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
