Pitching Next Year

I'd like to offer up a preliminary apology to those of you who have been following along strictly for the information pertaining to Tommy John recovery, or for those of you who have stumbled upon this page via an Internet search for a similar topic. The following post has less to do with the actual recovery process than just about any other post I've written (outside of the September 11 post). However, I believe it is significant in that it is partially a testament to the struggle and perseverance necessary to successfully overcome such an experience.

When I scheduled my surgery with Dr. Andrews for the morning of Thursday, July 21, 2011, I was well aware that it would effectively eliminate any chance I had of competing for my school team during my senior year of college. I'd attended Oneonta State College in New York for three years and been a pitcher on the team since I arrived on campus as an 18 year old. Despite the angst and frustration that came with the realization that the recovery time dictated such an impossibility, I knew that fate would not allow my career to end in such fashion. As I've said several times previously on this blog, I was not content with allowing the last pitch I've ever thrown to be a curveball to the backstop in the first inning of a Friday conference game. It just wasn't going to happen.

I decided to crank out some research during my spare time, of which I had plenty of during the two weeks previous to surgery. The first order of business was to contact the NCAA office in Indianapolis to see what sort of rules pertaining to my eligibility stood within the handbook. I explained to the lady on the other line that I'd be interested in pursuing a degree at another institution and that I would medically not be able to participate this spring. I was then told that I would be permitted to participate in baseball at either a Division I or Division II institution for my graduate school year as long as my field of study is not offered at the school in which I completed my undergraduate studies.

The next step was a Google search of what schools offered a Master's degree in Sports Management. It was a field not offered by Oneonta and a field that I would definitely be interested in pursuing. I narrowed the list down to a format very similar to the format I used while in high school: reach schools, comfort schools and safety schools.

Then I really got to work. After compiling the list of potential schools, I went to every single baseball webpage and found the coach's email address. I drafted out an email...for every single coach...and sent them out. Starting on July 26, five days after surgery, I emailed no less than 82 college coaches from many conferences in Division I and Division II from all around the country. The vast majority of coaches did not respond. Some responded by inviting me to their prospect camp via a brochure. Some responded with one sentence answers, explaining they are done recruiting. Several responded by saying they wish me the best of luck but don't wish to pursue an individual in my situation at this time. Some even went as far as explaining that the conference they are in does not let them take graduate students so unfortunately there would be no opportunity for me to obtain a roster spot, no matter how promising I may be (thanks once again to Coach Mainieri at LSU and Coach Boretti at Columbia for those explanations).

Then there were several who responded by saying they'd be very interested. Those were the ones who called my cell phone and extended invitations for visits to campus. The word most commonly used was "intriguing"...I had great stats from my previous college and summer ball experiences but they couldn't actually see me pitch because I was hurt.

After a few months of corresponding with several college coaches and a handful of campus visits, I sent my applications out in the beginning of December.

And I waited. And waited. And waited.

Waiting is not fun. I spent months not knowing where I'd end up next season, if I'd be able to don another uniform at all. I went through my rehab everyday wondering if I'd ever be able to toe the rubber once again.

Last week I got an email saying that my admission decision was in at my top choice school. It was a school I'd visited in the fall and spent a weekend at. It was a school that had the program of study I wished to enter and a baseball team that I felt fit my needs and desires. The coach extended me an offer for a roster spot during my graduate school season, pending the admission decision.

After reading the email, I smiled. I picked up the phone and called my parents and my girlfriend. Then, I called the coach and gave him my verbal commitment...the second verbal commitment of my college career.

Next year, I will be a Georgetown Hoya.

Georgetown was one of the schools I had my eye on since the very beginning of the process. I sent an email to Coach Wilk at 11:33 AM on July 26, 2011 explaining my situation and what I'd be interested in doing. At 6:17 that evening, I received this response:

"Hi Josh,

Thanks for the note and the interest...hmm, a LHP that has accolades and pitched in the Valley and Coastal Plain League? Yep, we'd be interested in pursuing that, without question.

I'd encourage you to come to DC sometime in the next few months or so and meet with the people who run the sports management program as well as watch us play and meet with our staff. Let me know if this interests you and please stay in touch with us, this is very intriguing. (*There's that word again!)

I hope your recovery goes well and I look forward to hearing back from you soon I hope.

Pete Wilk

Head Baseball Coach

Georgetown University"

I drove to DC on Friday, September 30 and spent the weekend there, meeting with the admissions department for the program and watching the team practice. I toured the athletic facilities and introduced myself to Coach Brown, who is the recruiting coordinator and pitching coach, and most likely the person I'd be spending the most time with if I were to enroll. I told Coach Wilk very plainly that all I wanted was a jersey and a mound and a chance to prove to him what I could do. He told me that's exactly what he can give me and that just about wrapped up all our conversation.

