Perfect Practice Makes Perfect

Athletes, by nature, follow an intuitive daily routine that revolves around a feeling of comfort in their preparation. Each day prior to beginning any physical activity, the warm up that my teammates and I take part in is methodical in nature and customary in habit. We run and stretch, readying our bodies for the ensuing exertion. On days in which that physical activity includes some sort of baseball playing, throwing is involved in that warm up. We begin at short distances and low velocities, and work gradually as we progress further and further from each other. Some days we extend ourselves in a practice known to baseball players as long toss, throwing the ball extreme distances in order to strengthen our arms. Some days we keep the distance shorter, focusing on specific tasks or giving our arms a rest from the soreness that may have come on during the previous day. Nevertheless, there is always some sort of throwing that we take part in before practice or a game.

The methods of stretching and running and throwing always remained relatively similar throughout all of my experiences on the field, and became even more methodical as I progressed to higher levels of baseball. I grew comfortable with my routine and felt as though I was well prepared both mentally and physically for participating in the upcoming baseball to the best of my ability.

The continuous repetitions of my preparation were something that I somewhat took for granted over time. I became careless with perfecting each movement, and didn't think twice about my throwing mechanics. I would stretch and I would run and I would throw with the purpose of getting my body loose. I wouldn't stretch and run and throw with the purpose of getting my body prepared.

Prepare is a wonderfully in depth word. Merriam-Webster defines the word in the context of the verb "to prepare" as "to make ready beforehand for some purpose, use or activity." The example they provide is "prepare food for dinner." The word prepare in and of itself is a word that I assume every English speaking person knows and uses in his or her everyday life beginning at a very young age. But, just like any other word in the English language, the word prepare can be analyzed much further than what it is at the most outlying layer of itself.

What exactly does it mean to adequately prepare for a subsequent event? How does one recognize when he or she becomes adequately prepared for said event? These profound metacognitive thoughts are meant to provoke an introspective relationship with oneself and one's bodily actions. Yet that relationship is one that is very difficult- nearly impossible actually- to fully recognize. It is that relationship that separates the good from the great, whether it is referring to an intellectual activity or a physical activity. Recognizing the personal requirements that oneself may have in order to adequately prepare for optimal performance is one of the true marvels that human beings have so much trouble accomplishing.

A few months ago, I was just like any other individual who had trouble reaching this peak of introspective capacity. I would go about my methodical preparation without any sense of haste for perfection, without any laser-like focus. When I stretched my body, I'd stretch haphazardly. When I'd throw, I'd throw to make sure that my arm would not hurt when using it to it's full extent when required to do so. The purpose of my preparation wasn't maximization, it was satisfaction.

And then I got hurt. And everything changed.

This injury has made me realize that my time in the game is precious. I cannot take my body for granted because eventually, it will give out on me. My body does not have a capability that enables self-recuperation. If I don't take care of it, it will break down. And it did...and I'm just now paying the consequences. This injury has provided me with an outlet for that introspective reflection on the act of preparation. No longer do I step on the field and carelessly go about my warm up. No longer do I go through my methods of readying myself arbitrarily. Every single stretch I complete is with a purpose and every single throw I make is for a reason. Preparing myself for competition is the single most important aspect of reaching my ultimate goal of success. And I now come to an understanding of what it truly takes to adequately prepare myself.

I strive for perfection, and prepare myself as perfectly as I can. That's the only way to go about things and reach my goals. Coming back from such an operation as Tommy John Surgery is a daunting task, and one that can only be accomplished through grit and toughness. That work ethic begins with preparation. Each day when I begin a workout or a throwing session, I make sure that I complete every rep to the fullest and every throw to the best of my abilities. Preparedness is the key to all success, and preparedness is what I am working at...every single day.

"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.

A Frightening Twinge

I've provided fairly thorough documentation of the mental intricacies of Tommy John recovery throughout the entire time I've been keeping this blog. The emotional turmoil with which a yearlong recovery is associated with is no small task; it comes with immeasurable tasks obstacles that cannot be prepared for. Nonetheless, much of the documentation that I have provided during these past few months has been documentation of aspects that occur in everyday recovery- that is- recovery that doesn't have any setbacks involved. I have been incredibly fortunate to have the care of arguable the best orthopedic surgeon on the face of the earth in the finest sports medicine facilities ever built. I have been fortunate enough to have a diligent staff both at college and at home that have been willing and able to assist me in progressing to the point I find myself at today. And as a result, my recovery has been smooth. I am right on schedule, right where I'm supposed to be at this point in the timeline.

