The Official Second Chance

On Saturday morning, I packed my car up and headed west out of Washington D.C. As I continued to progress further on I-66, the scenery quickly became more rural. I reached the intersection of I-66 and I-81 in about an hour, and headed south. Once I got off the exit for Strasburg, Virginia, my inner-GPS took over.


I pulled into the parking lot of the field about a half hour before I needed to be there. It was familiar territory for me, being that I had spent about three weeks in the Valley League last year. I met up with the coaching staff, received my uniforms and gear, and hopped on the bus with my new set of teammates.


I watched from the dugout in my turfs as I uncomfortably fidgeted around with my jersey, trying to tuck it into my pants just right. It was, after all, the first time I'd put on a baseball jersey in about a year. I watched as the team competed on the field in front of me, taking in the atmosphere of the diamond and the environment of the stands. Once the game was over, like I'd grown so customarily used to in the past, I got back on the bus and went back to Strasburg.


My inner-GPS took me from the Strasburg field to my host family's home about 15 minutes away, where I was greeted excitedly by Corey, my 10-year-old host family brother and his parents, Debbie and Glenn. It was wonderful seeing familiar faces who so generously welcomed me into their home the previous year, and who were willing to once again put up with my ugly face for yet another summer...albeit in somewhat of an unorthodoxly inconsistent fashion.


They asked if I'd be interested in joining them for breakfast at the local diner on Sunday morning, which I hesitated to commit to. I knew breakfast would be around 8 AM, and I wanted to get enough sleep. But I realized that it was already near midnight and they were exhausted. I decided to say yes to breakfast, being that I wanted to spend some quality time with them once again. But most of all, I didn't want to be disruptive of my daily routine...which waking up at noon may cause.


I coasted through the day eating breakfast and playing video games with Corey, and toiled around the house waiting for 3 o'clock to roll around. I grew anxious as the day went along, knowing that the evening would find me on a mound in a game for the first time. Around 1 PM my parents showed up, having driven straight in from New York. We all went out to a restaurant and enjoyed a nice lunch, and I departed for the field while my host family and my real family went back to the house.


After a slight transportation malfunction that required the replacement of our bus, we arrived at the ballfield in Haymarket, Virginia. I once again paced around the dugout, watching my teammates warm up in the outfield. The clock seemed as though it was ticking as slow as molasses, and I sensed I was required to endure through the painstaking feeling of never actually getting on the mound.


About 45 minutes before game time I departed for the outfield to begin my pregame stretching routine. My catcher for the day was made aware of the situation and did a great job of keeping me relaxed and calm during that pregame session. Being from Lubbock, Texas, he and I had no mutual friends and not too much in common- except for the game of baseball of course. I got through my long tossing and my bullpen and proceeded back towards the dugout. I watched the top of the first inning from the bench, and exited towards the mound.


The walk from the dugout to the rubber seemed like it went on for miles. My throat was dry, my brow already filled with sweat. Music was playing over the loudspeakers and the crowd was conversing. I was trying to focus.


I kicked the dirt around and peered into home plate. I wound up and began my warmup pitches, before the throw went down to second base. I received the ball back from the third baseman and took a deep sigh. I kicked some unwanted dirt off the bottom of my cleats with the spiked contraption on the back of the mound (I don't know what its called), and made my way up the ten inch mountain.


I got the sign. I stepped backwards. I lifted my leg. I strode towards home plate. 


I reared back and threw the ball about as hard as I possibly could, muster up every ounce of energy to try to start the game right. The ball left my hand smoothly with a four-seam spin, and soared through the air towards my catcher's mitt, which was resting on the outside corner.


A split second later, I heard a thud.


Strike one.


I received the ball back and immediately got lost. I no longer worried about my arm. I no longer worried about the crowd. I no longer worried about the batter. I no longer worried about the months and months of rehab.


Gone from my mind was the demoralization stemming from having your father lift you into a rental car after you don't have enough steadiness to stand yourself up immediately post-op. Gone from my mind was the excruciating pain stemming from the range of motion during the early phases of my rehab. Gone from my mind was the strenuous daily strenghtening, attempting to retrain my muscles back into adequate form for throwing. Gone from my mind was the unbelievably frustrating roller coaster ride that was my months of throwing, progressing up to the point where I could throw in a game.


There was only one thing that mattered...pitch number two.


I escaped the first inning with two groundouts and a strikeout, yielding a walk to the #3 hitter in between. I froze the cleanup hitter on a backdoor curveball for strike three, and made my way back to the dugout confidently behind the crowd's support in a sort of dramatic fashion. My mom at that point was in tears, telling the people around her that she didn't know if she'd ever see me pitch again when I had surgery.


