9 Innings of Focus

I assume that a good majority of the readers of this blog are pitchers themselves and have stumbled upon this page out of curiosity to learn more about the recovery process or unfortunately are going through the process yourself. If you are a pitcher and you have come to this page, this post will be easy for you to relate to.

Today's rehab assignment called for an increase in effort and throws. I was to warm up out to 120 feet (like I usually do) and then proceed to step on the mound. I threw 65 pitches at 75% and then 10 pitches at 50%. Last week was 30 pitches at 50% followed by 45 pitches at 75%. The week before, 45 pitches at 50% and 30 at 75%. Obviously there is a fairly hefty weekly progression and despite the rather ubiquitous monotony of the throwing process, it is quite gratifying to continue on through this process in a progressing manner. In the past few weeks I have finished up my throwing sessions with some sweat on my brow and a slight tightness in my legs. I then go to my post-throwing conditioning and rehab routine...largely consisting of running, stretching, leg strengthening, some range of motion exercises and ice. After I finish that up, I shower and go about the rest of my day. On those days I come out of my rehab session feeling a little bit tired, but strong and confident with my results.

Today's session involved considerably more pitches at a higher level of effort than I have thrown in the past. In fact, looking back at the box scores from last year, the last time I threw 75 pitches of any kind in one session was nearly a year ago, April 14, 2011 in a 115-pitch 5-1 win. And despite how good my arm has been feeling in the past few weeks- and it has felt great- that doesn't mean that my body is anywhere close to one hundred percent strong and healthy.

Today's throwing session started much like all the past ones...four seamer after four seamer at 75% velocity. I normally split the session up into either sets of 15 pitches or 20 pitches depending on the required amount of throws according to Dr. Andrews, and today's session was no different.

Suddenly, about three quarters of the way through my throwing session, the trainer pointed out that my arm slot was beginning to drop and my arm was beginning to drag. I told myself to refocus and keep a consistent release point and repeatable mechanics. I threw another pitch. Same thing. I snatched the throw back from the catcher in frustration and began talking to myself.

"Come on Josh. Game-like, let's go."

I stepped into my wind up and threw again. Same thing. I closed my eyes and stepped off the mound for a moment.

I was EXHAUSTED. My entire body was dripping with sweat, and my arm felt as though it weighed about a ton. The seams on the ball felt less and less noticeable and the catcher's mitt seemed further and further away. I grabbed a quick drink of water and tried stepping on the mound again. And yet again, I struggled with consistency in my mechanics. My lead leg felt heavy, my shoulder felt weak. I had trouble staying over my front side and I had trouble coming through the ball with my fingers high.

I mentally retreated back to the days when I was pitching in college games, a year ago. I remembered feeling the feelings I had, deep into games. My body ached, my mind was tired. I needed to somehow muster up enough strength and focus to continue being successful in what I needed to accomplish on the mound. My motivation came within the batter at the plate, who was obviously not nearly as tired as I was. My motivation came from my teammates behind me and in the dugout, who'd put in the hours and hours of preparation with me and who were relying on me to assist the team in earning a victorious outcome. The motivation that I needed was readily available around me. My coaching staff trusted me to be able to get the job done, and encouraged me when I needed encouragement. I could will myself through those last dozen or so pitches when my body began giving out on me.

Today, things were different. Rather than having a triple digit pitch count, I found my struggles creeping in around 60 (at 75% velocity, mind you). I couldn't remember what it felt like to have that game-like focus, to be able to reach deep within myself and find that extra "oomph" to keep my mechanics consistent and my pitches sharp. I couldn't look around the infield and see the desire and drive in my teammates' eyes. I couldn't wash away the thoughts of my exhaustion by targeting the opposing batter. The only person around was the trainer. The only feeling I felt was my muscles shutting down. I couldn't find the way to motivate myself, like I had been so good at in the past.

I struggled my way through the last few throws of my set and continued onto my post-throwing conditioning and rehab. I showered, hopped in the car and had a bowl of chicken noodle soup for lunch at home. Then, I proceeded to crawl into bed and put my phone on silent. I fell asleep for several hours this afternoon, falling prey to a deep sleep that was so desperately needed to revitalize my muscles.

I was as sore as I normally am when throwing a complete game, and I only threw 65 pitches at 75% and 10 pitches at 50%. But even more frightening to me was the fact that I couldn't do it. I couldn't be mentally tough. I forgot how to be mentally tough.

That skill better come back to me, quickly.

The Best Throwing Partner

For more than a century, baseball has been known as America's pastime. Millions of people each year trek to major cities across the United States in hopes of catching a glimpse of a long home run from an all-star slugger or a wicked curveball from a big league ace. Sometimes those individuals are fortunate enough to catch a foul ball in the stands or even more fortunate enough to obtain an autograph from one of those larger-than-life baseball players on the diamond in front of them.

