Reminiscing and Recreating

I remember when I was 14 years old, I attended my first "semi-formal" school date party. I was invited by a girl who attended a private school in a town about 15 minutes from my own. It was an exciting time- she was funny, smart, sweet and cute. My mom and I went to the store and got a suit and tie and the works, things that many 14 year olds don't own and if they do, those items usually aren't anywhere near chic enough for an oh-so-monumental event like a semi-formal. I felt like a teenage girl, I got dressed two hours early for the event and must have looked in the mirror a thousand times. I was nervous because I didn't know anyone except this girl, and didn't know how to properly conduct myself in such a high-society event such as a semi-formal. When I arrived at her house to pick her up, both my parents and her parents lined us up in embarrassing poses (what do parents do that isn't embarrassing at the age of 14?) and snapped off a rapid fire display of flashing lights from a few cameras. I fumbled around with her corsage in my hand, not entirely sure of what I actually needed to do with it. Then, off we went- chauffeured by none other than her older sister.

When I was 16 years old my dad drove me to the Department of Motor Vehicles to take the written exam, which I passed and thus received my learner's permit. I excitedly exited the building and got back in the car to head to baseball practice, which I was late for due to the wait at the DMV (that's a fairly self-explanatory expression). After practice was over, my father turned to me and tossed me the keys. "I'm tired, you drive home." In a complete state of shock, I didn't even budge to catch the car keys before they fell to the ground. My heart rate shot up to approximately 1 million beats per minute. My palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy (for those of you in my generation- yes those are lyrics from an Eminem song). My throat was dry as I sat down in the driver's seat and put the key into the ignition. I had been waiting patiently for 16 years for this moment to happen- for the first time I would be able to drive a car. I was excited beyond possible explanation, and nervous to the point of near cardiac arrest. Off I went, crawling down the street and...slowly but surely...reaching my destination a few miles away.

In August of 2008, I spent hours upon hours cleaning out just about everything in my bedroom at home. I'd lived in the same house, with the same room, since the 4th grade. I packed and packed and packed. Once I was all done, I moved all of my luggage into the car and got in the backseat. In front of me were my parents, to my side my sister. We drove for hours and hours through mountains and farms and over rivers and under highways. And finally, we'd arrived. My dad parked the car and told me "OK lead the way." I walked up to the front door of Hulbert Hall, told the Resident Advisor at the front desk my name, and was handed a room key. I proceeded to make my way down the hall, found room 432, and opened the door. The next several hours of my life were spent unloading all of the luggage we'd spent packing up in the beginning of the day, until I was set up appropriately (according to mom's standards). After everything was completed and there was nothing else to do, I said my goodbyes. I hugged my parents and my sister, who were all quite emotional in various ways (I'd like to think my sister was crying along with my parents but I doubt she was upset about the privacy that was going to ensue for her back at home). They got back in the car and made their way back, leaving me all alone. For the first time in my life. I had moved into my dorm room at school, and had begun the next chapter. I was giddy about meeting new friends, attending college classes, playing college baseball. All the girls around the hallway looked especially pretty, all the parties I was hoping to attend seemed especially amazing. And yet I was alone. My family was hundreds of miles away, resting comfortably in our home without me. It was the first time in my life that at some points, I felt lonely. I was extremely nervous about the sudden lifestyle change.

The above recollections were only a select few rare instances in my life when I felt so hesitant that I didn't know how to conduct myself in the environment I was in. They are also a select few rare instances in my life when I was so ecstatic for the particular event to occur that the impatience became overbearing. The anxiety that I felt during these times caused me to lose sleep in anticipation.

Looking back now, those events weren't all that bad or all that incredibly memorable. The semi-formal went as planned...we ate, we danced, we had a great time. The car ride was uneventful- albeit a bit slower paced than I am more accustomed to now- and prefaced my passing of the road test several months down the road. The apprehension that was present when my parents dropped me off at school for the first time was quickly washed away upon meeting my teammates and attending my first college party as a college student.

Next Monday, February 6, 2012, is a date in which those emotions will be running high for me once again. February 6 is circled on my calendar with an asterisk on one side of it and a smiley face on the other. February 6- an otherwise normal day in my life- is the most important date that I have come upon in quite some time.

On February 6, I will throw off of a mound.

I haven't stepped on a mound and delivered a single pitch since my ill-fated curveball in the first inning of the game on April 22 last season. After my surgery in July, I looked down at my motionless and damaged left arm and couldn't even envision the thought of me ever climbing back up and toeing the rubber. I figured there'd be no way my arm would heal itself back into health enough that it could withstand the force of throwing a pitch. I've been through 6 weeks of grueling corrective measures in order to re-straighten and bend my arm. I've been through 10 weeks of painful strengthening so that my arm could provide enough force to throw a baseball. And since then, I've been through 14 weeks of enduring a consistent progression in my throwing, however uncomfortable it may have been to do so.