When I arrived on the mound for the second inning, however, I struggled during warmups. The adrenaline had begun to wear off, and my focus was a necessity. The first batter of the inning smoked a double into centerfield. The second lay down a bunt single towards third. After picking off the first base runner, I walked the following hitter (much to my dismay). Falling behind once again, I left a fastball belt high and watched it sail right back over my head into centerfield for an RBI single.


I stepped off the mound and took a slow, long breath. I began telling myself to slow down, to focus, to remember all of the things I did previously to be successful. This situation was no different. It was the same game, the same Josh. I stepped back on the mound and pumped a quick strike, finally getting ahead of a hitter. That eventually led to a strikeout, and to end the inning was a groundout to first base on a first pitch changeup. I had escaped. I had accomplished good damage control.


I cruised through the third and fourth innings with no real trouble at all, and was greeted by my head coach with a firm handshake upon returning back to the dugout after inducing a popout to shortstop to end the 4th inning. I was told I was done for the night, I had reached my doctor-prescribed pitch count limit. I smiled and nodded, and walked towards my bag to change into running shoes.


I did it. I pitched in a game. 


Box Score

Passion- Rebirthed

Ironically my phone rang just a few minutes after publishing the blog post I wrote last week. On the other line was an old pitching coach of mine, who caught wind of the fact that I am now a resident of Washington, DC. He told me that he was actually in Arlington, Virginia doing consulting work and he'd love to meet up.

I took the metro (my first public transportation experience in our nation's capital) and met him at a bar near where he was staying, and we got cracking talking about baseball. I told him all about the surgery, the rehab process, etc. After a few hours and a few too many drinks, we started going through phantom mechanics at the bar...with most of the patrons staring at us and laughing. After a few minutes of heated discussion, he mentioned that he was leaving for his house in Raleigh for Memorial Day Weekend to see his wife and four kids, and then would be returning the following Monday back to Arlington for work. I followed that comment up by informing him that I needed to throw a bullpen on Friday, and he surprised me with a quick response.

"Come with me to Raleigh. We have an extra bedroom and I have a mound in the backyard."

I paused for a second and was a little taken aback by the offer. Raleigh is quite a trip from DC, and I was just settling in. But I did need to throw- and it'd be nice to have him watch and critique. Plus, I remembered two of my roommates saying they were leaving for the weekend to go home with their families, and being in a house alone in an area in which I know no one is not too appealing. So, I accepted the offer.

Memorial Day Weekend in Raleigh was great, minus the fact that it was about a million degrees and humid. Nonetheless, the trip produced this: Bullpen Last Friday

The entire bullpen lasted a total of 91 pitches, split into 7 simulated innings. Afterwards I completed my customary post-throwing running, which is immeasurably harder in the North Carolina summer sun. I iced my arm, showered, and sat down on the couch afterwards. I was absolutely exhausted, with my legs aching so badly I couldn't get up and my arm so tired I could barely reach my glass of water. But, there was no pain.

I pulled out my laptop to double check the protocol from the Andrews Institute, and reassured myself by seeing that I was not scheduled to complete any more tasks. I was done with the program.

I thought about it all weekend- the fact that I didn't have anything else to do. The protocol packet was like my Bible for so long. It was my guideline, my treasure chest. It was both the demon that withheld me from the game I love and the pillow that I comfortably relied on. And suddenly, it was gone. Swept away from me as quickly as a Justin Verlander fastball. I was both excited and nervous. I didn't know what was in store for me next.

When the clock hit 9 am Tuesday morning, I picked up the phone and placed a call into Jeremy Geus, the man at the Andrews Institute who has facilitated this entire process for me and whom I have become almost friends with during that time. I left a message and asked him to call back, which he did around lunch time. I told him I was done with the protocol, and explained to him the feelings I had after my bullpen. I forwarded along the link to the video, and he said he'd speak to Dr. Andrews for me.

I knew I wouldn't be receiving a phone call from Dr. Andrews on Tuesday because he's in surgery all day on Tuesdays (as I recall). I awoke Wednesday and anxiously awaited some type of response, pacing through my house all day and not particularly thinking about much else. I wanted to know so badly if there was anything else I was required to complete. 

I walked to the Yates Fieldhouse on the Georgetown campus to meet up with our catcher for a workout at 3 o'clock, and as I was walking in, my phone vibrated to inform me I had just received an email. I glanced at the notification and saw this:

(Click on picture for larger view)

I'm cleared. I called my parents and told them the news. I called my girlfriend and told her the news. I called a lot of my friends and told them the news. The catcher impatiently waited for me to begin lifting, but I didn't care. I was cleared.

Ten months, one week and two days later. I no longer have to go through Tommy John rehabilitation. 