The game of baseball stems much further than those gloriously beautiful cathedrals of stadiums. It extends well beyond the multi-million dollar contracts and one hundred mile per hour fastballs that are so frequently on display at the ballpark. The game of baseball, at it's purest, is a child's enjoyment. It is, after all, a game.

My earliest recollections of baseball occur in the playground behind the apartment building I used to live in with my parents in the suburbs of New York City. I'd play ball for hours with my mom, swinging one of those flat "Little Tikes" whiffle ball bats at the fluttering plastic ball floating in from the imaginary pitching mound that she was perched on top of in front of me. As I grew older, my time was spent with a real bat and a real ball, often times at those sandlot style parks around my hometown. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the hours I spend running around the field throwing and hitting and fielding the ball were some of the most influential moments in my life as a developing baseball player- and all I was doing was having fun. I would be out at the field from dawn until dusk with my friends, enjoying whatever friendly competition we'd have with each other and continue to laugh our way through every game we'd play.

In middle school I befriended a boy who's father was a ticket broker and would receive free tickets to a Major League game every once in a while. Rather than spill the beans right away, he decided to make his son and I "work" to "earn" the tickets. After school we'd set up in his backyard and he would throw a tennis ball off of the wall of the house. It would bound outward diagonally and soar through the air, often times beyond our outstretched gloves. The rule: if we caught ten balls in a row, we could go to the game. If we didn't catch ten balls in a row, we could keep trying until we did. He'd throw and throw and throw these tennis balls and his son and I would dive after each and every one of them like our life depending on it. After a good amount of unsuccessful attempts at securing ten catches in a row, my friend's dad would begin to throw them a bit softer and ensure that the balls were easily catchable. After the tenth catch we'd go crazy, jumping and screaming and high five-ing each other. Then we were told to go shower and get out of our mud filled clothes and get ready to go to the game, so that we too could watch our idols play the game we love.

This week happens to be spring break from college and rather than travel to Fort Myers, Florida with my college teammates it was agreed upon that it would be more behooving for me to spend time at home and continue to do rehab with the physical therapists here in the New York City area. Upon awakening this morning and finding that the temperature was astonishingly hovering around 70 degrees, I figured that it'd be easier to hop on a local field rather than using an indoor facility to get the throwing portion of my rehab in. The only problem was: I'd need a catcher. The athletic trainers who normally catch for me are three hours away at school, and my college teammates are on the gulf coast of Florida until Friday. Any friends from home that may normally be able to catch me are at school in their respective seasons, or are working full-time jobs and wouldn't be able to help me out until after their workday ends. My best possible throwing partner, in the end, was my father.

My father manages a wholesale bakery so his day begins in the wee hours of the morning and is usually done by early afternoon. I called him on his cell phone and asked if he'd throw with me when he was done, to which he replied yes. We hopped in the car a few hours later and drove to a local park, where the mound would suffice in providing me with the adequate facility to complete my required throwing for the day (30 fastballs at 50% velocity and 45 fastballs at 75% velocity). We stretched and loosened up our arms on the side of the field, and then proceeded to assume our positions on the mound and behind the plate, respectively. Armed with my younger sister's softball glove and sitting on a bucket, my father opened up his glove wide and gave me an easy target. I wound up, cocked the arm back, and released the ball home. A split second later I heard the pop of his mitt and stood on the bottom of the mound awaiting his throw back to me.

I approached my throwing session with extreme focus and persistence, attempting to maximize my pitches to the best of my abilities so that the end result would be beneficial. Needless to say my father didn't have too much difficulty catching my pitches because of the severe lack of velocity, and I didn't worry too much about anything other than succeeding in accomplishing what I needed to accomplish for the day. Upon completing my 75 throws, I embarked on the obligatory post-throwing cardio training that I have become so accustomed to over the years, beginning to drip with sweat. I finished, iced the arm down, and hopped in the shower.

I didn't think too much into the experience of throwing to my father this afternoon while I was doing it because the significance wasn't that much of an importance to me. But in retrospect, it causes me to smile. Baseball- America's pastime- has a reputation of being perhaps more of a father/son bonding experience than any other event. My father had a passion for the game of baseball that extended onto his son, who's passion for the game has allowed him to continue playing into his 20's. Regardless of the fact that the necessity of rehab caused me to reach out, the underlying theme remains the same to me...

The words, "Hey Dad, wanna throw?" are forever eternal, and will be forever cherished.

Coming To Terms With Springtime

Despite the abnormally modest winter we've had here in upstate New York, things have been awfully dreary in the last few months. Although we haven't been pounded with snow like we've somewhat become accustomed to in the past, the weather has still been rather chilly and cloudy for much of the last few months.