At least I was until this past Wednesday.

152 days after I underwent Tommy John Surgery, on December 14, I stood in the arena at my school and wound up to throw the ball to the head trainer who was standing 60 feet away from me. I was pretty tired, struggling through an augmented sleep pattern due to the looming final exams that were upon me in every class I was taking for the semester. The significance of December 14, which is normally solely dedicated to my father's birthday, will now be slightly altered to a memory of something else.

As I released my 34th throw of the morning (the ninth throw in the second set of 25, for those familiar with the throwing program), I felt pain. It wasn't pain in my UCL or the region around it, it was pain on the outer part of my elbow. I paused for a second and explained to the best of my ability what I had felt.

"You know how you get those little air bubbles and someone pulls your finger and it pops? That's what my arm feels like," I exclaimed to the trainer. After some examination I said that the inside of the elbow didn't hurt and I think I'd be OK to continue throwing. I cautiously returned to my spot and wound up to throw another ball.

No pain.

Thinking to myself that I must have had some sort of odd fleeting paranoia, I shook it off and continued to throw. Two more releases, two more painless occurrences. Then, then 38th throw of the morning showed its face. I wound up, and delivered.

Pain. In the same spot. Once again.

I repeated my concern to the trainer, who repeated the tests on the area. My UCL was fine, my stability and range of motion were great. I assured myself and the trainer that I was alright to continue throwing, and stepped back in place.

I nervously went through the remaining six throws, never feeling more pain or pain in a different spot. Every instance that some sort of sensitivity arose in the region, I cringed. But, it never got any worse.

I went into the weight room and worked through the dictated exercises that I was due to complete on that day with ease and a rather exaggerated haste. I went back down to the training room and requested not only the typical ice/stim/ultrasound treatment, but also a rubdown of the arm. I wanted to see if there was possibly a reason that could be pinpointed for the uncomfortable sensations I was feeling.

For several minutes, the trainer's hands moved up and down my arm without even the slightest inkling of a justification. I lay on the training bed dripping sweat, anxiously observing the makeshift massage I was receiving. Post-throwing is normally a relaxing time when I lay back, ice the arm and converse with the other athletes receiving treatment while watching SportsCenter Top Ten on the television hanging from the opposite wall. But on this particular day, my focus was on my ailing arm.

Suddenly, after what seemed like an eternity of prodding, I winced and screamed. The trainer, who had been searching for the one spot that was causing my pain, had found it. A small flexor muscle towards the lateral region of my proximal ulna (for those not familiar with anatomical terminology...the outside of my elbow), was tied in what seemed like the tightest knot ever created. My trainer's thumb had found the knot and proceeded to dig into the area deeply and move in a circular motion. And I writhed in pain, grimacing and yelping at each 180 degree turn.

After the unpleasant experience of massaging out the muscle, I departed from the training room. I was a bit relieved at the fact that there was nothing directly affecting the UCL itself, but was still somewhat distraught over the fact that there was an uncomfortable feeling associated with throwing a baseball. I wondered if the pain could be related to the original diagnosis of a torn flexor muscle- Dr. Andrews did say that the muscle was actually slightly torn along with the UCL rupture. Maybe that hadn't healed yet, and maybe I aggravated it during a lifting session. The paranoia began to set in again. Should I eat with my right hand? Try writing with my right hand? Put the bionic arm back on? I didn't want my arm to hurt anymore, no matter where the pain was.

I called my girlfriend on the way to my car and described what I'd just experienced to her. After hearing everything, she provided a fairly logical and precise explanation. I typically trust her word with respect to medical occurrences being that she's employed full-time in a critical care unit of a medical center after studying four years of nursing in college.

"Well, you haven't gotten much sleep lately, right?" She was sure right about that one...I'd stayed up late and woken up early several days in a row to study for finals. "And how many notes have you taken?" Well, I thought, I had re-written all of my homeworks, quizzes, and important notes from the semester. Her final conclusion...

"Maybe your arm is just tired."

It seemed logical to me.

I arrived at physical therapy Friday morning refreshed after catching up on some much needed sleep once my last exam was completed Thursday afternoon. I warmed up just as I always do, and began throwing with my trainer. I went through the session and zipped four seamers to my target's chest, one after another. There was a slight twinge every few throws, but nothing nearly as significant as it was 48 hours previously. I finished up the throwing session, the ensuing lifting and entered the training room. The massage hurt- but not as badly. The knot was gradually subsiding and restrengthening. I was getting better.

