Tommy John Surgery

The Official Second Chance

2012-06-05T00:01:00.002-04:00

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

Passion- Rebirthed

2012-05-31T01:12:00.002-04:00

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

2012-05-23T12:43:00.000-04:00

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

2012-05-15T14:54:00.003-04:00

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

2012-05-08T15:44:00.002-04:00

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.

Like Riding A Bike?

2012-04-29T15:50:00.002-04:00

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.

One Year Anniversary

2012-04-22T16:00:00.001-04:00

A year ago today, I awoke on a beautiful Friday morning, threw on my travel sweatsuit that was given to me by my school, and drove to campus. A few minutes later, I grabbed my travel bag and hopped on the bus. I had my iPod and laptop in stow, and was relaxed and ready to embark on the road trip a few hours west of us, where we'd be playing in what was the most important weekend series up to that point in our season.

We were a cool 11 and 1 in conference games, and were on a tear in which we had won 16 of our last 18 games. We were getting attention nationally and were destined to make a run deep into the playoffs.

Our opponent for the weekend was a perennial power, who was also 11 and 1 in our conference and was ranked 12th in the country, after finishing as the national runner-up in 2010 by losing in the national championship game. Their ace pitcher, who was undefeated and led the conference in strikeouts, was scheduled to start the game for them. The scheduled starting pitcher for us was also undefeated and led the conference in ERA. It was set to be a battle of the giants to see who could claim the conference regular season title and the right to host the conference tournament. The weekend had big implications on the playoffs for the future and the potential national rankings that came out weekly.

I calmly stepped off the bus and entered the visiting locker room, where I continued to listen to music while trying to zone in. I had been thrown in relief as a freshman and a sophomore against them, and I had a moderate level of success. But going from a reliever to the Friday starter was a big step. I tried as best as I could to quiet my emotions and slow my environment down. And as the stands quickly filled before the game started, I was doing a very good job of it. Coming into the game with a 1.44 ERA and victories against two teams that were in the national rankings already, I saw the contest as just another performance, regardless of how rowdy the opposing fans may be or how truly important the game may have actually been in reality.

After batting practice ended, I began my pre-game warmup, a ritual of dynamic and static stretching for an extended period of time in the outfield. Then the starting catcher and I began throwing, extending ourselves deep into the outfield while loosening up our arms during the long toss session. After a bit of time, I retreated to the bullpen deep in foul territory in left field to begin my warmup pitches.

My fastball was jumping, my curveball was sharp, and my changeup freely flew off of my fingertips. I felt like I had control of all of my offerings, and confidently went through my routine with a sense that nothing could go wrong.

About 15 minutes later, I toed the rubber for the first pitch of the bottom of the first inning. The leadoff hitter squared up a 1-2 curveball and hit it hard back up the middle, but luckily it was right at me. I gloved it and made the play, undaunted by the voices I heard from the stands and the pressure I felt. The two-hitter blooped a 1-1 fastball down the right field line and legged out a Texas League double. The three-hitter, a mammoth first baseman, dug into the box. He worked the count full, and battled through all of my offerings. I looked into my catcher for the pitch...a curveball was called for the full count. Good choice, I thought. I came set and checked the runner at second, and lifted my leg to come home. I was going to try to backdoor a curve, hoping that it'd freeze the hitter enough to buckle his knees. And if he was going to swing, I was hoping he'd pull off and open his hips and roll a groundball to shortstop.

That was the last pitch I've ever thrown.

One year ago today my UCL exploded while releasing that curveball and I fell to the ground. The ball went to the backstop and I walked off the mound and into the locker room, with a limp left arm and defeated mentally.

Tomorrow is my 22nd birthday, or rather my second-annual 21st birthday, which is what I've been calling it with my friends. I had a feeling that today and tomorrow would be difficult days emotionally for me. I figured I'd spend all day today reminiscing about the pain of hurting my elbow, and remembering all of the misery that ensued afterwards. I figured I'd spend all today tomorrow not celebrating my birthday, but thinking of a fact that hit me the other day quite hard:

I will never throw a pitch in a game as a 21-year-old.

Instead of all of that, I'm busy locked in my bedroom completing a research paper for my senior capstone class today. And tomorrow, well tomorrow's birthday celebration will hopefully be more gratifying than last year's.

Tomorrow I will toe the rubber in the bullpen once more and complete my allotted array of four-seam fastballs. Then once those are done, I will rest, and toe the mound once more. I will come set the same way. But instead of letting a fastball go, I will rotate my fingers together on the side of the horseshoe part of the ball and turn my wrist over inwards.

Tomorrow is the first day I am cleared to throw breaking balls.

My last pitch as a 20-year-old was a curveball to the backstop. Here's to hoping my first curveball as a 22-year-old will have a better result.

With every end comes a new beginning. Happy anniversary to the ulnar collateral ligament I was born with, may you rest in peace. You did well for me, and now it's time to move onto the next one.

