert back to my my emotional roller coaster? I have been mentally strong for quite a while thus far and will strive to continue to do so. But I fear my reaction once the emotions rush back in...once the feeling of competition hits me once again...once the potential adversity strikes. I fear how I will respond, what I'll turn to, what I'll resort in. I fear what I'll do.

Well, I guess my sentiment a few paragraphs above was woefully mistaken. The roller coaster has not left my thoughts at all. In fact, it's still the early stages of the process.

Soreness: My Most Prized Possession

After writing the last blog post on Monday I went about my day, walking around my house and around campus with a little bit of an extra pep in my step. I was in a good mood, free of stress and full of exuberance. I went to the library to complete a group assignment, ate dinner with my friends and watched a movie at night. I felt so accomplished from my throwing session, so innately pleased, that I would consider Monday afternoon to be one of the most pleasant days I've had in a long, long time.

I iced my arm a second time before heading to sleep that night, figuring it would behoove me to minimize the additional swelling that may have accumulated from my throwing session. I'd done all the post-throwing exercises I was familiar with doing- shoulder maintenance, core workouts and cardiovascular endurance. I had taken every measure of precaution I could have so my recovery time would be optimized for the following morning and I could continue to progress in my rehab. I hit the sack early on Monday night hoping to get a good night sleep and let my body recuperate to it's maximum.

I woke up Tuesday morning for class and felt like I got hit by a bus. I could barely move my swollen left arm, let alone straighten it. I struggled to put any pressure on the muscles in my legs when I walked because of the incredible soreness I felt. It was as if I had thrown 140 pitches in 100 degree weather on Monday night. I was absolutely exhausted, drained and weak beyond any measurable comparison.

I went straight to the training room before class to see what I could do to offset the soreness. I thought about immersing myself into the cold tub, providing my entire body with the ice that I typically only apply to my arm. I normally can't stand the miserable pain of the cold tub, and often try to get a female athlete that is in the room to role play with me- pretend that I am Leonardo DiCaprio and she is Kate Winslet as I just fell off the Titanic- so that I distract myself from the shivering caused by the water temperature. However I put a good amount of consideration into getting over my fear of the pain and hopping into the tub on this particular occasion because of how sore I was. Unfortunately this proved to be an option that was not feasible because I didn't have enough time before class in order to stay in the tub long enough. So I just strapped some ice to my arm and walked to class with the bags wrapped tightly around me.

That afternoon I went to the weight room and got a good amount of cardio work in, and iced once again. I stretched for what seemed like forever and got additional ultrasound treatment on the arm. Gradually throughout the day, the soreness began to wear off. I straightened my arm with only slight stiffness, and my legs gained strength with every hour that passed. It was an improvement that happened so quickly I was almost skeptical that it was some sort of an illusional teaser...that my body was playing a joke and would wake up Wednesday morning feeling even worse.

Of course that was not the case. Wednesday morning I woke up feeling pretty good, actually, and worked my way through physical therapy without too much extra trouble. Wednesday's throwing session was identical to Monday's, same distance and same amount of throws. I felt great during the session, hitting my target with consistent accuracy and not feeling but a slight tension in my elbow. I went through the regular post-throwing exercises I outlined a few paragraphs ago and once again went about my day.

Lo and behold I woke up Thursday morning and I was sore- but not AS sore. I realized that this was the exact progression I had heard so many times in the past. As I've referenced a few times in the past, my good friend pitched at an ACC school for four years and underwent Tommy John Surgery in 2007. He described the weekly progression of throwing as follows:

"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.

The 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 on, the cycle starts all over again. You're miserable, sore and depressed.

That's how it is man. Every week of every month, for a year."

Back when I was senior in high school and helping my friend as his throwing partner, the thought was "boy that sounds rough." But I couldn't quantify it. There was no comparable experience that I had in my life that I allow me to be able to understand my friend's feelings during that time. I knew all I could do was be a good friend. I could catch the ball when he threw it to me, throw it back to him. I knew I could run with him, do sit ups with him, lift weights with him. I knew I could provide a shoulder to lean on if he had a bad day, or a cheerful companion to relish in his accomplishment during a good day. That, to me, was the definition of being a good friend. But I still couldn't relate to what he was going through. I sympathized, but I didn't empathize. I didn't know how.