Today is, of course, the day in which we recognize Daylight Savings Time. I've never really understood the point of Daylight Savings Time or why there is really any benefit to it in life matters, I don't often complain about when it rolls around in March. To me, Daylight Savings has always meant that we get to stay outside and play baseball longer. I was never a huge fan of getting more sunlight in the morning because I never really had any outdoor activities to do in the morning. And I was never really a fan of turning back the clocks because I wanted to stay outside later, and darkness prohibited me from doing so.

With Daylight Savings, comes springtime. Springtime is when leaves start to grow back on the trees and flowers gain back their color. It's when people come out of their surrogate hibernation and suddenly appear outside- in shorts, t-shirts and sandals. Springtime is festive, bright and enjoyable. Of course today's weather fittingly coincided with Daylight Savings...a warm sun and a light breeze filled the air. College students flooded the lawns on the off-campus houses and outside of the dorms playing touch football, soccer and Kan-Jam (its a New York thing, for those who don't know- http://www.kanjam.com/Game/HowToPlay.aspx ). It was the perfect setting for a Sunday afternoon, an enjoyable social activity outdoors followed by the viewing of the selection show for March Madness.

While growing up I became accustomed to spending many days much like this one at the park with friends. We'd wake up fairly early and call each other, setting a time to arrive together. We'd draft up two teams of even proportion (usually hoping to be able to form teams of nine) and assume our positions on the field. We would play and play and play for hours on end. Our baseball games didn't have time limits or innings or pitch counts. We had no coaches or umpires or even fans. We'd only stop for lunch, or if someone got hurt badly enough that they'd need a bandaid or some ice. Occasionally, games were temporarily halted because we would be engaged in some sort of argument between squads that often times turned physical. But nonetheless, we played until we couldn't play anymore. Then, we would head home for dinner and subsequent responsibilities.

Days like today cause me to be incredibly reminiscent of those times. Those days at the park were when I learned how to throw a spitball, how to do the "Jeter jump throw", how to "pimp" a home run like Ken Griffey Jr. It was where I learned the magnificent art of a double relay to third base, and the horrible negativity of a hanging curveball (or beauty, depending on how you look at it). I learned the taste of defeat and the feeling of victory. I learned the important of the word team and the love for the game of baseball.

Days like today make me wish, so badly, that I'd be able to step back out on that field and haplessly run around playing the exquisite game of baseball that I am so used to playing from years past. While others are able to enjoy this activity, I am unfortunately not. I am confined to sitting on the side and laughing along with the foolishness displayed in front of me. Often times my competitive side chimes in and I resort to playing the aforementioned Kan-Jam or football or soccer or basketball. None of the above will hurt my arm and will prevent me from eventually being able to enjoy the game I love so much once again.

That is not to say that I sit on the side of these sandlot scrimmages in a depressed manner. I no longer mourn in self-pity about the fact that I am unable to participate in these wonderful times. I've come to a very strong foregone conclusion- something that has comforted me during the viewing of my team's practices, conditioning workouts and games-

This happened for a reason.

I hurt my elbow for a reason. I was misdiagnosed for a reason. I had surgery for a reason. I have been rehabbing for a reason. I was accepted into grad school for a reason. I'm helping coach my college team for a reason. Everything that has occurred in my baseball life in the past year has happened for a reason.

As I step foot outside this week, when the weather is supposed to be absolutely beautiful, I am going to enjoy watching people playing baseball. Whether it is a pick up game on a grassy knoll outside of a dorm hall or an official contest that my college teammates are participating in, I will enjoy it. I will not sit there woefully wishing I was on the field playing as well. I will not jealously frown upon the trials and tribulations of the game in front of me. I will instead gaze upon the spectacle with a calm grin, taking in everything that there is to appreciate about the game of baseball. I will enjoy each and every moment of the event, and reminisce about the magnificent times I've had with the game in the past.

I've come to terms with the surgery. It's taken me almost eight months to do so, but I did it. Watching baseball doesn't bother me anymore. Why should it? It's an unbelievably amazing game, filled with a multitude of emotions and an even bigger basket of memories. The game has not changed since I was forced to stop playing last April. It's still just as elegant as it was. It's just as captivating as I remember it.

The void in my life that has been unfilled is slowly beginning to creep back into place. Springtime is quickly upon us, and fields are being quickly occupied by those active souls who wish to grace them with their presence. And for me, I love it. I love people playing baseball and I love watching it. And even more than watching it, I love playing it. Watching it is a reminder that eventually I'll be playing it. And I love every minute of it.

Each and every day creeps just a bit closer to that day when I can join my friends on that field and no longer be a spectator. I'll be able to throw a baseball with no regrets and be pleased with my ability to compete.

For now, though, I'll settle for watching it. Because playing it or not, it's a beautiful game.