The journey to recovery is certainly not complete. But knowing where I'll be attending school next year is definitely a large aspect of my progression. Things are beginning to come together, 7+ months later. I'm throwing off a mound, I got into grad school, I'm pitching in the Big East.

All of the above are simply steps towards that ultimate goal...to pitch in a game again.

I'm almost there.

Complacency is Progress's Lucifer

When one suddenly becomes complacent, that individual can quickly lose sight of environmental factors that could have an affect on whatever advancement he or she intends to make in whatever action he or she is taking part in. For me, complacency is something that I have worked extremely hard to avoid during the Tommy John recovery process because it is probably the number one cause of a setback in these circumstances. Each and every action within the recovery process needs to be specifically calculated and mathematically completed to ensure that all aspects of all steps are optimally maximized.

Last Wednesday's throwing session was a day in which I felt better than I have felt in quite a while. My arm felt fresh, my legs felt loose. I felt the seams on the ball especially well. The 30 pitches I threw at 50% velocity felt especially crisp and consistent. I walked out of the training room following my session with such personal gratification and happiness that the rest of the day coasted by with very little stress or trouble.

I woke up on Thursday and attended my team's early morning conditioning practice before heading home to make myself some eggs and get myself prepared to go to the weight room. I was accompanied there by a fellow teammate of mine, an outfielder who could probably best be described as a gym rat. I was to do several sets up exercises for my upper body and he asked to join me, to which I obviously said yes. I warmed up, stretched out, and then headed to the free weight area. Being that I had felt so good the day before and continued to feel good going into my lifting session, I figured I should maintain the forward motion by attempting to lift the amount of weight that my teammate wished to lift.

Previous to Thursday morning's session in the gym, I had been extremely cautious about the gradual progression of weight that I would undertake with my upper body. The instability of the elbow following an operation such as a ligament transplant is severe and the strength does not come back as easily as in many other circumstances. And while I know that now, seven months post-op my arm can more than likely withstand the physicality of such weight lifting endeavors, I have still been timid. The build-up that I have taken my body on has been very slow and strung out, and has been successful up to this point. I continue to increase weight and continue to feel good, and I've made sure to not overexert myself in any way that could potentially jeopardize my progress.

And then on Thursday, I got complacent. My success in the previous 24 hours caused a minuscule sense of indestructibility to come over me. I watched as my teammate completed his reps of exercises at weights that were higher than what I'd built myself up to. He pushed through the set with no reserve and worked hard. I yearned for that feeling again, to push myself to my physical limits and achieve that sense of prevailing from pure exhaustion from the final few reps.

I threw great on Wednesday. I completed my exercises after throwing with no troubles. I had a great night sleep, and felt great at the morning conditioning session. Why not push myself? I thought...my arm can handle it. It definitely can. I can lift the same amount of weight as my teammate and have no difficulty recovering appropriately, just as I had done previous to my injury.

I grabbed the weight from him and off I went. Pushing through rep after rep, set after set. I was breathing heavily, grunting and sweating. I lifted each weight with the exact perfect form, and completed every single rep I was supposed to complete. I continued on with this routine through about half of our workout, before resting in between a few sets of bicep exercises to get a quick swig of water.

Upon returning back to the station from getting the drink, my teammate was just completing his set of curls with an even higher weight. Not even thinking twice I hopped right into place, grabbed the weight, and began.

"One." Exhale...inhale.

"Two." Exhale...inhale.

"Three." Exhale...inhale.

"Fo..."

As I reached the peak of the lift, a sudden sensation came over me. I felt a sharp twinge extending from my elbow all the way through my forearm and into the outer region of my finger tips. The tingle continued to stay within my fingers, my pinky finger and my ring finger...the two fingers that are directly correlated with the ulnar nerve. I quickly dropped the weight and moved my fingers around, trying to regain normal feeling. It was as if my fingers "fell asleep" (I'm sure most of you have experienced a foot, or another body part, falling asleep) and I couldn't get it back to normal. I explained to my teammate what I was feeling, left the weight room and walked to the training room. I told the trainers what happened and lay right down on the training bed to ice down the arm.

I felt very defeated. I knew that I had been foolish to attempt such weights that I had not been accustomed to lifting in the past. I knew the jumpy nerves that had occurred in my arm were a direct result of said foolishness. I wanted so badly to lift weights with my teammates like I hadn't been hurt, and figured I could just because I hadn't felt any pain or discomfort in recent past. And obviously, I was wrong.