This Sunday I will be the starting pitcher for the Strasburg Express of the Valley Collegiate Summer Baseball League against the Haymarket Senators in Haymarket, Virginia. It will be June 3rd- 408 days since I last threw a pitch in a baseball game.

Rehab is over, but the process has just begun.

Opposing hitters, be forewarned. I'm back.

I'm Ready

This past weekend has been quite a busy one for me, being that I moved out of my house in Oneonta, New York on Thursday and left Friday morning from my parent's house in White Plains, New York into my new house in Washington, DC. Yesterday was my first official day of graduate school classes, which is a shocking and amazing statements considering just four years ago I was moving into my dorm for my first day of undergrad- and I remember it like it happened this morning. During this time, it may have been easy for me to lose track of my rehab protocol, and that was something I very much didn't want to happen. I made sure that I gave myself ample time and opportunity to take advantage of the facilities on the Georgetown campus and complete what was required of me to continue with my program, and completed everything that I needed to complete.

After Monday's throwing session I had a long phone conversation with my girlfriend, who is still in upstate New York working as a nurse. I told her my arm was feeling good and the specifics of what throwing I completed that day. Needless to say she was pleased with the update of my status, and we continued to talk. We shifted the conversation over to the logistics of her visit to DC- which is in a few weeks- and the plans we have during that time. I told her I couldn't make any set plans yet because there was a good possibility I'd be pitching in a game then. She knew i had received a preliminary roster spot offer from a team in the Valley League, a competitive summer collegiate league based in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, but none of us were totally sure when I'd be able to get cleared and get on the mound once again.

Monday also marked the ten month anniversary of my surgery. There is not too much significance in the thought of ten months, other than another indication of continued progression towards the ultimate goal of health. I hadn't really put too much thought into that significance and really just mentioned it during conversation as a fact more than a relevance. During those ten months of rehab I've had great days, terrible days and everything in between. If there is one person in this world that knows about all of those fluctuating emotions, its my girlfriend Nicole. She's the one that's heard the brunt of what I feel and has been with me every step of the way. She also has never heard me say something that I said to her on Monday.

In the past, I've told her my fastball command feels great and my arm strength keeps increasing. I've told her that my curveball and changeup are progressing, and that I'm getting closer and closer. but she's never heard me say one thing:

I'm ready.

I've been mentally ready for months...ready to focus myself and get on the mound and throw. And my arm hasn't hurt in months either, so pain- or the thought of pain- has not held me back either. But I am a realistic person and know my limitations. I knew that I was not physically capable of successfully stepping on a mound and competing in a baseball game to the best of my capabilities.

Until now.

I'm ready to pitch. I feel confident in all of my offerings. I feel confident in my ability to repeat my mechanics. I feel confident in my stamina, which I've built up gradually in my live simulated games. I feel confident that I'm able to pitch.

This sentiment is something that I have not said since the day I went in for surgery. As I've mentioned in past posts, the thought of pitching was a pipedream for me, a thought so unrealistically unreachable that I didn't much think about it at all at first. I began pondering the notion when I first began throwing a baseball 16 weeks post-op, and continued to ponder it from there. Daydreaming about pitching has occurred while I'm in class, at work, at a party, at dinner. I've found myself in the middle of a conversation with someone and suddenly looking at my reflection in a window while going through my pitching mechanics- without even realizing I'm doing it. It has gradually become all-consuming, the thought of pitching. But I never actually thought I could do it.

It is only a matter of time until I get on the phone with the fine people at the Andrews Institute in Pensacola, Florida and get my clearance to begin competing in a game. It could happen this afternoon, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now. Nonetheless, I will work as best as I can to display patience as best as I can. I've waited this long, and now it is up to the medical professionals to determine when I can step foot on that mound again in a game and throw. But when they finally do call and say I'm good to go, I'll be prepared. Because this is the only thing I've thought of since last July, and I'm excited beyond belief at the potential of it happening.

I'm ready to pitch.

Strike One

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Strike one.

Throwing Alone

I read a story a few weeks ago about Jeremy Guthrie tweeting that he needed a partner in order to complete his daily throwing regimen. The Rockies had a day off and he was at Coors Field alone, attempting to continue on with what he needed to in order to be ready to compete during his next start. He received a response from a fan who said he could be at the stadium in ten minutes and he had his glove.


By chance, this fan was a 21-year-old amputee who lost his leg to cancer. He had just received word from his oncologist that he'd no longer require chemotherapy and that his cancer treatment had been successful. Guthrie and this young man, a stand-up comedian named Woody Roseland, hit it off and quickly grew into friends. 


Unfortunately for me, I have yet to be able to come up with such a chance opportunity to meet an inspirational person such as Woody Roseland during my days of throwing. I've tweeted about throwing a few times, but unlike Guthrie I don't have tens of thousands of followers and therefore don't have the luxury of having anyone- let alone such an individual as Woody Roseland- to voluntarily respond and offer to throw with me.