Tomorrow morning begins yet another step in the process, where I progress to three sets of 25 throws from 60 feet. I've rested the muscles this entire weekend, not writing down a single word and doing minimal typing (this blog post notwithstanding of course). I've iced the arm and received a few soft tissue rubdowns from my girlfriend. And chances are, I'll feel completely fine tomorrow morning when I bring my arm forward to release the ball to my throwing partner...

...but you never know. That's the toughest part of it all.

Getting There...

During the past four months of scribing my thoughts on a weekly basis here, I have learned a lot about myself. Now that December is upon us and the temperatures here in upstate New York dwindle into single digits as the sun goes down, my rehab is ironically becoming more grim in a nature of excitement as well. The word monotony has been thrown around this blog quite often and will continue to be because, well, a lot of the rehab is monotonous. The throwing portion is much of the same...every other day you stand on a line and throw a prescribed amount of throws. No more, no less. You throw the ball at a prescribed velocity with a prescribed amount of effort at a prescribed distance. Every week you either increase the prescribed amount of throws or the prescribed distance, depending on what the prescribed protocol states. It is often a curious aspect to the rehab, the fact that my stature is dictated to me by a few pieces of paper that were emailed from an office in Pensacola, Florida to the basement of the arena at my school in Oneonta, NY. These few 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of computer paper that came out of that printer in the trainer's office are the defined ultimatum for my physical actions. Limiting and robotic. Monotonous. Yet necessary.

Because of the malaise that I strongly associate with the general onset of winter, this blog has provided me with a location to reflect on my experiences thus far. I spend a good amount of time going back into the archived chronicles of my blog posts and vividly conjuring up the memories of the instances I discuss within. One of those instances occurred to me this afternoon, while I was in the midst of a patented senioritis-laden procrastination session. Instead of studying for my finals I found myself watching the Broncos' comeback against the Bears, which seems to be a recurring trend with Tim Tebow taking snaps at the line of scrimmage. During commercial breaks I sifted through my past posts, waiting to see what would catch my eye. One particular post, one written three weeks post-op, seemed intriguing enough for me to read through and attempt to expand on (http://joshherzenberg.blogspot.com/2011/08/is-it-worth-it.html).

Sometimes, the truth hurts. And the truth in the matter with respect to my future is that chances are, I won't be gracing the presence of a pitching mound in a competitive environment for too much longer. The chance of me getting paid to pitch dwindles with every day I get older, with every inch I didn't grow, with every mile per hour I don't gain. All of these facts are sometimes difficult for people to cope and come to terms with. Many people have been playing this game since they were five years old and dedicated much of their life and effort to the game. They love the game and they are all consumed by the game. Suddenly when the time comes that the game suddenly and abruptly ceases to allow them any more progression, they collapse mentally. The term "has been" is a brutal term that is often thrown around for those who continue to hang on to the glimmer of hope and passion for the game that seems to have long passed them by.

I am well aware of this fate, and I have comfortably come to terms with the fact that the timeline of my career will not be much longer. My life as a baseball player has been filled with incredible memories and immortal learning experiences. I don't regret anything that I've partaken in nor do I wish for anything further in the future beyond my control. I do, however, know one thing: My last pitch will not be a curveball to the backstop thrown on April 22, 2011.

That reason alone is one of the justifications for my surgery. I don't want my last memory as a baseball player to be of my arm exploding into smithereens and the ball scooting away from my catcher and hopping to the backstop. Call that my ego or my pride if you wish. I just can't picture myself remembering that as my final pitch.

More so than just that one final pitch is the fact that I don't want to let my physical well-being determine my fate for the future. I know I am still capable of pitching at a high level. I know I'm still young enough to be able to perform the way I feel I'm supposed to. I know my health is the only thing holding me back from continuing to climb towards the peak of my aptitude. It is not as if I played out whatever eligibility I had remaining and hit a wall. I just hurt my arm, that's all.

I want to do this to prove to myself that I can. I want to do this so I can step on that mound once more. I can lift my leg, drive towards home plate, and deliver a pitch just as I have so many times in the past- pain free. Most of all, I want to continue to participate in the sport that I've loved for so many years. I don't want to have to give it up now when I don't have to. I'm not ready to stop playing baseball, so why should I? A little bit of time and a whole lot of effort will allow me to continue pitching in the future. Well, that sure seems like a good deal to me.

Is it worth it? Damn right it is.