After a session of icing and electrical stimulation, the feeling had been regained in my fingers. My trainers told me not to worry about the excess nerves, it was a natural bodily reaction to my stupidity. I left the athletic facility and went home kicking myself.

Despite my successful progression thus far in the process the moral of the story is that one needs to walk before they can run. I cannot become so complacent as to assume I can skip steps in any part of the process just because of the fact that I am theoretically feeling good. I need to maintain my continuous (and monotonous) progression and in due time, reach my intended goal. The ignorance that I displayed on Thursday is the exact type of action that could potentially hinder me from reaching that ultimate goal, and I hold myself to a higher standard of perseverance than to subject myself to attempting such actions.

Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is upon us. It is a day in which bright pink teddy bears and sweet smelling roses get passed around. It is a day in which Godiva Chocolatier probably makes an absolute killing. It is a day in which loved ones share gifts with each other and express their feelings to one another.

For me, Valentine's Day this year is somewhat bitter sweet. I'm sitting here with my girlfriend, who is spending the night at my house at school. So from a relationship perspective, everything is more than fine. However there have been years in the past in which I was not in a relationship on Valentine's Day. For a single guy, Valentine's Day is just another date on the calendar...February 14th...every year. And in my opinion, February 14th is typically a time of year that is very important- for another reason.

Around this time of year, every year, baseball season begins. Division II, Division III, Junior College and NAIA schools have started play in some parts of the country. Some high school teams in warmer states have begun their scheduled games. Division I schools open up this weekend. Major League spring training report date is this Sunday (and last year fell on Valentine's Day). With games beginning now or in the near future, practices and preseason preparation is in full swing. For most, this is the time of year when arms begin to get prepped, swings become consistent and cardiovascular conditioning reaches its peak.

During this time a year, I am accustomed to doing much of the same that my teammates are doing. Tweaking my pitches off the mound, building up my arm strength, readying myself to take on the upcoming schedule of opponents. I'm accustomed to lifting weights, completing our team exercises, running to condition ourselves for battle. I am accustomed to completing all of the required elements for mental and physical preparation for the season.

Every day in the last few weeks, I've found myself waking up in the wee hours of the morning, long before the sun rises. I hop in the car and drive up to campus to arrive in the gym, where the rest of my teammates are sitting around and chatting, all dressed in apparel given to them by the school. When the head coach walks in a few minutes later, the entire team is instructed to start warming up, which consists of a slew of dynamic stretches that take approximately 15 minutes. After the stretching is completed, the team runs. And runs and runs and runs. Sometimes, teammates fall to muscle cramps, others to unruly stomachs. After about a half hour of non-stop conditioning and excruciating cardio training, the team is instructed to rest. Each and every player, dripping with sweat and breathing heavily, kneels down as the team convenes in the middle of the gym, attempting as best as possible to regain some air. The head coach provides the team instructions for baseball practice, which is to follow several hours later in the afternoon after classes wind down. The team huddles up, speaks briefly to one another, and then departs for the locker room.

My morning is identical to my teammates' morning, up until the head coach's orders to warm up. As everyone revolves around the gym and struggles about the morning conditioning, I continue to calmly sit on the side of the gym alongside the rest of the coaching staff. I sit comfortably and quietly, with no sweat hanging from my brow and no elevated heart rate. I cheer on my teammates, providing an optimistic voice through the misery that is evidenced on their faces. After the conditioning is over and everyone heads to the locker room to shower, I retreat to the weight room to complete my day's worth of exercises.

Alone.

NCAA rules mandate that I am not eligible for a medical hardship waiver if I participate in practices with the team as a player. Because of my predicament and my standing as a volunteer assistant coach on the team, my duties are confined to "coaching things". I hit fungos, underhand front toss and hold the stopwatch. I tell pitchers to stop choking their changeup, and to get over their front side, and to stay on top of their two-seamers.

Being able to participate in a sense that I am contributing to the team in some way is something that I thought would be a great feeling. I figured it would be incredibly self-gratifying to be able to assist my teammates- my brothers- in their quest for a championship.

Truth be told, I was wrong. I don't want to stand on the side of the gym and watch my teammates run sprints. I don't want to stand in the dugout and watch my middle infielders turn double plays. I don't want to initiate a defensive practice and tell freshmen what bases to cover on a rundown. I don't want to watch pitchers throw bullpens.

I want to play baseball.

I want to be out there screaming and sweating and pushing my body to the point of collapse with my teammates. I want to step on the mound and throw live bullpens to hitters that are attempting to hit the ball as hard as they can on me. I want to cover first base on a PFP drill for hours on end. I want to be able to help my teammates on the field, and I want them to be able to help me.