This reality has grown into quite the frustrating reality as time has gone on in my throwing sessions. My protocol states a very specific curriculum for me to follow in order to ensure that my arm returns to 100% strength and health. Since I am certainly not as knowledgable as anyone that was involved with producing that protocol, I am in no position to question or argue the reasons or motives behind what is written for me. Therefore, I try to act as a puppet as much as possible...I do exactly what the doctors say for me to do. 


As time has gone on, the tasks for me to complete have increased. In the very beginning, a lot of what I was required to was simple stretching techniques in order to do away with the mass assemblage of muscular atrophy throughout my left arm. From there, I was required to complete work with exercise bands in order to improve the range of motion in the aforementioned muscle groups. From there, it was onto exercises with weights in order to continue to strengthen those muscles. Then, throwing. And throwing and throwing and throwing. For months, the throwing has progressed into stages, and now I am nearing the stage where I can begin to throw simulated games. I can long toss as far as I'd like to and I can throw curveballs off the mound with ease.


As time has gone on and those workouts have compounded on each other, much of the stress that has been correlated with my recovery has involved scheduling, and more specifically, finding a throwing partner. I'd need someone who would be willing and able to long toss with me and willing and able to catch the bullpen sessions I needed to throw. With virtually no assistance from the head athletic trainer from my school outside of what I was able to complete within the confines of the training room, much of the scheduling and completion of my protocol has rested on me, and solely me.


I've thrown in a gym, in a dome, on a soccer field, on a football field, on a lacrosse field, on a softball field, on a farm. I've thrown in scorching sunshine, in pouring rain, in driving hail and in blinding snow. I've thrown with teammates, classmates, roommates, family members, friends, softball players, lacrosse players, tennis players, volleyball players. I've found random people- male or female- that have a glove and were up for sacrificing a little time to stand there and receive the throws I needed to make.


The process of finding throwing partners is not always easy. Sometimes, when the weather is too bad or people are simply unavailable (obviously they can't be blamed for having other responsibilities), I've thrown in my living room. I take a long baseball sock and tie a knot in the area where the toes go. Then I put it over my hand and put a watch onto my wrist over it, in order to ensure the sock doesn't slip. I leave about a three inch gap between my hand and the knot, and then I wind up and throw a baseball into the toe area of the sock. For an example, here you go: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jMg3sE-eH9E


While the logistical issues that are involved with my throwing program certainly haven't been easy, I'm incredibly appreciative of the opportunities that I've had to accomplish all of these things. Spending days standing on a football field throwing to a former high school softball player in a snowstorm is not fun. Standing in my living room and crow-hopping the ball into the end of a sock is not thrilling. I want to stand on a mound in the center of a diamond and release a ball towards home plate, with a catcher and a batter and an umpire waiting for my pitch and a filled grandstand of fans enjoying the game in front of them. 


I appreciate all the times that I spent throwing with no one around in miserable conditions or in not-so-perfect scenarios (Ie: 6 AM in the back corner of a basketball court in January). The mental toughness that has been required of me throughout those times has brought upon more perseverance and patience than I ever knew I was capable of. And those times, those dreadful times when I was forced to complete my throwing program, are all beginning to accumulate in my mind so that once the day comes that I actually am able to step back on the rubber and pitch to a live batter, it'll be that much more self-gratifying.


With all that being said, I'm going to cut this blog post off. It's nearly 4 PM here in New York and with rain continuing to pour outside, I have to go throw on a pair of shorts and tie the knot in my sock. Hopefully my roommates won't mind the living room table being moved out of the way so I can complete my surrogate long toss for the day. Not throwing is, after all, not an option.

Like Riding A Bike?

In the fall of 2009, I received a phone call from a man who was starting an expansion franchise summer team and he asked me if I'd be interested in obtaining a roster spot for the following season, the summer of 2010. The team was called the Morehead City Marlins (www.mhcmarlins.com ), and the league was the Coastal Plain League (www.coastalplain.com ). The CPL is considered in the upper echelon of collegiate summer leagues around the country, and is loaded with Division I players and professional prospects. I had been made aware that the call may come by a mutual friend that I had with the owner of the team, a man who is an associate scout for the Angels based in the New York City area, and was pleased to accept the offer upon receiving the call.


I played out my sophomore season at school. My team made a magical run to the NCAA tournament and set a school record in wins and winning percentage. After the year was over, I packed my car with almost everything I own and made the drive to coastal North Carolina, where I'd live with a family I'd never met before and join a team of players I'd never met before in an area I'd never been to before.