Finding My "Flow State"

2012-04-19T20:37:00.001-04:00

I received a text message over the weekend from a friend who graduated from my school last year. She is now attending Springfield College in Massachusetts, working towards receiving a Masters of Science in Athletic Counseling. Being that we have spoken several times since she graduated, she is well aware of my injury and the ensuing rehab process. There have been a few times where I've vented my frustrations to her, in hopes that she could help me out in some way.

As most psychologists know, a client often times believes that his or her counseling session will come fully loaded with some sort of magic potion that cures every problem that is brought up during conversation. I was no different when speaking with my friend from Springfield College, or anyone else that I've discussed my frustrations with for that matter. Only when I received advice in return, it didn't come with any magic potion. In fact, it often times doesn't really make sense to me at all right away. The concepts of long-term focus and maintaining what is known as a "flow state" were things that I couldn't grasp...I wanted to know WHY these feelings were happening to me, and I wanted them fixed ASAP!

As most sane people know, psychologists certainly don't have the power to cure problems. In fact, it is their job to provide sound professional analysis that enables an individual to garner up some sort of motive to overcome whatever stresses that they feel require them to seek out this therapeutic treatment.

When my friend texted me over the weekend, she asked me if she could interview me for a paper she would be submitting to a professor. I said no problem, of course, being that she's helped me in the past and she is a friend. Once we worked through our equally busy schedules, we determined that last night would be a good time for us to commence.

After joking around for a few minutes via our Skype session, the talk began. Much of the focus centered around the emotional feelings I have during my physical therapy, and how I am able to overcome the frustrations that come with the process. I spoke about taking everything one day at a time and setting simple goals for yourself. Then she brought up my outlook for the future- how I see myself performing as I continue to progress closer and closer to being able to once again pitch. I told her that while I was nervous, I can already sense the "normal" feelings creeping back in. When I am throwing off a mound and envisioning things just as they were pre-Tommy John, all of the senses that I previously had experienced so commonly quickly rushed back to the forefront of my mind.

The next point was tied into that idea. She brought up the concept of a "flow state". Being that baseball is such a skills-oriented sport and a sport that requires so much focus, the mental comfort zone becomes crucial for an individual to reach in order to be able to continually be successful at one's craft for an extended period of time. For me, my "flow state" comes when I am on a mound pitching live to a batter. That is the situation where I find myself most comfortable. I get into a rhythm mechanically, physically and mentally. Once I am able to realize that oh-so-familiar rhythm, the art of pitching instantly becomes simplified. I mentioned the movie For The Love Of The Game in the Skype interview last night, bringing up Kevin Costner's act of "clearing the mechanism". While the entire crowd doesn't suddenly fade into a blurred horizon for me like it does in the movie, that makes sense conceptually. That rhythm...that "flow state"...allows for me to simplify pitching to the point of it being one easy process- I rock back, and I throw the ball. Nothing else matters, and nothing else is a worry. 100% of my attention is given to what I'm doing.

I had never heard the term "flow state" before last night, and while I understood what it meant I couldn't really find a good way to translate that into my everyday life, especially now that I am rehabbing. When I arrived at practice this afternoon with my team, I took a catcher to the bullpen and completed my necessary throwing for the day. I threw four-seam fastball after four-seam fastball, just as I have done for the last several weeks. While I certainly got in a mechanical rhythm during my bullpen session, I couldn't come to believe that I was in any type of "flow state". What I was doing just wasn't natural to me. My body and my mind didn't sync.

After my prescribed bullpen pitches, I was instructed to throw 30 pitches in batting practice to my teammates. Because we have a conference series beginning tomorrow, my head coach decided it would be beneficial to have this batting practice session treated as a scrimmage- each ball would be played live off the bat.

I trotted out to the rubber mat in front of the pitcher's mound after I was done in the bullpen, just in time for the live BP game to begin. In stepped one of my teammates, who set his feet and got into his stance. I peered in at the catcher as though I was looking for a sign, even though everyone in the park knew I was just going to groove a throw over the plate for him to hit. I raised my arm up and released the ball. A split second later, my teammate swung and roped a hard one-hop groundball to the shortstop. The ball was fielded and thrown across the diamond in time for the out.

My mind came alive. It's been almost a year since I've thrown a ball to a batter swinging live. I heard the ting of the bat and the whiz of the ball speeding past me. I watched as my teammate gracefully made the play in a fluid fashion, and retrieved the ball from the third baseman after it was thrown around the infield.

I coasted through my remaining 29 pitches without much thought of anything else in the world. Sure, I got hit...a lot. After all, that's the point of batting practice. The result of my session didn't matter to me. What mattered was gaining back that feeling once again.

I dearly miss that "flow state". I want so badly to be able to toe the rubber and relive that feeling once more...that euphoric sense of freedom and control. And while the batting practice session today didn't provide me with the "flow state" that I so yearn to get back to, it provided me with a feeling that was closer to it than any I've had since this entire experience began. And with the recognition of being a part of a semi-real baseball game in the form of a batting practice scrimmage amongst teammates, I begin to sense that I am getting THAT much closer to reliving that "flow state" I desire.