Carpe Diem

Back in August when I was still in the bionic arm I wrote a blog post entitled "Learning Curve of the Disabled List" (http://joshherzenberg.blogspot.com/2011/08/learning-curve-of-disabled-list.html). In this post, I stated that it is human nature to be increasingly attracted to something that directly affects your livelihood or well-being, and then went into detail about the observations I'd made about the medical aspect of Tommy John Surgery and the resulting physiological effects. That learning curve that I went into such detail about has not disappeared. I still very confidently say that I am about 100 times more knowledgable with the entire process than I was before I injured myself. Obviously, there is optimism in every one of life's events, it is just a matter of an individual's effort to seek out this optimism and exploit it.

The past several blog posts I've written have had a relatively negative connotation. Whether that be because of a particular frustrating event or just general impatience and self-pity, the overall essence of the posts have been fairly pessimistic. I don't necessarily think that the overall gloominess of my writing is a bad thing, because I really am just expressing my feelings. But I do feel that sometimes the emotions that I am portraying are not all truthful, and I don't want that to happen. I do feel everything I express, but the entire experience isn't all negative. What I've found is that the experience goes far beyond the frustrations of being restrained or the exhilaration of moving onto another step in rehab. Tommy John recovery is all consuming in life, and my best advice to a person is to attempt to maximize the experience in a positive way.

My current predicament is somewhat unorthodox in that the timing of the injury has left me with several tough decisions. Initially the decision had to be made if I was going to go through with the operation at all...the racing thoughts of "is it worth it" and the numerous people playing Devil's Advocate for me from both ends of the spectrum. Once I decided to go on with the surgery, the dedication had to be made. I needed to commit myself to getting myself situated for the future- the time when I am finally completed with the rehab and ready to get back on the mound. The only problem was, of course, I'd be unable to pitch for my school this spring. I sent out dozens of emails and make tons of phone calls to the NCAA, compliance officers and college coaches. And after all of the effort, my future is somewhat clearer. I WILL be pitching for another school next year while working towards a Master's degree. Where I will be pitching remains a mystery, as that is solely based upon the admissions decisions for each respective graduate program. But wherever I do get accepted, there is a roster spot waiting for me on the other side. That much is certain.

With the security of a roster spot to continue pitching at the NCAA level, I knew I needed to get to work. I have only one year of collegiate eligibility left, and I need to dedicate myself 100% to ensuring that my future team will find themselves an individual that happens to be a very successful left-handed pitcher.

That aforementioned learning curve has come into the forefront of my mind in recent months. The time that I have been granted to sit back and observe has assisted my development as a "baseball mind" in more ways than I could ever imagine. Viewing the game objectively is brilliantly difficult and yet strikingly brilliant. It is a craft that is so oft-ignored and not seen that its value is rather intangible. And yet the expansion of my abilities in such matters has reached incredible matters. I see things with the game in front of me that I haven't ever been able to notice in the past. I am able to watch video of myself from the past and pick apart improper habits and begin to cognitively mold them into felicitous tendencies. I am able to observe other players and take aspects of their abilities and begin to form them into my own.

I am mentally evolving myself as I continue through the rehabilitation and becoming a smarter baseball player for it. The injury is perhaps a blessing in disguise in certain circumstances after all. I have had a good amount of success in my career in the recent past and haven't put as much thought into my own mechanics and propensity for careless habits. This injury has not only given me the time to complete this introspection, but it also has afforded me the opportunity to be hammered with a deep profound humility. My entire existence as an athlete up to this point has been based upon building off my own successes and not addressing my weaknesses. Now that a weakness has been exploited physically, I have the ability to attack it fully and in due time.

The movement of pure meta-cognizance on my part can be directly contributed to the resources that have been made available to me as well. I cannot say enough about the network of people that I have accumulated and the amazing support they have given to me. The support has gone beyond the moral reinforcement, what I like to call the "Lean On Me"-esque treatment. It has expanded into something so profoundly beneficial that the adaption I am making to my current juncture has been directly correlated with such resources. People from literally all corners of the world have provided me with concrete advice that I have taken into account and put into practice with what I continue to cultivate. Informational tidbits that will make me a better pitcher than I ever have been.

I am hopeful that this mental training and effort that I have been putting in turns out to be as beneficial as it seems to be. I tend to be a visionary person and I envision marvelous things in my future, all of which are contributed to by this mental evolution.

Optimism sure can be tough to find sometimes, but I think I may have located it with respect to my Tommy John Surgery. And being that I only have one year of collegiate eligibility remaining, I might as well try to seize the day.