Before my arrival in Morehead City, I had been successful with a very particular approach on the mound in college. Being a relief pitcher for the first two years of my college career, I lived predominantly with my fastball and curveball. I could locate both a four seamer and a two seamer to both sides of the plate, and I had a big 12 to 6 curveball that I felt very confident with. My changeup was not terrible, but it lacked consistency, and therefore I threw it sparingly. I figured if I flashed it just enough times to make sure the opponent knew it was in my repertoire then it was enough. But it certainly wasn't a weapon by any means.


I was excited to experience the competition in the CPL. The year before there were over 100 alumni of the league that were drafted and nearly 50 that had debuted in the Major Leagues in just 13 years of existence up to that point (fun fact: the CPL now officially has an alum in the NFL as well, as Russell Wilson spent the 2009 summer season in Gastonia). I was thrilled at the thought of the high level of play and large crowds that were supposed to be present at our games.


There was one aspect, however, that I overlooked. The high level of competition also meant that I'd most likely have to make an adjustment. My normal approach, which had been successful up to that point at the Division III college level, would have to be tweaked in order to remain pitching with a similar level of consistency. 


Being that I didn't take this into account going into the CPL season, I didn't start off pitching well. In fact, it seemed as if I was throwing batting practice during several of my appearances. Whichever pitch I decided to throw, my opponents would line into the outfield or rip into the gaps. I felt helpless, frustrated and defeated. I didn't know what to do and I didn't know how I was ever going to work myself out of this funk.


One day my head coach asked me to sit next to him on the bus so we could talk one-on-one. These bus conversations are comparable to a minor league coach asking a player to come into his office and shut the door...they usually didn't end good. My head coach, a small older man in his 70's, had won nearly 1,200 games in his Division I coaching career and had the stadium at the University of Central Florida, Jay Bergman Field, named in his honor. He commanded a strong presence and spoke convincingly. 


Coach Bergman, or "Bergie" as we called him, told me that he wanted me to shut down for two weeks. He wanted me to spend time each day before the games working with our pitching coach on developing a better changeup. He thought that would help me turn out to be a more successful pitcher.


The next two weeks were miserable. I'd show up to the park each day knowing that my only responsibility for the day was to trek into the outfield during batting practice and throw countless changeups to a designated throwing partner, and do nothing else. I wanted to get back on the mound so badly in order to regain my confidence and to reprove myself, but Bergie wouldn't let me.


Finally, after the two weeks were over, I'd thrown probably a thousand changeups. I was bored with the practice and pleaded with Bergie to put me back on the mound. What I didn't realize, however, was that throwing a changeup was now like second nature for me. The muscle memory was present and the grip felt natural. Suddenly, I was a three-pitch pitcher. I could throw all my pitches to all locations at any time I wanted.


I threw a lot in the last part of the season from that point, and our team earned the #3 seed in the CPL playoffs. My ERA went from 5.23 to 2.49 by the end of the season, and I became a trusted lefty out of the bullpen. 


The changeup that I had developed in the CPL carried over into my junior year at school. Thrusted into the Friday starter role, I continued throwing my changeup in all counts and realized just how much easier it was to pitch well with it. Having another pitch gave me a weapon that I had never been able to utilize before, and simply put- it was awesome.


As noted in my last blog post, this past Monday was the first time I was cleared to throw curveballs or changeups since my operation. The bullpen session I threw didn't hurt or present any discomfort in my body. In fact, I felt pretty good. But there was one problem...


I had no idea where the ball was going.


I wound up just like I always wind up and released the pitches just as I'm used to releasing them. Except the curveballs would curve in ways I didn't want them to curve and the changeups would float in locations I didn't want them to end up in. And despite continuing to throw, nothing helped. I had no consistency and no feel for my pitches.


Tommy John Surgery has temporarily eliminated the success I'm used to having with my off-speed pitches. And while I know that this is "just part of the process", it is a scary thought. I've put in all that work in the past just to get to the point that I had gotten to with all of my offerings, and now its as if I'm being pushed back to step one. Dr. Andrews told me that it sometimes takes 6-8 months for a pitcher to "feel like himself" after the rehab process is over, and I assume this is what he was referring to.


Last night after celebrating a conference tournament bid with my college teammates I couldn't fall asleep. Instead of "counting sheep" or any of the typical methods of comforting the body and distracting the mind at night, I got up and walked over to the desk on the other side of the room. I grabbed a baseball sitting comfortably next to a textbook and lay back down. I turned over onto my side and proceeded to grip the ball loosely as if I was about to throw a circle changeup.


I woke up about eight hours later with the ball still in my hand and the grip still in place. Repetition is the only way to get better at things, and practice makes perfect. I don't want it to take 6-8 months for me to regain the feel for my offspeed pitches, I want it to happen as soon as possible. So, I'll force my body to retrieve that muscle memory that used to be so fresh. And I'll do it now.