Waking up this morning to no soreness whatsoever is exactly what I had expected to happen. It is what I was warned of, it is what the weekly progression schedule had laid out for me. The aches and pains of my throwing session 24 hours previous were nonexistent and the intense muscle recovery was not necessary. I felt completely normal upon arising from bed, without even a hint of feeling that I'd thrown yesterday.

It is a scary thought to realize that every single week will consist of such a physical sensation and such an abrupt advancement. Mentally, it is a period of time that will take some adjusting to do. As good as it felt to throw a baseball this week (and trust me, it felt GREAT), I was 35 feet from my partner. I was lobbing the ball with about as much effort as was necessary to reach the intended target. In the fairly near future, I'll be due to step on a mound and throw the ball with all of my effort and attempt to get hitters out. It's a difficult concept to envision being so far away.

Tommy John Surgery can be very much compared to going through a K-12 education. The wheelchair I was placed in coming out of surgery was my enrollment day in Kindergarten, when the teacher puts all the kids in a circle and we introduce ourselves by name (ironically, we still participate in a similar practice in some college classes...). I feel as though I've graduated my way to fourth grade now. I've learned my multiplication tables and how to do long division. I know how to write in cursive, although I haven't perfected it. I'm beginning to read books that state more than "the cow jumped over the moon" and I'm starting to learn who Abraham Lincoln was. In about a month I expect myself to be entering middle school. Middle school is where hormones begin to arise, and where algebra is first introduced.

I'm not ready for middle school yet. For now, I'll stick to my juice boxes and Pokemon cards at the lunch table. I don't want to start having girlfriends and midterm exams, that stuff just doesn't sound like fun.

Eventually though, I'd like to complete the 12th grade and walk across that stage with my diploma in hand. I'm hoping that my fictitious education has very little bumps in the road and that I graduate with high honors.

Unfortunately when I was in fourth grade I was not imagining graduating high school. And experiencing soreness from 35-foot throwing does not prove it to be an easy task to look ahead to the day I step on the mound to pitch in a game. But, it's certainly something worth dreaming about. And I'll keep envisioning it.

One week of throwing complete.

I Threw A Baseball.

Dr. Andrews approved my ability to throw a baseball last Friday, and suggested that we start Monday in order to set myself on a typical Monday-Wednesday-Friday routine. I accepted the suggestion in stride, figuring stretching out the additional plan for an additional 48 hours couldn't hurt. And M/W/F was a lot easier and normal to follow than F/M/W. I walked out of physical therapy on Friday calm and comfortable with the plans and figured I'd coast through the weekend and come into this morning's session fresh and ready to go.

Of course lo and behold, I was wrong. I probably slept a combined 15 hours all three weekend nights. I tossed and turned in bed, anxiously arising in the middle of the night just to comfort myself by putting on my glove and tossing a ball into it. I awoke to cold sweat and panting, dreams recollecting the events of April 22. The blinding pain in my elbow, the ensuing collapse, the look on my coach's face, the eerie silence of the worried crowd. I recalled the vision of the tears building up in the eyes of my mom and girlfriend, and the scurrying of the training staff to try to muster up any sort of therapeutic device they could find, despite the obvious uselessness. I remembered the pool of tears I left on the floor of the visiting locker room, and the dent in the locker that was compliments of my fist. I reminisced of the painful chore of watching my teammates lose in the conference tournament while I iced my obliterated arm on the bench. The memories were too strong, too vivid, too agonizing.

After gulping down a much needed caffeine-laden cup of coffee, I hopped in the car and headed to physical therapy this morning. My sentiment from last week had changed over the last few days. Did I really want to throw a baseball? Did I really want to potentially subject myself to the same misery I'd experienced just a few months ago? Did I fully prepare myself for the conceivable notion that this session could be a new entry into the lowest point in my life experiences with depression?