"Haters Gonna Hate"

The amount of irony never ceases to amaze me in certain life situations. Take, for example, this hypothetical scenario: You work in a certain department for a certain company. During your time in this company, you become friendly with an individual of yours in another department. This individual is a colleague of yours, someone that is not necessarily in competition for a higher position in your department but someone who you rely on to a certain extent because of the nature of your work (and vice versa). Suddenly, after an ample amount of time within your department, your superior informs you that you are due for a promotion. You are elated, knowing that a lot of your hard work- and a bit of luck- enabled you to achieve this accomplishment.

As word spreads over time that you will be receiving this promotion, you hear a lot of congratulatory praise from many people surrounding you. These best wishes feel good, and you respond with a subtle and kind "thank you". The vast majority of the acknowledgment you hear involves incredibly positive and uplifting messages...words of encouragement and true, honest congratulatory proclamations.

However you notice that the individual you had previously considered a professional friend, a work-related acquaintance, has not expressed the same congratulatory proclamations as many of the other people around you. In fact, you come to quickly find out that this individual has been providing quite the contrary. This individual doubts your capabilities and your belonging in the position that you were just recently promoted to. And this individual is speaking his or her mind on the subject.

The above situation is something that I have lived with quite often in the last week or two of my life. Throughout the entire Tommy John process I haven't heard many negative comments about my recovery. Almost everyone I know has been incredibly encouraging. But of course they are...why would anybody ever wish an injury on another person? They truly sympathized with my predicament and really did wish me the best of luck. Sure there were certain situations when people would question my readiness, or second-guess the work I put in during rehab. But no one blatantly disregarded my intentions and doubted me.

As soon as I received the news that I had been accepted into Georgetown and committed to playing for the team there, that's when the air around me began to change. No longer was I approached with smiles and high fives ubiquitously. No longer were people everywhere patting me on the back and saying "atta boy!"

I felt a strong sense of doubt. A strong sense of wavering. A strong sense of...jealousy? Could that be? Could my peers...my contemporaries...be jealous? Could these people actually desire to be in my position?

The negativity I have been presented with, in pop culture today, is known as "hating". A hater is described as "a person that simply cannot be happy for another person's success. So rather than be happy they make a point of exposing a flaw in that person" by Urban Dictionary, a popular website (disclaimer: the website should not be viewed by minors, nor should it be used as a reference in any official pieces of literature outside of a personalized blog such as this). It has come from a variety of angles- individuals that I expected to provide me with this sort of backlash as well as individuals that I was very surprised to hear this from.

Hearing people say I am not good enough for something does not bother me. I have heard someone say something to the extent of "I don't think Josh will cut it pitching next year." Well, I've been hearing that my entire life, and I've done alright for myself up to this point. Hearing people say I don't have the physical attributes to continue playing doesn't bother me. I surely wasn't blessed with enormous amounts of height (I come in at an unassuming 5'11") and I wasn't blessed with the perfect genes (my weight often fluctuates...and I have very small hands). But those are things that are relatively uncontrollable to me, so I can't take them personally.

There is only one comment that irks me more than anyone could ever imagine.

"Josh doesn't work hard enough."

I've lost sleep over that comment. A lot of sleep. And I've heard it from a few angles- again, some expected and some rather unexpected. I've lost sleep not about the fact that these certain individuals feel as though this is true, but that these individuals have even been presented with the opportunity to feel as though this is true. I wonder why these individuals think this way, and what I can do to change this perception. I know I put in a lot of work. I do physical therapy, work out, run. I do yoga, eat healthy, sleep enough each night. I make sure to greatly moderate the intake of alcohol that I have (which can be difficult to do for many 21 year olds), and wouldn't even dream of putting any sort of drug-like substance in my body because of the detriment it would have to my progress.

So I sit up at night wondering to myself why these "haters" feel as though I don't work hard enough. I don't hear many "haters" saying the same for Roy Halladay or Albert Pujols or Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant or Peyton Manning or Tom Brady. Those guys have "haters" in their own right...none of whom question their work ethic. Why, then, does it happen to me?

The angry feelings I have are not directed at the individuals who made this comment. They are directed at myself. I am angry at myself for even allowing this thought to cross peoples' minds...for exerting- even remotely- the sense that I did not have a strong work ethic. Rather than classifying each and every one of these individuals into the broad category of a "hater", I will view the backlash from my good news in a different way.

They're right.

They're right I don't work hard enough. I don't run enough miles or do enough crunches. I don't lift enough weights or do enough plyometrics. I don't stretch enough or do physical therapy enough. I don't focus enough and I don't perfect my rehab throws enough.

They're all absolutely right.

That is why I need to work harder. Because despite the hours and hours I already put in, I still get that backlash. And the one thing I never want is my work ethic being questioned. If what I do now is not enough, I'll do more.

I'll do more until the haters have to pick something else to exploit.

Then I'll fix that too.