My interview last night was with the intention to benefit a friend with her graduate school assignment. But in the end, what I got out of it was a term that will remain with me throughout my entire baseball career into the future- a "flow state". The odyssey of baseball is a miraculous road, one filled with many adventures. It's up to me to embrace the opportunity to continue on living those adventures...and doing so in the most idyllic fashion...in my perfect "flow state".

If At First You Don't Succeed- Try, Try Again

2012-04-13T15:25:00.005-04:00

I arrived at the baseball field on campus yesterday in the early afternoon, just after I did my band work in the training room and just after my catcher got out of class. I assumed the oh-so-familiar duty of removing the bullpen mound tarp and raking out the dirt in front of the rubber and a few feet further down near my foot land position. I then retreated to the outfield, where the grass loomed largely untouched in the empty stadium, and began warming up to throw my bullpen.

I breezed through my warmup throws and proceeded towards the mound. I let out a deep breathe as my catcher squatted 60 feet, 6 inches away from me and I positioned myself appropriately on top of the rubber. I came set, flipped the ball into a four-seam grip, and glared into my target. The catcher's mitt lay motionless on the outside corner, about knee high, just inviting me to guide the ball into it's open pocket. I lifted my leg, cocked my arm up, and reared back to throw. The ball came off of my fingers smoothly, and flew through the air briskly and efficiently. A split-second later, the ball greeted the catcher's glove with a loud thud, a sound that most pitchers have become so accustomed to.

There was no pain in my shoulder whatsoever. I let out a sigh of relief as I caught the return throw back from the catcher, and prepared myself to once again take my place on the rubber and deliver another four-seam fastball. I went through the same routine...coming set, finding my target, and delivering the pitch. Same result. A thud on the other end and a painless arm attached to me.

After a few preliminary tosses, I began to get in a rhythm. I threw four sets of 15 fastballs, sets one and three from the stretch and sets two and four from the windup. I worked the ball consistently on each corner, having my catcher move back and forth according to whichever direction I indicated with my glove. With each delivery came the same thud, and then I'd retreat back towards the rubber as I repositioned myself to repeat each four-seamer over and over and over again.

There is nothing in the world that I would describe quite like throwing a bullpen. Throwing a bullpen is such a tedious and monotonous task that it often times grows frustrating just going through the thought of the action. Yet throwing a bullpen is, in my opinion, a truly glorious and beautiful event. Pitching in and of itself is an art form, and practicing pitching enables one to exploit that art form on a consistent basis off the bullpen mound.

About halfway through my rehab session, I paused and smiled. I looked at my catcher, who quizzically took off his mask and peered back, and pondered for a moment.

"Man, it feels awesome to be standing up here right now," I remarked. He grinned back at me, knowing exactly how I feel. He is recovering from a torn labrum and appreciated the opportunity to catch me just as much as I appreciate the opportunity to pitch to him.

As I continued on throughout my bullpen session, I began to fall deep into an odd form of reminiscent thought. I was so comforted by the fact that the time I took off from throwing had allowed for the pain in my shoulder to subside that I started taking in everything in my surroundings. The smell of the dirt that surrounded me on the mound. The fizzing noise the ball made as it exited my hand and darted through the air towards home plate. The faint tussling of the grass as it waded back and forth in the breeze. I missed it. So much. Sure, I've been on the field plenty of times since my injury. I've attended numerous games, I've attended countless practices. I've coached third base and helped line the batter's box. I've done just about everything that is involved with being on a baseball field without actually playing baseball. And when I finally began to get a slight glimpse of that experience again yesterday, however miniscule and faint that chance may have seemed, it felt unbelievable.

My reminiscent pleasantries quickly turned into a harsh self-loathing. My mind raced through all of those times in the past when I hit snooze on my alarm clock, when I arrived at the field in a sluggish and unprepared manner. I'd taken my abilities for granted...I'd taken THE GAME for granted...for so long and not even understood the true implications of my actions. As the old adage goes, one doesn't realize how important something is until it's gone. Well baseball is gone, and I can't believe I'd ever acted the way I did. Throwing bullpens now, and seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, allows me to enable myself to push that much harder, to strive that much further. Because I've been fortunate enough to be granted the opportunity to have a second chance, and I'll never let anything get in the way of that.

After my self-loathing I pumped a few more strikes into the zone and finished up the allotted amount of pitches. Then it was off to the weight room to ensure that I completed the appropriate post-throwing rehab exercises. And while I was at it, I threw in a little bit extra focus and a little bit more enthusiasm with each prescribed movement. Because if my goal is to return, and to be at full health, it'll take a lot of hard work...even more than what I've already done. And I never want to take this beautiful game for granted again.

True Life: I Had A Setback.

2012-04-09T14:33:00.003-04:00

It was bound to happen. I had a feeling it would happen. I was afraid of how I would react when it finally did happen.

Last Monday's well-documented throwing session was one that I deemed to be very successful. Despite the slight mental discomfort I felt on the mound, my arm felt smooth and fluid and my body worked in cohesiveness. I finished my session and went about the post-throwing rehabilitation exercises as I normally do. Those also went extremely well, and I finished up my work out for the day with a smile on my face and a relaxed state of mind.