One Year Anniversary

A year ago today, I awoke on a beautiful Friday morning, threw on my travel sweatsuit that was given to me by my school, and drove to campus. A few minutes later, I grabbed my travel bag and hopped on the bus. I had my iPod and laptop in stow, and was relaxed and ready to embark on the road trip a few hours west of us, where we'd be playing in what was the most important weekend series up to that point in our season.


We were a cool 11 and 1 in conference games, and were on a tear in which we had won 16 of our last 18 games. We were getting attention nationally and were destined to make a run deep into the playoffs.


Our opponent for the weekend was a perennial power, who was also 11 and 1 in our conference and was ranked 12th in the country, after finishing as the national runner-up in 2010 by losing in the national championship game. Their ace pitcher, who was undefeated and led the conference in strikeouts, was scheduled to start the game for them. The scheduled starting pitcher for us was also undefeated and led the conference in ERA. It was set to be a battle of the giants to see who could claim the conference regular season title and the right to host the conference tournament. The weekend had big implications on the playoffs for the future and the potential national rankings that came out weekly.


I calmly stepped off the bus and entered the visiting locker room, where I continued to listen to music while trying to zone in. I had been thrown in relief as a freshman and a sophomore against them, and I had a moderate level of success. But going from a reliever to the Friday starter was a big step. I tried as best as I could to quiet my emotions and slow my environment down. And as the stands quickly filled before the game started, I was doing a very good job of it. Coming into the game with a 1.44 ERA and victories against two teams that were in the national rankings already, I saw the contest as just another performance, regardless of how rowdy the opposing fans may be or how truly important the game may have actually been in reality.


After batting practice ended, I began my pre-game warmup, a ritual of dynamic and static stretching for an extended period of time in the outfield. Then the starting catcher and I began throwing, extending ourselves deep into the outfield while loosening up our arms during the long toss session. After a bit of time, I retreated to the bullpen deep in foul territory in left field to begin my warmup pitches.


My fastball was jumping, my curveball was sharp, and my changeup freely flew off of my fingertips. I felt like I had control of all of my offerings, and confidently went through my routine with a sense that nothing could go wrong.


About 15 minutes later, I toed the rubber for the first pitch of the bottom of the first inning. The leadoff hitter squared up a 1-2 curveball and hit it hard back up the middle, but luckily it was right at me. I gloved it and made the play, undaunted by the voices I heard from the stands and the pressure I felt. The two-hitter blooped a 1-1 fastball down the right field line and legged out a Texas League double. The three-hitter, a mammoth first baseman, dug into the box. He worked the count full, and battled through all of my offerings. I looked into my catcher for the pitch...a curveball was called for the full count. Good choice, I thought. I came set and checked the runner at second, and lifted my leg to come home. I was going to try to backdoor a curve, hoping that it'd freeze the hitter enough to buckle his knees. And if he was going to swing, I was hoping he'd pull off and open his hips and roll a groundball to shortstop.


That was the last pitch I've ever thrown.


One year ago today my UCL exploded while releasing that curveball and I fell to the ground. The ball went to the backstop and I walked off the mound and into the locker room, with a limp left arm and defeated mentally. 


Tomorrow is my 22nd birthday, or rather my second-annual 21st birthday, which is what I've been calling it with my friends. I had a feeling that today and tomorrow would be difficult days emotionally for me. I figured I'd spend all day today reminiscing about the pain of hurting my elbow, and remembering all of the misery that ensued afterwards. I figured I'd spend all today tomorrow not celebrating my birthday, but thinking of a fact that hit me the other day quite hard:


I will never throw a pitch in a game as a 21-year-old. 


Instead of all of that, I'm busy locked in my bedroom completing a research paper for my senior capstone class today. And tomorrow, well tomorrow's birthday celebration will hopefully be more gratifying than last year's.


Tomorrow I will toe the rubber in the bullpen once more and complete my allotted array of four-seam fastballs. Then once those are done, I will rest, and toe the mound once more. I will come set the same way. But instead of letting a fastball go, I will rotate my fingers together on the side of the horseshoe part of the ball and turn my wrist over inwards. 


Tomorrow is the first day I am cleared to throw breaking balls.


My last pitch as a 20-year-old was a curveball to the backstop. Here's to hoping my first curveball as a 22-year-old will have a better result.


With every end comes a new beginning. Happy anniversary to the ulnar collateral ligament I was born with, may you rest in peace. You did well for me, and now it's time to move onto the next one.

Finding My "Flow State"

I received a text message over the weekend from a friend who graduated from my school last year. She is now attending Springfield College in Massachusetts, working towards receiving a Masters of Science in Athletic Counseling. Being that we have spoken several times since she graduated, she is well aware of my injury and the ensuing rehab process. There have been a few times where I've vented my frustrations to her, in hopes that she could help me out in some way. 