I heated my arm, completed my band work, and my exercise ball stability exercises. I was fairly silent this morning, abnormal of most days when I openly converse with my fellow teammate who is recovering from shoulder surgery. I felt a constant turning in the pit of my stomach and a dried throat. I would venture to say that I might have been more nervous then than I have ever been about anything in my entire life. After all, I was going to throw a baseball.

After my teammate and I both completed our work in the training room, it was time to begin the throwing program. I re-laced my sneakers and grabbed my glove. The trainer handed me a fresh NCAA baseball, and I quickly engulfed the four-seam fastball grip I've been so accustomed to for so many years. My teammate and I walked out of the training room and ascended upstairs into the hallway. From there, a right turn into the arena.

We stationed ourselves on the basketball court, with me assuming placement on the baseline and my teammate standing where the trainer measured off the appropriate distance. I was instructed to loosen up and then make 25 throws with very minimal effort- with emphasis on mechanics and release point. I stretched out until I felt as though my body was sufficiently ready to begin throwing, and came set at the belt.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a minute. All the memories that had rushed to the forefront of my mind over the weekend were quickly rushing back. I attempted to shake these off and focus on the task at hand. I took another deep breath and opened my eyes, fixating my attention on the open glove of my teammate standing in front of me. I stretched out forward with my right leg, planting it in a directly straight line towards my teammate. I broke my hands and positioned my glove in its conventional location upon release- thumb down, elbow pointed at my target. My left arm began its pendulum-like motion, first reaching upwards until my fingers were positioned on top of the ball, the ball was facing behind me and my arm was at a nearly perfect 90 degree angle with the elbow parallel with the shoulder. In one motion, I pulled my glove hand in towards my side and began to bring my arm forward into my release.

A split second later, I let the ball go.

The ball soared through the air at an incredibly slow rate, rotating with quick backspin. My teammate began to move his glove towards where he expected the ball to end up, and my follow through began. My back leg came over, my arm down to my right knee, and my chin well over my chest.

My eyes remained closed as soon as I released the ball, wincing in preparation for the fierce stabbing of agony that came with every throw I'd made since April 22. Time seemed to stand still during the ball's flight, and I anticipated the pain to soon be set in.

Suddenly, I heard the thud of cowhide hitting leather. I quickly opened my eyes to witness what the sound was. My teammate, who stood in the same place he had been in before I released the ball, held his glove out in front of his chest with his thumb down and the glove squeezed closed. Inside the pocket of this glove was the baseball I'd just thrown.

I smiled wider than I've smiled in a long while. By my highly unprofessional estimate, I would guess that initial ball was thrown anywhere between 15 and 25 miles per hour. Onlookers not aware of the situational circumstances would probably scratch their heads and snicker at the looping molasses-like nature of my elaborately mechanical throw. And I literally could not care less. I threw a baseball. I went through my full-fledged mechanics and I threw a baseball. And there was no pain. None at all. In fact, there was no pain with throw #2 or 3 or 4 or 25. Every throw was normal, albeit slow. My teammate and I finished our session, high-fived, and made our way back to the training room to continue our other aspects of rehab.

I arrived home a bit later, made myself a sandwich and turned on the television. My roommate walked in shortly thereafter and after speaking for a minute, said "So throwing went well I see." I asked him how he knew and he said "You won't stop smiling." I smiled even bigger at that, which garnered up another response from my roommate. "It's kind of weird dude, stop."

Now that the emotional elation has dwindled away several hours after my ultra-successful throwing session, the exhaustion has set back in. I am glad I set a few hours this afternoon aside for some free time, because I'm in serious need of a nap. And I'm sure I'll rest assured, comfortable and content, smiling. Hopefully if I dream it'll be of this:

A Real-Life Forrest Gump

I've sat through many "inspirational" speeches throughout my life. For as long as I can remember my school would bring in special guests and make presentations to the student body highlighting certain aspects of their field of expertise or using their past experiences of an example of the do's and don'ts of life. They started with D.A.R.E. meetings in elementary schools and have worked their way up to nutritionists and former Olympians here at college.