I went about the rest of my day completing whatever academic tasks that were required of me, and went to bed at an early hour to ensure that I'd get a good night sleep. I wanted to be ready to work my body hard on Tuesday so that I could be ready to throw at an optimal level for Thursday's session. I comfortably set my alarm clock, turned over and went to sleep.

When I arose Tuesday morning, my arm ached. It wasn't a typical ache that I'd expect to feel a day after throwing, however. It felt as if someone was pinching on the top of my shoulder, and that pinching was causing a lot of discomfort on the bone. I tried moving my shoulder around, and it ached even more. I did some arm circles and heard a clicking noise, loud enough that it echoed off the bedroom wall. I tried not thinking much of it, figuring maybe I just slept on it wrong. I went up to campus and sat through class for the morning, but couldn't really concentrate. I continued to move my arm around in circles and massage the area on my shoulder that felt painful. The ache was enough to be worrisome, and was something I didn't want to mess around with. I walked into the arena and into the basement, where the trainer's room is. I reported what I felt to the head trainer, who took me to the other side of the room and put me through a slew of testing exercises.

I was quickly informed that there didn't seem to be any structural damage in the shoulder, and that my range of motion was fine. There was definitely some swelling in the area though, and caution should be used. After some contemplation and discussion, I placed a phone call to the Andrews Institute and got Jeremy Geus, Dr. Andrews's program director on the phone.

I told Jeremy that I had woken up with pain in my shoulder, and that the range of motion seemed to be alright. There was just aching and swelling. After I described everything I had been experiencing to him, I was met with a response that very much took me by surprise.

He laughed.

"Josh, it's been a little over eight months, right?" he asked, after letting out a chuckle.

I told him yes, and anxiously awaited his further response.

"Man, I'm surprised it's taken this long for you to have any type of setback. Most guys start complaining about shoulder pain after like three months. If your range of motion is fine then there's nothing to worry about. It's probably either tendonitis or a bone bursitis, nothing to lose sleep over. Just take a week off from throwing and do some strengthening of the area."

I told him I kind of figured it was some type of mild tendonitis, and asked him how long it usually took for those other players that had complained of pain to experience no pain at all.

"Honestly, you will probably have some type of ache and pain everyday for the rest of your life. It's called getting old brother. But in terms of your arm, it should be fine in a week or so." I let out a good laugh at that one and thanked him for the reassurance.

So ladies and gentlemen, I had a setback. My shoulder was in enough pain to cause me to stop throwing for a little over a week (April 2-April 12 to be exact). It was an occurrence that I was so scared of experiencing for so long...the thought of my hard work and hours of dedication being smacked away from me as quickly as my pitching career was derailed last spring. I spent a lot of time in daily thought thanking whoever was in charge of blessing me with good health thus far during my recovery time, and prayed at the same time that I'd never have to deal with the task of rebounding from a rehab setback.

But for whatever reason when I was told that it'd probably be best to take some time off from throwing to give my arm a rest, I took it in stride. Not only did I not stress out about it, but I almost thought as if this was a blessing in disguise. This gave me more of an opportunity to continue to work at getting my body stronger. This gave me more of an opportunity to continue to strengthen the structural aspect of my rehabilitating arm. But most of all, this gave me more of an opportunity to truly appreciate the mythical light at the end of the tunnel. Because as with most things in life, I shouldn't expect this process to come to me easily and without any negativity. Overcoming a setback- another setback- will make that return to the game that much more gratifying for me in the end.

I'll be back on the grind- and on the mound- this Thursday.

Just a speed bump in the road...

Visualization Practice

2012-04-02T20:28:00.002-04:00

Tommy John is a funny animal in a lot of instances. For the most part, my experience over the last 8+ months has provided me with a lot of realizations. As my rehab continues to progress to greater physical lengths, I begin to understand the necessity of preparation much more than I did in the past. It takes a lot more for my body to get ready for the upcoming throwing session and then takes a lot more for me to overcome the exhaustion that ensues after each throwing session. This continual up and down of physical preparation and physical exhaustion is something that is somewhat manageable for me because it is something that I've become rather accustomed to in the past. Starting games at the collegiate level has a similar effect on my body...lots of preparation followed by lots of exhaustion. Then repeat. Today, however, I came across something different.

Today's protocol involved throwing 60 pitches, all four-seam fastballs, at 75% velocity. After completing those 60 throws, I was to throw 15 pitches in batting practice to my teammates. Upon first reading the instructions I was kind of puzzled as to what it specifically asked for pertaining to batting practice. I called down to the Andrews Institute and spoke to Jeremy Geus, Dr. Andrews' program director who I've been collaborating with. I asked him if this meant I should get on the mound and pitch to my teammates and he said no, they want me to throw actual batting practice like coaches do to their team. This confused me as well. I didn't really understand the point of standing 40 feet from the plate and cruising balls down the middle for my teammates to feast on after throwing a bullpen session...it just kind of seemed like a step down.