As most psychologists know, a client often times believes that his or her counseling session will come fully loaded with some sort of magic potion that cures every problem that is brought up during conversation. I was no different when speaking with my friend from Springfield College, or anyone else that I've discussed my frustrations with for that matter. Only when I received advice in return, it didn't come with any magic potion. In fact, it often times doesn't really make sense to me at all right away. The concepts of long-term focus and maintaining what is known as a "flow state" were things that I couldn't grasp...I wanted to know WHY these feelings were happening to me, and I wanted them fixed ASAP!


As most sane people know, psychologists certainly don't have the power to cure problems. In fact, it is their job to provide sound professional analysis that enables an individual to garner up some sort of motive to overcome whatever stresses that they feel require them to seek out this therapeutic treatment. 


When my friend texted me over the weekend, she asked me if she could interview me for a paper she would be submitting to a professor. I said no problem, of course, being that she's helped me in the past and she is a friend. Once we worked through our equally busy schedules, we determined that last night would be a good time for us to commence.


After joking around for a few minutes via our Skype session, the talk began. Much of the focus centered around the emotional feelings I have during my physical therapy, and how I am able to overcome the frustrations that come with the process. I spoke about taking everything one day at a time and setting simple goals for yourself. Then she brought up my outlook for the future- how I see myself performing as I continue to progress closer and closer to being able to once again pitch. I told her that while I was nervous, I can already sense the "normal" feelings creeping back in. When I am throwing off a mound and envisioning things just as they were pre-Tommy John, all of the senses that I previously had experienced so commonly quickly rushed back to the forefront of my mind.


The next point was tied into that idea. She brought up the concept of a "flow state". Being that baseball is such a skills-oriented sport and a sport that requires so much focus, the mental comfort zone becomes crucial for an individual to reach in order to be able to continually be successful at one's craft for an extended period of time. For me, my "flow state" comes when I am on a mound pitching live to a batter. That is the situation where I find myself most comfortable. I get into a rhythm mechanically, physically and mentally. Once I am able to realize that oh-so-familiar rhythm, the art of pitching instantly becomes simplified. I mentioned the movie For The Love Of The Game in the Skype interview last night, bringing up Kevin Costner's act of "clearing the mechanism". While the entire crowd doesn't suddenly fade into a blurred horizon for me like it does in the movie, that makes sense conceptually. That rhythm...that "flow state"...allows for me to simplify pitching to the point of it being one easy process- I rock back, and I throw the ball. Nothing else matters, and nothing else is a worry. 100% of my attention is given to what I'm doing.


I had never heard the term "flow state" before last night, and while I understood what it meant I couldn't really find a good way to translate that into my everyday life, especially now that I am rehabbing. When I arrived at practice this afternoon with my team, I took a catcher to the bullpen and completed my necessary throwing for the day. I threw four-seam fastball after four-seam fastball, just as I have done for the last several weeks. While I certainly got in a mechanical rhythm during my bullpen session, I couldn't come to believe that I was in any type of "flow state". What I was doing just wasn't natural to me. My body and my mind didn't sync. 


After my prescribed bullpen pitches, I was instructed to throw 30 pitches in batting practice to my teammates. Because we have a conference series beginning tomorrow, my head coach decided it would be beneficial to have this batting practice session treated as a scrimmage- each ball would be played live off the bat.


I trotted out to the rubber mat in front of the pitcher's mound after I was done in the bullpen, just in time for the live BP game to begin. In stepped one of my teammates, who set his feet and got into his stance. I peered in at the catcher as though I was looking for a sign, even though everyone in the park knew I was just going to groove a throw over the plate for him to hit. I raised my arm up and released the ball. A split second later, my teammate swung and roped a hard one-hop groundball to the shortstop. The ball was fielded and thrown across the diamond in time for the out.


My mind came alive. It's been almost a year since I've thrown a ball to a batter swinging live. I heard the ting of the bat and the whiz of the ball speeding past me. I watched as my teammate gracefully made the play in a fluid fashion, and retrieved the ball from the third baseman after it was thrown around the infield.


I coasted through my remaining 29 pitches without much thought of anything else in the world. Sure, I got hit...a lot. After all, that's the point of batting practice. The result of my session didn't matter to me. What mattered was gaining back that feeling once again.


I dearly miss that "flow state". I want so badly to be able to toe the rubber and relive that feeling once more...that euphoric sense of freedom and control. And while the batting practice session today didn't provide me with the "flow state" that I so yearn to get back to, it provided me with a feeling that was closer to it than any I've had since this entire experience began. And with the recognition of being a part of a semi-real baseball game in the form of a batting practice scrimmage amongst teammates, I begin to sense that I am getting THAT much closer to reliving that "flow state" I desire.