The majority of the student body at these events can be found daydreaming, zoning off around the auditorium or gymnasium. Every once in a while you see someone sneak their cell phone out in between their legs and shoot out a quick text message, or you can catch an unassuming red-blooded hormonal teenage male fixated on a particular female across the room for a bit too long (note: these are true because I've done them all). Nonetheless, the focus of attention is usually not on the speaker in front of the audience. After all, how many times do we have to hear that protein is good for you and alcohol is bad? How many people need to tell us about their athletic trials and tribulations or not to drink and drive? We get it. Playing a broken record gets old quick, even for the most attentive and genuinely interested college student.

Despite all of that, there is one presentation that I attended I will never forget. It was several years ago, in high school. I entered the auditorium snickering and messing around with my friends, my pants way too baggy and my hat way too backwards. I assumed the position- slouching down in my seat and my eyes glued to my cell phone. I knew the class periods lasted a bit over 40 minutes and then I'd be set free to go socialize at lunchtime with those friends (and the aforementioned females that were scattered amongst the crowd). After a brief introduction, a man awkwardly walked onto the stage.

This man told us that he was a Marine in Kuwait in the 1990's and lost his leg in an explosion. Depressed and heartbroken, he was discharged from service due to the disability and went back home to Indiana to go through extensive physical therapy after undergoing an amputation and getting fitted for a prosthetic leg. He completed enough work to be able to comfortably walk, and got a job selling insurance. He worked this job for a few years, but still felt this sense of depression. He then told us a snippet of a conversation he had with his wife, who at the time grew worried about his emotional condition. This man, once one of the most physically fit man in the world, was detached from the motto of "The Few, The Proud" that he'd modeled his life around. He was spiraling into a black hole, and it all centered around his leg. Despite the military awards he had received, he felt as though something was missing, and his wife could sense it.

Coyly, she placed a magazine clipping on the living room table one day before he got home from work. Upon returning home and hobbling to the couch, he stumbled upon the piece of paper. He casually picked it up and began reading- devouring the information. The piece chronicled the life of Terry Fox, a Canadian man who was struck with cancer in 1977 at the age of 19. In 1980, Fox took it upon himself to complete one of the most incredible humanitarian spectacles known to mankind. With one leg amputated due to the spread of the bone cancer, Fox embarked on what he called the "Marathon of Hope". His goal was to try to raise $1 from each of Canada's 24 million residents.

On April 12, 1980, Fox started his run in Newfoundland by filling a bottle with the Atlantic Ocean water. His goal was to empty the water in the Pacific Ocean once he reached British Columbia. Fox's plight ended on September 1 of that year in Thunder Bay, when he admitted himself into the hospital because of chest pains and weakness.

Less than a year later, Fox died from cancer.

The Marine that was on stage at my high school told us that upon finishing the story about Fox, he began to cry. His wife came over and sat next to him and they spoke about destiny and pride. He decided his wife was right...he was depressed. And in order to overcome it, he would run.

He didn't run quite as far as Fox, who logged 3,339 miles on his voyage (note: the Terry Fox Run is now an annual event that has raised over $500 million for cancer research and is the world's largest one-day fundraiser). But ten months after this epiphany, the Marine ran the New York City Marathon. He didn't run it fast, or gracefully, or easily. But he told the tales of the excruciating pain, impossible struggles and fear of failure. He described his doubts before the event and even went as far as saying he'd quit on several occasions.

The Marine didn't know how long it took him to finish the race. He never looked at the clock, never asked the reporters, never double-checked. It didn't matter. When he crossed through the enormous cheering crowd at the finish line outside of the Tavern on the Green on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, he collapsed to the ground in jubilation. He'd done it. Just a few years previously, he lay lifeless in the middle of a desert, fire blazing all around him and his left leg dangling off of his hip. Just a year before he was a dejected cripple with a middle class job in the American midwest. And at that moment in time, at that finish line in Manhattan, he was the greatest man in the world.