I went through the 60 pitches in somewhat of a breeze. I split the session up in four sets of 15 with a few minutes of rest in between. I worked inside and outside, up and down. My control wasn't ideal, but was certainly nothing to scoff at considering the stage of rehab. After my four sets I went into the clubhouse connected to our dugout and changed from my cleats into my sneakers. I waited a few minutes for the batting practice groups to change and then exchanged spots with our hitting coach, who was throwing to the team while I threw my bullpen.

I assumed my position on the rubber mat set up in front of the mound, probably about 40 feet from home plate. I reached down into the ball holder next to me and grabbed a few baseballs, and stepped back. I looked up at home plate and proceeded to watch as one of our senior outfielders dug into the box and got set in his stance, awaiting my throw.

Suddenly, the reasoning behind Dr. Andrews' orders set in. Home plate seemed microscopically small, and my teammate looked like Andre the Giant. I peered into the strike zone and tried to focus my attention, but I couldn't. It hit me quickly- I hadn't faced a real batter in almost a year.

Seeing a hitter standing in the batter's box in front of me threw me off the rhythm that I had started to become so accustomed with in the last few months of throwing. My last pitch in a game was April 22, 2011. That pitch was also the last baseball that I threw with a batter standing in front of me attempting to hit the balls I threw. And as I stood behind the L-screen this afternoon in the middle of my team's practice, I became thankful. I knew that the reason for the protocol being written the way it is was a simple reason- comfort.

I need to relearn what it is like to pitch to a batter. I need to relearn the visualization process of successfully hitting my spots while I have an opponent standing in front of me. And this afternoon, as I stood and threw my 15 batting practice pitches, I was thankful that Dr. Andrews was so thoughtful to make sure that the first time I saw a batter in front of me was in a meaningless batting practice session and not in a game-like situation.

So for now I will quit second-guessing what I read on the protocol. Dr. Andrews and the fine staff that he has at the Andrews Institute obviously know what they're doing and why they're doing it. I am just a pawn in a gigantic game of chess...and I'm more than OK with that. Anything to get my arm better.

9 Innings of Focus

2012-03-26T20:25:00.004-04:00

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

2012-03-19T15:35:00.005-04:00

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

2012-03-11T19:45:00.003-04:00

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"

2012-03-06T20:54:00.006-05:00

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.

Pitching Next Year

2012-02-26T14:48:00.004-05:00

I'd like to offer up a preliminary apology to those of you who have been following along strictly for the information pertaining to Tommy John recovery, or for those of you who have stumbled upon this page via an Internet search for a similar topic. The following post has less to do with the actual recovery process than just about any other post I've written (outside of the September 11 post). However, I believe it is significant in that it is partially a testament to the struggle and perseverance necessary to successfully overcome such an experience.

When I scheduled my surgery with Dr. Andrews for the morning of Thursday, July 21, 2011, I was well aware that it would effectively eliminate any chance I had of competing for my school team during my senior year of college. I'd attended Oneonta State College in New York for three years and been a pitcher on the team since I arrived on campus as an 18 year old. Despite the angst and frustration that came with the realization that the recovery time dictated such an impossibility, I knew that fate would not allow my career to end in such fashion. As I've said several times previously on this blog, I was not content with allowing the last pitch I've ever thrown to be a curveball to the backstop in the first inning of a Friday conference game. It just wasn't going to happen.

I decided to crank out some research during my spare time, of which I had plenty of during the two weeks previous to surgery. The first order of business was to contact the NCAA office in Indianapolis to see what sort of rules pertaining to my eligibility stood within the handbook. I explained to the lady on the other line that I'd be interested in pursuing a degree at another institution and that I would medically not be able to participate this spring. I was then told that I would be permitted to participate in baseball at either a Division I or Division II institution for my graduate school year as long as my field of study is not offered at the school in which I completed my undergraduate studies.

The next step was a Google search of what schools offered a Master's degree in Sports Management. It was a field not offered by Oneonta and a field that I would definitely be interested in pursuing. I narrowed the list down to a format very similar to the format I used while in high school: reach schools, comfort schools and safety schools.

Then I really got to work. After compiling the list of potential schools, I went to every single baseball webpage and found the coach's email address. I drafted out an email...for every single coach...and sent them out. Starting on July 26, five days after surgery, I emailed no less than 82 college coaches from many conferences in Division I and Division II from all around the country. The vast majority of coaches did not respond. Some responded by inviting me to their prospect camp via a brochure. Some responded with one sentence answers, explaining they are done recruiting. Several responded by saying they wish me the best of luck but don't wish to pursue an individual in my situation at this time. Some even went as far as explaining that the conference they are in does not let them take graduate students so unfortunately there would be no opportunity for me to obtain a roster spot, no matter how promising I may be (thanks once again to Coach Mainieri at LSU and Coach Boretti at Columbia for those explanations).

Then there were several who responded by saying they'd be very interested. Those were the ones who called my cell phone and extended invitations for visits to campus. The word most commonly used was "intriguing"...I had great stats from my previous college and summer ball experiences but they couldn't actually see me pitch because I was hurt.

After a few months of corresponding with several college coaches and a handful of campus visits, I sent my applications out in the beginning of December.