Instead of preparing for battle with the family of teammates that I have come to love in my last three years of college baseball, I am imprisoned to the sideline. And when the time comes for me to complete whatever physical activities I need to complete that day...throwing, running, lifting, etc., I am required to complete these on my own time. Detached from the group of guys I love. Away from the game I live to play.

This year's Valentine's Day dinner with my girlfriend will taste especially good because it is reminiscent of all the great times we've had together thus far in our relationship. But when the meal is done and I begin to sit down and ponder, my thoughts will turn to the biggest void in my life. Baseball.

Happy Valentine's Day to everyone.

I Threw Off a Mound.

Rather than spending the majority of my weekend irking with anticipation, I made it a point to relax and not think about the fact that I was set to throw off a mound earlier today. I hung out with my friends, worked out, did some homework assignments. I ate pizza and wings and watched the Super Bowl with a group of people. After the game yesterday I decided it was about time to start winding down and getting ready for bed. I settled in with the lights out at around 10 PM (an unheard of early time for college kids) and started trying to go to sleep. I tossed and turned for a few minutes and couldn't seem to get comfortable. I'd feel hot, then cold. Soon thereafter, a headache seeped in.

Before long, I was fully entrenched in a sickness. I spent much of my night last night jockeying back and forth from my bedroom to the bathroom, shimmying beneath my sheets in desperate attempts to get comfortable. I had fallen victim to exactly what my girlfriend had fallen victim to the night before, a woeful misfortune of the dreaded "24 hour stomach bug".

Finally when the clock turned to 4 AM and I still hadn't slept, I knew I'd had enough. I texted the head coach of my college team and told him I wouldn't be able to make our morning conditioning because I was sick (this normally would not be OK but I am unable to participate in any capacity aside from coaching duties due to the NCAA's policies on medical redshirting, so therefore missing a morning conditioning practice isn't the end of the world). I tossed and turned and sprinted to the bathroom a few times more before FINALLY falling asleep.

I awoke at about 10 o'clock, sleeping right through my first class of the day. I struggled and made my way to campus for my 11 and 12 o'clock classes, feeling abnormally sore and sick from the previous night's conditions. I dredged my way through those few classes and went to the training room. I was told that I wouldn't be allowed to even attempt to do anything physical if I couldn't hold any food down. So I went back home and had two pieces of toast and some chicken noodle soup, which surprisingly sat fine in my stomach. In fact, I think it may have given me a little strength. I went back up to campus and was given permission to change into my practice gear and continue on with the rehab I was supposed to do.

Today was a rare opportunity for my college team to take advantage of the abnormally warm weather conditions and practice outside (unheard of for February 6th in upstate New York). I made my way up to the field with our starting catcher and began warming up in the outfield, attempting to work through the sickness as best as I could. I completed the required warm-up throwing, out to 120 feet, and then proceeded to make my way to the bullpen mounds.

Despite the weak condition of my body, the number one feeling I had as I approached the rubber was emotions. I was a nervous wreck, staring at the mound of dirt that seemed like it was a thousand feet in the air. I climbed to the top and quickly maneuvered the ground around beneath me, making comfortable planting and landing areas that I'd become accustomed to pitching in the past. A crowd of teammates began accumulating around me, knowing very well that this was my first time off a mound since the injury occurred. I finally moved the dirt around enough to feel comfortable and stepped to the front of the mound. After unleashing a few more warm up tosses, I motioned for my catcher to squat down. I came set, took a deep gulp, and threw.

The ball sailed through the air slowly, at about 50% of my maximum velocity (as designed by the doctor's protocol). As I finished my follow through I walked my catcher's mitt engulf the ball 60 feet 6 inches away from me, before he quickly transferred it back to his throwing hand to throw it back to me.

Such an action is something that I've taken for granted and overlooked in the past. The act of pitching a baseball used to be so easy to me, it was something that never had any physical or emotional ramifications other than some next day soreness or getting hit around that day. But throwing that first pitch earlier this afternoon, releasing it towards my target, that was something that I missed so dearly. The feeling of exploding down the mound, of getting on top of the ball and driving it towards home plate. That is something I will never take for granted again.

I threw 14 more pitches that were very similar to the first one and concluded my session for the day. I continued my coaching duties and proceeded to complete my necessary rehab exercises.

I learned a lesson today, a very good lesson. Obstacles such as sickness cannot hold me back from what I am trying to accomplish. Because what I want to accomplish is something I haven't been able to do in a long, long time, and it's something I want to do very dearly. Pitch a baseball.

This afternoon, I did just that.