The incredible sense of invigoration is what this man felt was the greatest of all that occurred throughout his accomplishments. He would go on to run several more marathons after that fateful original 26.2 miles in New York, but he said none were the same as that first one. Knowing what he'd been through and what it took to bring himself up out of his mental state and accomplish something that so many deemed to be physically impossible- that was the greatest feeling of all. The revitalization he'd felt from the striving and motivation and fulfillment was, as he said, "the most gratifying feeling I have ever had."

The speech ended with some inspirational lines that could have come straight out of a book. "You can do anything you put your mind to," and "don't let anyone tell you that you can't accomplish something." But the message had been made. For whatever reason, this ex-Marine had captivated the teenage Josh enough to make me straighten up in my seat a bit and put my phone away. I listened to what he had to say and I soaked it in. I couldn't necessarily relate to it at that time, but it was intriguing and ambitious.

That motivation has finally been conjured back up in my mind, so many years later. I don't remember the ex-Marine's name nor do I have any way of finding it, despite my efforts to find something about him over the Internet. But his story has quickly shaped itself in the forefront of my mind, because I can finally relate, albeit to a lesser extent. I thankfully still have all four of my limbs and have full and healthy use of all vital parts of my body. I have never experienced the kind of misery that this man must have endured. But for the last 6 1/2 months of my life, I have not been able to throw a baseball without any pain in my elbow. I've grown frustrated and comfortable with this predicament. I can't play baseball, but there's no more pain. And pain is something I don't want to feel again.

This Thursday will mark the 16 week post-op mark for me. If you recall in my previous blog posts, 16 weeks may be the most vital landmark in my rehab program. Underneath the underlined "Week 16", three simple words are typed neatly and unassumingly. These words are the daunting words that have been my goal since I woke up after surgery at the Andrews Institute on July 21:

"Begin Throwing Program".

THROWING. Throwing. Throwing. Throwing a baseball. Turn the page over and the extensive "throwing program" is attached to the packet. Dr. Andrews' instructions tell me to stand a particular distance away from my throwing partner and perform a certain amount of throws at a certain percentage of effort.

This Friday morning I will walk into physical therapy and heat my arm up. I will perform all the necessary exercises, the band work, the massage therapy, the weight lifting, the plyometrics, the calisthenics. I will sweat and wince at the difficulty of each aspect of the program. Then, once I am done with all the obligatory exercises I've become so accustomed to, I will put on my baseball glove and step out of the room with a baseball in tow.

I will stand on a line approximately 45 feet from the trainer. I will break my hands, rock my arm back into a slot above and behind my ear. I will tuck my glove into my chest. I will rotate my hips. I will start my arm going forward. I will release the ball.

God only knows if I'll feel any pain when I do this. But I can only imagine how invigorating this will feel. Letting the seams slip off my fingers and watching the ball sail through the air and into another mitt is an experience I miss so dearly. I've dreamt about it, let it consume much of my time in life. And now, in just a few days, it is here.

The ex-Marine felt reborn when he completed this accomplishment, as did Terry Fox. The ball will be traveling 45 feet and not 26.2 or 3,339 miles. I won't be raising any money or touring the country as a public speaker. In fact, there will most likely be only a few other people watching me attempt my feat. Truth be told, it doesn't matter. I'm inspired by the stories of the unfortunate disabled and the odds they overcame to do what they felt they needed to do. I am excited beyond belief to feel the feeling they felt, to feel the glory of releasing a baseball once again. Friday morning will be a huge step in my recovery, a realization of the self-fulfilling prophecy that I've been striving towards for so long. Throwing a baseball.

I'm glad I wasn't too cool to listen to that man speak that day at my high school. He was blessed with the motivation and desire to compete in the New York City Marathon. On Friday, it's my turn to recognize accomplishment, however miniscule in comparison, on the road to my ultimate mission- full recovery.