And I waited. And waited. And waited.

Waiting is not fun. I spent months not knowing where I'd end up next season, if I'd be able to don another uniform at all. I went through my rehab everyday wondering if I'd ever be able to toe the rubber once again.

Last week I got an email saying that my admission decision was in at my top choice school. It was a school I'd visited in the fall and spent a weekend at. It was a school that had the program of study I wished to enter and a baseball team that I felt fit my needs and desires. The coach extended me an offer for a roster spot during my graduate school season, pending the admission decision.

After reading the email, I smiled. I picked up the phone and called my parents and my girlfriend. Then, I called the coach and gave him my verbal commitment...the second verbal commitment of my college career.

Next year, I will be a Georgetown Hoya.

Georgetown was one of the schools I had my eye on since the very beginning of the process. I sent an email to Coach Wilk at 11:33 AM on July 26, 2011 explaining my situation and what I'd be interested in doing. At 6:17 that evening, I received this response:

"Hi Josh,

Thanks for the note and the interest...hmm, a LHP that has accolades and pitched in the Valley and Coastal Plain League? Yep, we'd be interested in pursuing that, without question.

I'd encourage you to come to DC sometime in the next few months or so and meet with the people who run the sports management program as well as watch us play and meet with our staff. Let me know if this interests you and please stay in touch with us, this is very intriguing. (*There's that word again!)

I hope your recovery goes well and I look forward to hearing back from you soon I hope.

Pete Wilk

Head Baseball Coach

Georgetown University"

I drove to DC on Friday, September 30 and spent the weekend there, meeting with the admissions department for the program and watching the team practice. I toured the athletic facilities and introduced myself to Coach Brown, who is the recruiting coordinator and pitching coach, and most likely the person I'd be spending the most time with if I were to enroll. I told Coach Wilk very plainly that all I wanted was a jersey and a mound and a chance to prove to him what I could do. He told me that's exactly what he can give me and that just about wrapped up all our conversation.

The journey to recovery is certainly not complete. But knowing where I'll be attending school next year is definitely a large aspect of my progression. Things are beginning to come together, 7+ months later. I'm throwing off a mound, I got into grad school, I'm pitching in the Big East.

All of the above are simply steps towards that ultimate goal...to pitch in a game again.

I'm almost there.

Complacency is Progress's Lucifer

2012-02-19T13:30:00.006-05:00

When one suddenly becomes complacent, that individual can quickly lose sight of environmental factors that could have an affect on whatever advancement he or she intends to make in whatever action he or she is taking part in. For me, complacency is something that I have worked extremely hard to avoid during the Tommy John recovery process because it is probably the number one cause of a setback in these circumstances. Each and every action within the recovery process needs to be specifically calculated and mathematically completed to ensure that all aspects of all steps are optimally maximized.

Last Wednesday's throwing session was a day in which I felt better than I have felt in quite a while. My arm felt fresh, my legs felt loose. I felt the seams on the ball especially well. The 30 pitches I threw at 50% velocity felt especially crisp and consistent. I walked out of the training room following my session with such personal gratification and happiness that the rest of the day coasted by with very little stress or trouble.

I woke up on Thursday and attended my team's early morning conditioning practice before heading home to make myself some eggs and get myself prepared to go to the weight room. I was accompanied there by a fellow teammate of mine, an outfielder who could probably best be described as a gym rat. I was to do several sets up exercises for my upper body and he asked to join me, to which I obviously said yes. I warmed up, stretched out, and then headed to the free weight area. Being that I had felt so good the day before and continued to feel good going into my lifting session, I figured I should maintain the forward motion by attempting to lift the amount of weight that my teammate wished to lift.

Previous to Thursday morning's session in the gym, I had been extremely cautious about the gradual progression of weight that I would undertake with my upper body. The instability of the elbow following an operation such as a ligament transplant is severe and the strength does not come back as easily as in many other circumstances. And while I know that now, seven months post-op my arm can more than likely withstand the physicality of such weight lifting endeavors, I have still been timid. The build-up that I have taken my body on has been very slow and strung out, and has been successful up to this point. I continue to increase weight and continue to feel good, and I've made sure to not overexert myself in any way that could potentially jeopardize my progress.

And then on Thursday, I got complacent. My success in the previous 24 hours caused a minuscule sense of indestructibility to come over me. I watched as my teammate completed his reps of exercises at weights that were higher than what I'd built myself up to. He pushed through the set with no reserve and worked hard. I yearned for that feeling again, to push myself to my physical limits and achieve that sense of prevailing from pure exhaustion from the final few reps.

I threw great on Wednesday. I completed my exercises after throwing with no troubles. I had a great night sleep, and felt great at the morning conditioning session. Why not push myself? I thought...my arm can handle it. It definitely can. I can lift the same amount of weight as my teammate and have no difficulty recovering appropriately, just as I had done previous to my injury.

I grabbed the weight from him and off I went. Pushing through rep after rep, set after set. I was breathing heavily, grunting and sweating. I lifted each weight with the exact perfect form, and completed every single rep I was supposed to complete. I continued on with this routine through about half of our workout, before resting in between a few sets of bicep exercises to get a quick swig of water.