On Monday morning I will hike back up to the top of the 10 inch mound and set my feet comfortably on the rubber. I will begin my pitching motion, quietly and efficiently as I have done in the past. I will rock forward towards home plate and release the ball towards the catcher squatting 60 feet, 6 inches in front of me. I stay up at night praying that each pitch that I throw finds my target and doesn't cause me any pain whatsoever. I pray each night that I can continue this rehab program and allow myself to be in optimal condition to succeed once I am completely healthy. I pray every night that I can, one day, pitch in a game again.

On Monday morning I'll look down at the mound below me and the baseball in my hand and begin to reminisce. I'll remember 14-year-old Josh fumbling with the corsage on his date. I'll remember 16-year-old Josh gripping the steering wheel so tight that his hands got tired. I'll remember 18-year-old Josh waving to his family as they drove away from his dorm hall. And I'll smile, knowing that all the emotions I felt back then are still being felt today. I'll take a deep breath, and focus in on my catcher.

On Monday morning, I'm pitching off of a mound.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend, I've Come to Talk With You Again

As the old adage goes, no one is perfect.

I received an email on Sunday from a man from California who's college aged son had Tommy John Surgery performed by Dr. Andrews right around the same time that I did, and he explained that the protocol that his son had received from the rehabilitation center at the Andrews Institute was different than the one I explained in my previous blog post. He sent me a PDF copy of his son's document for comparison to mine. Upon receiving this email I found that there was one looming difference between the protocols: his said that he was supposed to go out to 120 feet of throwing, and mine said 180 feet of throwing.

I was curious as to why two individuals who are both pitchers had the same surgery and got different post-op protocols from the same doctor. I remembered that the Institute opened at 8:30 AM Central Time, and waited until the clock struck 9:30 here to call. I left a message with the secretary in the rehabilitation center and requested a phone call back, partially explaining my situation. Approximately ten minutes later, my phone vibrated and I recognized the 850 area code. I answered and explained my inquisition to the man on the other line, who presented himself as a trainer and an employee of the rehab center. After telling him that I was curious as to why my program said to go to 180 feet and my friend's only said to go to 120 feet, he let out an enormous "oh my goodness". He quickly told me that they must have supplied me the wrong protocol. Position players are supposed to continue the throwing program out to 180 feet before returning to the field in a game. Pitchers are only supposed to go to 120 feet before beginning Phase II of the program. I said that it wasn't an issue and requested that he faxed the correct form to the athletic training staff at my school, which he gladly agreed to.

Instead of proceeding to 150 feet like I had originally intended to yesterday morning, I followed the new protocol as I am supposed to. I warmed up appropriately and proceeded to line myself up 60 feet away from my target, where I unleashed 30 flat ground throws while going through my pitching mechanics. The pitches I threw were all gripped like a four-seam fastball and did not particularly have extraordinary velocity. The act of pitching, however, was amazingly gratifying. Seeing myself lift my leg, stride out and hit my target 60 feet away was very reminiscent of past pitching experiences, despite the fact that I was throwing on a flat surface and not throwing the ball hard. I was able to find a rhythm, to repeat my mechanics, and to feel the ball leaving the fingertips in a similar fashion to how they had been in the past. After my allotted 30 throws, I ceased the session and walked down to the training room with immense satisfaction.

The fact that I am able to theoretically skip ahead in steps that I previously thought I would be required to complete is a wonderful feeling. I will now be officially scheduled to throw off a mound for the first time on February 6 according to the newly received protocol from the Andrews Institute. I told the trainers, a few of my teammates, coaches, friends, my girlfriend and my parents about the good news, to which they all expressed excitement. I arrived home after working out and was still extremely excited about receiving the news that I will be able to progress more than I was supposed to. I paced around my room for several minutes trying to think of a way to properly harness the newfound energy I had. I did some pushups, some crunches. I checked my email, my Facebook, my Twitter. I did some more pushups. But the jubilation wasn't so much physical as it was an emotional relief. I wanted so badly to be able to share the information with someone. Not someone that would feel happy for me, like many people did. But someone who could empathize- who could truly understand why I was so excited and why this news felt so monumental to me.

There are an abundance of people in my life that have been so extremely supportive of me throughout this entire process. There are also people that have lived through this with me vicariously...my roommates, my parents, my girlfriend, my best friends. There are those who have gone through the procedure before me and can assist me in some of the mental battles during the experience, sharing their own stories on the phone and urging me to have continued patience and perseverance.

Reality, however, is that no one is going through these feelings with me. No one can quantify my emotions step by step because no one truly understands how I feel each minute of the day. Through the thick and thin roller coaster that is Tommy John recovery, one of the toughest occurrences is the pure loneliness. Day after day after day of pushing yourself to your limits, of dealing with anguish and adversity, of experiencing the highest of highs and the lowest of lows- and for the most part, its done alone.

