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.