Upon returning back to the station from getting the drink, my teammate was just completing his set of curls with an even higher weight. Not even thinking twice I hopped right into place, grabbed the weight, and began.

"One." Exhale...inhale.

"Two." Exhale...inhale.

"Three." Exhale...inhale.

"Fo..."

As I reached the peak of the lift, a sudden sensation came over me. I felt a sharp twinge extending from my elbow all the way through my forearm and into the outer region of my finger tips. The tingle continued to stay within my fingers, my pinky finger and my ring finger...the two fingers that are directly correlated with the ulnar nerve. I quickly dropped the weight and moved my fingers around, trying to regain normal feeling. It was as if my fingers "fell asleep" (I'm sure most of you have experienced a foot, or another body part, falling asleep) and I couldn't get it back to normal. I explained to my teammate what I was feeling, left the weight room and walked to the training room. I told the trainers what happened and lay right down on the training bed to ice down the arm.

I felt very defeated. I knew that I had been foolish to attempt such weights that I had not been accustomed to lifting in the past. I knew the jumpy nerves that had occurred in my arm were a direct result of said foolishness. I wanted so badly to lift weights with my teammates like I hadn't been hurt, and figured I could just because I hadn't felt any pain or discomfort in recent past. And obviously, I was wrong.

After a session of icing and electrical stimulation, the feeling had been regained in my fingers. My trainers told me not to worry about the excess nerves, it was a natural bodily reaction to my stupidity. I left the athletic facility and went home kicking myself.

Despite my successful progression thus far in the process the moral of the story is that one needs to walk before they can run. I cannot become so complacent as to assume I can skip steps in any part of the process just because of the fact that I am theoretically feeling good. I need to maintain my continuous (and monotonous) progression and in due time, reach my intended goal. The ignorance that I displayed on Thursday is the exact type of action that could potentially hinder me from reaching that ultimate goal, and I hold myself to a higher standard of perseverance than to subject myself to attempting such actions.

Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T18:01:00.002-05:00

Valentine's Day is upon us. It is a day in which bright pink teddy bears and sweet smelling roses get passed around. It is a day in which Godiva Chocolatier probably makes an absolute killing. It is a day in which loved ones share gifts with each other and express their feelings to one another.

For me, Valentine's Day this year is somewhat bitter sweet. I'm sitting here with my girlfriend, who is spending the night at my house at school. So from a relationship perspective, everything is more than fine. However there have been years in the past in which I was not in a relationship on Valentine's Day. For a single guy, Valentine's Day is just another date on the calendar...February 14th...every year. And in my opinion, February 14th is typically a time of year that is very important- for another reason.

Around this time of year, every year, baseball season begins. Division II, Division III, Junior College and NAIA schools have started play in some parts of the country. Some high school teams in warmer states have begun their scheduled games. Division I schools open up this weekend. Major League spring training report date is this Sunday (and last year fell on Valentine's Day). With games beginning now or in the near future, practices and preseason preparation is in full swing. For most, this is the time of year when arms begin to get prepped, swings become consistent and cardiovascular conditioning reaches its peak.

During this time a year, I am accustomed to doing much of the same that my teammates are doing. Tweaking my pitches off the mound, building up my arm strength, readying myself to take on the upcoming schedule of opponents. I'm accustomed to lifting weights, completing our team exercises, running to condition ourselves for battle. I am accustomed to completing all of the required elements for mental and physical preparation for the season.

Every day in the last few weeks, I've found myself waking up in the wee hours of the morning, long before the sun rises. I hop in the car and drive up to campus to arrive in the gym, where the rest of my teammates are sitting around and chatting, all dressed in apparel given to them by the school. When the head coach walks in a few minutes later, the entire team is instructed to start warming up, which consists of a slew of dynamic stretches that take approximately 15 minutes. After the stretching is completed, the team runs. And runs and runs and runs. Sometimes, teammates fall to muscle cramps, others to unruly stomachs. After about a half hour of non-stop conditioning and excruciating cardio training, the team is instructed to rest. Each and every player, dripping with sweat and breathing heavily, kneels down as the team convenes in the middle of the gym, attempting as best as possible to regain some air. The head coach provides the team instructions for baseball practice, which is to follow several hours later in the afternoon after classes wind down. The team huddles up, speaks briefly to one another, and then departs for the locker room.

My morning is identical to my teammates' morning, up until the head coach's orders to warm up. As everyone revolves around the gym and struggles about the morning conditioning, I continue to calmly sit on the side of the gym alongside the rest of the coaching staff. I sit comfortably and quietly, with no sweat hanging from my brow and no elevated heart rate. I cheer on my teammates, providing an optimistic voice through the misery that is evidenced on their faces. After the conditioning is over and everyone heads to the locker room to shower, I retreat to the weight room to complete my day's worth of exercises.

Alone.

