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.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Throwing Alone
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.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Like Riding A Bike?
In the fall of 2009, I received a phone call from a man who was starting an expansion franchise summer team and he asked me if I'd be interested in obtaining a roster spot for the following season, the summer of 2010. The team was called the Morehead City Marlins (www.mhcmarlins.com ), and the league was the Coastal Plain League (www.coastalplain.com ). The CPL is considered in the upper echelon of collegiate summer leagues around the country, and is loaded with Division I players and professional prospects. I had been made aware that the call may come by a mutual friend that I had with the owner of the team, a man who is an associate scout for the Angels based in the New York City area, and was pleased to accept the offer upon receiving the call.
I played out my sophomore season at school. My team made a magical run to the NCAA tournament and set a school record in wins and winning percentage. After the year was over, I packed my car with almost everything I own and made the drive to coastal North Carolina, where I'd live with a family I'd never met before and join a team of players I'd never met before in an area I'd never been to before.
Before my arrival in Morehead City, I had been successful with a very particular approach on the mound in college. Being a relief pitcher for the first two years of my college career, I lived predominantly with my fastball and curveball. I could locate both a four seamer and a two seamer to both sides of the plate, and I had a big 12 to 6 curveball that I felt very confident with. My changeup was not terrible, but it lacked consistency, and therefore I threw it sparingly. I figured if I flashed it just enough times to make sure the opponent knew it was in my repertoire then it was enough. But it certainly wasn't a weapon by any means.
I was excited to experience the competition in the CPL. The year before there were over 100 alumni of the league that were drafted and nearly 50 that had debuted in the Major Leagues in just 13 years of existence up to that point (fun fact: the CPL now officially has an alum in the NFL as well, as Russell Wilson spent the 2009 summer season in Gastonia). I was thrilled at the thought of the high level of play and large crowds that were supposed to be present at our games.
There was one aspect, however, that I overlooked. The high level of competition also meant that I'd most likely have to make an adjustment. My normal approach, which had been successful up to that point at the Division III college level, would have to be tweaked in order to remain pitching with a similar level of consistency.
Being that I didn't take this into account going into the CPL season, I didn't start off pitching well. In fact, it seemed as if I was throwing batting practice during several of my appearances. Whichever pitch I decided to throw, my opponents would line into the outfield or rip into the gaps. I felt helpless, frustrated and defeated. I didn't know what to do and I didn't know how I was ever going to work myself out of this funk.
One day my head coach asked me to sit next to him on the bus so we could talk one-on-one. These bus conversations are comparable to a minor league coach asking a player to come into his office and shut the door...they usually didn't end good. My head coach, a small older man in his 70's, had won nearly 1,200 games in his Division I coaching career and had the stadium at the University of Central Florida, Jay Bergman Field, named in his honor. He commanded a strong presence and spoke convincingly.
Coach Bergman, or "Bergie" as we called him, told me that he wanted me to shut down for two weeks. He wanted me to spend time each day before the games working with our pitching coach on developing a better changeup. He thought that would help me turn out to be a more successful pitcher.
The next two weeks were miserable. I'd show up to the park each day knowing that my only responsibility for the day was to trek into the outfield during batting practice and throw countless changeups to a designated throwing partner, and do nothing else. I wanted to get back on the mound so badly in order to regain my confidence and to reprove myself, but Bergie wouldn't let me.
Finally, after the two weeks were over, I'd thrown probably a thousand changeups. I was bored with the practice and pleaded with Bergie to put me back on the mound. What I didn't realize, however, was that throwing a changeup was now like second nature for me. The muscle memory was present and the grip felt natural. Suddenly, I was a three-pitch pitcher. I could throw all my pitches to all locations at any time I wanted.
I threw a lot in the last part of the season from that point, and our team earned the #3 seed in the CPL playoffs. My ERA went from 5.23 to 2.49 by the end of the season, and I became a trusted lefty out of the bullpen.
The changeup that I had developed in the CPL carried over into my junior year at school. Thrusted into the Friday starter role, I continued throwing my changeup in all counts and realized just how much easier it was to pitch well with it. Having another pitch gave me a weapon that I had never been able to utilize before, and simply put- it was awesome.
As noted in my last blog post, this past Monday was the first time I was cleared to throw curveballs or changeups since my operation. The bullpen session I threw didn't hurt or present any discomfort in my body. In fact, I felt pretty good. But there was one problem...
I had no idea where the ball was going.
I wound up just like I always wind up and released the pitches just as I'm used to releasing them. Except the curveballs would curve in ways I didn't want them to curve and the changeups would float in locations I didn't want them to end up in. And despite continuing to throw, nothing helped. I had no consistency and no feel for my pitches.
Tommy John Surgery has temporarily eliminated the success I'm used to having with my off-speed pitches. And while I know that this is "just part of the process", it is a scary thought. I've put in all that work in the past just to get to the point that I had gotten to with all of my offerings, and now its as if I'm being pushed back to step one. Dr. Andrews told me that it sometimes takes 6-8 months for a pitcher to "feel like himself" after the rehab process is over, and I assume this is what he was referring to.
Last night after celebrating a conference tournament bid with my college teammates I couldn't fall asleep. Instead of "counting sheep" or any of the typical methods of comforting the body and distracting the mind at night, I got up and walked over to the desk on the other side of the room. I grabbed a baseball sitting comfortably next to a textbook and lay back down. I turned over onto my side and proceeded to grip the ball loosely as if I was about to throw a circle changeup.