I am extremely grateful for those individuals who are close to me and have helped me (and will hopefully continue to help me) during this time in my life. The vocal outlets that are available to me have been some of the most influential aspects of my existence during this time. This blog is also an outlet, and I am extremely grateful for each and every reader that continually logs in and reads through each diatribe against this operation. But no one, no one in the entire world feels the way I feel and observes what I observe at the exact time that I do. There are many different people I can turn to for support that are more than willing to listen and provide me the shoulder that I need to lean on. But there is no one that is living my experiences minute by minute that can relate to what I feel.

Whether the news is as negative as a setback or as positive as finding out that your rehab has been paced faster than expected, it is difficult to find an empathizing soul that can quantify my expression.

In that respect, for better or for worse, Tommy John is a lonely, lonely process.

Anxious Awaiting

It is well documented here that the process of Tommy John recovery is a very monotonous, time-consuming experience. It involves months and months of rehabilitation. Within that rehabilitation is painful movements, exhausting exercises and immeasurable anguish. And through all of those experiences, there is a nature of repetitiveness that is not often found in many other life events. Much of the mental toughness that has to be ubiquitous throughout the entire process involves focus. A yearlong recovery requires a persistent focus that sees very little immediate gratification. And as many of you know, immediate gratification is what human beings seek in the majority of life ventures. Tommy John is a daily grind- a speck of molasses dripping down from a tall branch, a snail making its way across a desert.

I have made it a habit to try to update this blog at least once a week, and have been doing so pretty customarily since kicking off back in July. Many of the posts have had a ton of information within them and have provided insight to those who have been following along. I have received many e-mails, tweets and Facebook messages from people who have come across this page, and for those of you who continue to follow I urge you all to share with those that you feel this may benefit and continue to reach out. It truly feels wonderful to be able to help others through some situations that could be similar to what I am going through or what I have gone through thus far.

Some of the blog posts, however, have been, as my Advanced Composition professor kindly called it, "fluff." It sometimes is difficult to quantify the emotional standing of my progress in a thousand words or so every single week. Truth be told, sometimes my feelings have not changed at all since my post the previous week. And writing out an entire post highlighting my feelings proves to be tough because I have to extrapolate information out of areas where that information doesn't seem extraordinarily significant. Yet I continue to prod along and continue to try to provide information that may seem valuable to me.

For lack of a better excuse, I've decided to make this post unlike those others before that I mentioned above. I won't delve too far into the specifics of the emotional roller coaster I have felt because frankly, things haven't differed too much since my last post last Thursday. I've continued my throwing program with fairly identical results as the past throwing days I've had, and I've been hard at it in the gym with the conditioning aspect of the rehab. I've realized that there haven't been many instances in past posts in which I've provided a detailed chronicle of the actual events that I am completing. Therefore, the rest of this post will outline what lies ahead into the future, according to the protocol given to me by Dr. Andrews.

Tomorrow, Friday, January 20th, 2012, marks my final day throwing at 120 feet. I will make three sets of 25 throws from that distance, with approximately five minutes of rest in between sets. On Monday I begin the new distance, 150 feet. I will spend next week throwing Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 150 feet, completing two sets of 25 throws. The following week I will progress to 180 feet, where I start at two sets of 25 throws. The week after that, which would begin on Monday, February 13, I move to three sets of 25 throws. Then during the week of February 20, I move back in to two sets of 25 throws at 180 feet.

Once the 180 foot phase is complete, I begin what is known as "Interval Throwing Program Phase II." In my mind, phase two has extreme significance in that it marks my time to begin my mound work. Phase two is split into 15 steps (15 weeks) and three stages, and works to gradually build the arm and the body back up to peak performance potential by the end of the program. Phase two begins for me, barring any setbacks, on February 27 and runs, barring any setbacks, until June 1.

So there you have it. A detailed outline of exactly what the sheet says. I've made photocopies of the original twice now because I've looked at it so many times that it has become wrinkled and ripped. The sheet that holds the interval throwing program is the most important piece of paper that I hold in my life right now. It holds the key to my future on the mound, my future in the game of baseball.

I don't know what lies ahead for me with respect to my arm's reaction to the increased distances and increased reps. Nor do I know what is in store for me once I step on a mound and throw my first fastball. Or changeup. Or curveball. I do know one thing though, I'll be nervous. And I'll be excited. Because each day of throwing leads one day closer to hearing my name called by the PA announcer and having a batter step in the box once again.

That's really all I want. I just want to pitch.

Tomorrow at 12:30 PM, I'll be out at the football field at White Plains High School completed my last day at 120 feet. From then, I have five more weeks until I can throw off a mound. 31 days actually, until February 27. That's 744 hours. 44,640 minutes. 2,678,400 seconds until I can throw off a mound.

But who's counting?