My interview last night was with the intention to benefit a friend with her graduate school assignment. But in the end, what I got out of it was a term that will remain with me throughout my entire baseball career into the future- a "flow state". The odyssey of baseball is a miraculous road, one filled with many adventures. It's up to me to embrace the opportunity to continue on living those adventures...and doing so in the most idyllic fashion...in my perfect "flow state".

If At First You Don't Succeed- Try, Try Again

I arrived at the baseball field on campus yesterday in the early afternoon, just after I did my band work in the training room and just after my catcher got out of class. I assumed the oh-so-familiar duty of removing the bullpen mound tarp and raking out the dirt in front of the rubber and a few feet further down near my foot land position. I then retreated to the outfield, where the grass loomed largely untouched in the empty stadium, and began warming up to throw my bullpen.

I breezed through my warmup throws and proceeded towards the mound. I let out a deep breathe as my catcher squatted 60 feet, 6 inches away from me and I positioned myself appropriately on top of the rubber. I came set, flipped the ball into a four-seam grip, and glared into my target. The catcher's mitt lay motionless on the outside corner, about knee high, just inviting me to guide the ball into it's open pocket. I lifted my leg, cocked my arm up, and reared back to throw. The ball came off of my fingers smoothly, and flew through the air briskly and efficiently. A split-second later, the ball greeted the catcher's glove with a loud thud, a sound that most pitchers have become so accustomed to.

There was no pain in my shoulder whatsoever. I let out a sigh of relief as I caught the return throw back from the catcher, and prepared myself to once again take my place on the rubber and deliver another four-seam fastball. I went through the same routine...coming set, finding my target, and delivering the pitch. Same result. A thud on the other end and a painless arm attached to me.

After a few preliminary tosses, I began to get in a rhythm. I threw four sets of 15 fastballs, sets one and three from the stretch and sets two and four from the windup. I worked the ball consistently on each corner, having my catcher move back and forth according to whichever direction I indicated with my glove. With each delivery came the same thud, and then I'd retreat back towards the rubber as I repositioned myself to repeat each four-seamer over and over and over again.

There is nothing in the world that I would describe quite like throwing a bullpen. Throwing a bullpen is such a tedious and monotonous task that it often times grows frustrating just going through the thought of the action. Yet throwing a bullpen is, in my opinion, a truly glorious and beautiful event. Pitching in and of itself is an art form, and practicing pitching enables one to exploit that art form on a consistent basis off the bullpen mound.

About halfway through my rehab session, I paused and smiled. I looked at my catcher, who quizzically took off his mask and peered back, and pondered for a moment.

"Man, it feels awesome to be standing up here right now," I remarked. He grinned back at me, knowing exactly how I feel. He is recovering from a torn labrum and appreciated the opportunity to catch me just as much as I appreciate the opportunity to pitch to him.

As I continued on throughout my bullpen session, I began to fall deep into an odd form of reminiscent thought. I was so comforted by the fact that the time I took off from throwing had allowed for the pain in my shoulder to subside that I started taking in everything in my surroundings. The smell of the dirt that surrounded me on the mound. The fizzing noise the ball made as it exited my hand and darted through the air towards home plate. The faint tussling of the grass as it waded back and forth in the breeze. I missed it. So much. Sure, I've been on the field plenty of times since my injury. I've attended numerous games, I've attended countless practices. I've coached third base and helped line the batter's box. I've done just about everything that is involved with being on a baseball field without actually playing baseball. And when I finally began to get a slight glimpse of that experience again yesterday, however miniscule and faint that chance may have seemed, it felt unbelievable.

My reminiscent pleasantries quickly turned into a harsh self-loathing. My mind raced through all of those times in the past when I hit snooze on my alarm clock, when I arrived at the field in a sluggish and unprepared manner. I'd taken my abilities for granted...I'd taken THE GAME for granted...for so long and not even understood the true implications of my actions. As the old adage goes, one doesn't realize how important something is until it's gone. Well baseball is gone, and I can't believe I'd ever acted the way I did. Throwing bullpens now, and seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, allows me to enable myself to push that much harder, to strive that much further. Because I've been fortunate enough to be granted the opportunity to have a second chance, and I'll never let anything get in the way of that.

After my self-loathing I pumped a few more strikes into the zone and finished up the allotted amount of pitches. Then it was off to the weight room to ensure that I completed the appropriate post-throwing rehab exercises. And while I was at it, I threw in a little bit extra focus and a little bit more enthusiasm with each prescribed movement. Because if my goal is to return, and to be at full health, it'll take a lot of hard work...even more than what I've already done. And I never want to take this beautiful game for granted again.