I woke up about eight hours later with the ball still in my hand and the grip still in place. Repetition is the only way to get better at things, and practice makes perfect. I don't want it to take 6-8 months for me to regain the feel for my offspeed pitches, I want it to happen as soon as possible. So, I'll force my body to retrieve that muscle memory that used to be so fresh. And I'll do it now.
I played out my sophomore season at school. My team made a magical run to the NCAA tournament and set a school record in wins and winning percentage. After the year was over, I packed my car with almost everything I own and made the drive to coastal North Carolina, where I'd live with a family I'd never met before and join a team of players I'd never met before in an area I'd never been to before.
Before my arrival in Morehead City, I had been successful with a very particular approach on the mound in college. Being a relief pitcher for the first two years of my college career, I lived predominantly with my fastball and curveball. I could locate both a four seamer and a two seamer to both sides of the plate, and I had a big 12 to 6 curveball that I felt very confident with. My changeup was not terrible, but it lacked consistency, and therefore I threw it sparingly. I figured if I flashed it just enough times to make sure the opponent knew it was in my repertoire then it was enough. But it certainly wasn't a weapon by any means.
I was excited to experience the competition in the CPL. The year before there were over 100 alumni of the league that were drafted and nearly 50 that had debuted in the Major Leagues in just 13 years of existence up to that point (fun fact: the CPL now officially has an alum in the NFL as well, as Russell Wilson spent the 2009 summer season in Gastonia). I was thrilled at the thought of the high level of play and large crowds that were supposed to be present at our games.
There was one aspect, however, that I overlooked. The high level of competition also meant that I'd most likely have to make an adjustment. My normal approach, which had been successful up to that point at the Division III college level, would have to be tweaked in order to remain pitching with a similar level of consistency.
Being that I didn't take this into account going into the CPL season, I didn't start off pitching well. In fact, it seemed as if I was throwing batting practice during several of my appearances. Whichever pitch I decided to throw, my opponents would line into the outfield or rip into the gaps. I felt helpless, frustrated and defeated. I didn't know what to do and I didn't know how I was ever going to work myself out of this funk.
One day my head coach asked me to sit next to him on the bus so we could talk one-on-one. These bus conversations are comparable to a minor league coach asking a player to come into his office and shut the door...they usually didn't end good. My head coach, a small older man in his 70's, had won nearly 1,200 games in his Division I coaching career and had the stadium at the University of Central Florida, Jay Bergman Field, named in his honor. He commanded a strong presence and spoke convincingly.
Coach Bergman, or "Bergie" as we called him, told me that he wanted me to shut down for two weeks. He wanted me to spend time each day before the games working with our pitching coach on developing a better changeup. He thought that would help me turn out to be a more successful pitcher.
The next two weeks were miserable. I'd show up to the park each day knowing that my only responsibility for the day was to trek into the outfield during batting practice and throw countless changeups to a designated throwing partner, and do nothing else. I wanted to get back on the mound so badly in order to regain my confidence and to reprove myself, but Bergie wouldn't let me.
Finally, after the two weeks were over, I'd thrown probably a thousand changeups. I was bored with the practice and pleaded with Bergie to put me back on the mound. What I didn't realize, however, was that throwing a changeup was now like second nature for me. The muscle memory was present and the grip felt natural. Suddenly, I was a three-pitch pitcher. I could throw all my pitches to all locations at any time I wanted.
I threw a lot in the last part of the season from that point, and our team earned the #3 seed in the CPL playoffs. My ERA went from 5.23 to 2.49 by the end of the season, and I became a trusted lefty out of the bullpen.
The changeup that I had developed in the CPL carried over into my junior year at school. Thrusted into the Friday starter role, I continued throwing my changeup in all counts and realized just how much easier it was to pitch well with it. Having another pitch gave me a weapon that I had never been able to utilize before, and simply put- it was awesome.
As noted in my last blog post, this past Monday was the first time I was cleared to throw curveballs or changeups since my operation. The bullpen session I threw didn't hurt or present any discomfort in my body. In fact, I felt pretty good. But there was one problem...
I had no idea where the ball was going.
I wound up just like I always wind up and released the pitches just as I'm used to releasing them. Except the curveballs would curve in ways I didn't want them to curve and the changeups would float in locations I didn't want them to end up in. And despite continuing to throw, nothing helped. I had no consistency and no feel for my pitches.
Tommy John Surgery has temporarily eliminated the success I'm used to having with my off-speed pitches. And while I know that this is "just part of the process", it is a scary thought. I've put in all that work in the past just to get to the point that I had gotten to with all of my offerings, and now its as if I'm being pushed back to step one. Dr. Andrews told me that it sometimes takes 6-8 months for a pitcher to "feel like himself" after the rehab process is over, and I assume this is what he was referring to.
Last night after celebrating a conference tournament bid with my college teammates I couldn't fall asleep. Instead of "counting sheep" or any of the typical methods of comforting the body and distracting the mind at night, I got up and walked over to the desk on the other side of the room. I grabbed a baseball sitting comfortably next to a textbook and lay back down. I turned over onto my side and proceeded to grip the ball loosely as if I was about to throw a circle changeup.
I woke up about eight hours later with the ball still in my hand and the grip still in place. Repetition is the only way to get better at things, and practice makes perfect. I don't want it to take 6-8 months for me to regain the feel for my offspeed pitches, I want it to happen as soon as possible. So, I'll force my body to retrieve that muscle memory that used to be so fresh. And I'll do it now.
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