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.