NCAA rules mandate that I am not eligible for a medical hardship waiver if I participate in practices with the team as a player. Because of my predicament and my standing as a volunteer assistant coach on the team, my duties are confined to "coaching things". I hit fungos, underhand front toss and hold the stopwatch. I tell pitchers to stop choking their changeup, and to get over their front side, and to stay on top of their two-seamers.

Being able to participate in a sense that I am contributing to the team in some way is something that I thought would be a great feeling. I figured it would be incredibly self-gratifying to be able to assist my teammates- my brothers- in their quest for a championship.

Truth be told, I was wrong. I don't want to stand on the side of the gym and watch my teammates run sprints. I don't want to stand in the dugout and watch my middle infielders turn double plays. I don't want to initiate a defensive practice and tell freshmen what bases to cover on a rundown. I don't want to watch pitchers throw bullpens.

I want to play baseball.

I want to be out there screaming and sweating and pushing my body to the point of collapse with my teammates. I want to step on the mound and throw live bullpens to hitters that are attempting to hit the ball as hard as they can on me. I want to cover first base on a PFP drill for hours on end. I want to be able to help my teammates on the field, and I want them to be able to help me.

Instead of preparing for battle with the family of teammates that I have come to love in my last three years of college baseball, I am imprisoned to the sideline. And when the time comes for me to complete whatever physical activities I need to complete that day...throwing, running, lifting, etc., I am required to complete these on my own time. Detached from the group of guys I love. Away from the game I live to play.

This year's Valentine's Day dinner with my girlfriend will taste especially good because it is reminiscent of all the great times we've had together thus far in our relationship. But when the meal is done and I begin to sit down and ponder, my thoughts will turn to the biggest void in my life. Baseball.

Happy Valentine's Day to everyone.

I Threw Off a Mound.

2012-02-06T19:30:00.003-05:00

Rather than spending the majority of my weekend irking with anticipation, I made it a point to relax and not think about the fact that I was set to throw off a mound earlier today. I hung out with my friends, worked out, did some homework assignments. I ate pizza and wings and watched the Super Bowl with a group of people. After the game yesterday I decided it was about time to start winding down and getting ready for bed. I settled in with the lights out at around 10 PM (an unheard of early time for college kids) and started trying to go to sleep. I tossed and turned for a few minutes and couldn't seem to get comfortable. I'd feel hot, then cold. Soon thereafter, a headache seeped in.

Before long, I was fully entrenched in a sickness. I spent much of my night last night jockeying back and forth from my bedroom to the bathroom, shimmying beneath my sheets in desperate attempts to get comfortable. I had fallen victim to exactly what my girlfriend had fallen victim to the night before, a woeful misfortune of the dreaded "24 hour stomach bug".

Finally when the clock turned to 4 AM and I still hadn't slept, I knew I'd had enough. I texted the head coach of my college team and told him I wouldn't be able to make our morning conditioning because I was sick (this normally would not be OK but I am unable to participate in any capacity aside from coaching duties due to the NCAA's policies on medical redshirting, so therefore missing a morning conditioning practice isn't the end of the world). I tossed and turned and sprinted to the bathroom a few times more before FINALLY falling asleep.

I awoke at about 10 o'clock, sleeping right through my first class of the day. I struggled and made my way to campus for my 11 and 12 o'clock classes, feeling abnormally sore and sick from the previous night's conditions. I dredged my way through those few classes and went to the training room. I was told that I wouldn't be allowed to even attempt to do anything physical if I couldn't hold any food down. So I went back home and had two pieces of toast and some chicken noodle soup, which surprisingly sat fine in my stomach. In fact, I think it may have given me a little strength. I went back up to campus and was given permission to change into my practice gear and continue on with the rehab I was supposed to do.

Today was a rare opportunity for my college team to take advantage of the abnormally warm weather conditions and practice outside (unheard of for February 6th in upstate New York). I made my way up to the field with our starting catcher and began warming up in the outfield, attempting to work through the sickness as best as I could. I completed the required warm-up throwing, out to 120 feet, and then proceeded to make my way to the bullpen mounds.

Despite the weak condition of my body, the number one feeling I had as I approached the rubber was emotions. I was a nervous wreck, staring at the mound of dirt that seemed like it was a thousand feet in the air. I climbed to the top and quickly maneuvered the ground around beneath me, making comfortable planting and landing areas that I'd become accustomed to pitching in the past. A crowd of teammates began accumulating around me, knowing very well that this was my first time off a mound since the injury occurred. I finally moved the dirt around enough to feel comfortable and stepped to the front of the mound. After unleashing a few more warm up tosses, I motioned for my catcher to squat down. I came set, took a deep gulp, and threw.

The ball sailed through the air slowly, at about 50% of my maximum velocity (as designed by the doctor's protocol). As I finished my follow through I walked my catcher's mitt engulf the ball 60 feet 6 inches away from me, before he quickly transferred it back to his throwing hand to throw it back to me.

Such an action is something that I've taken for granted and overlooked in the past. The act of pitching a baseball used to be so easy to me, it was something that never had any physical or emotional ramifications other than some next day soreness or getting hit around that day. But throwing that first pitch earlier this afternoon, releasing it towards my target, that was something that I missed so dearly. The feeling of exploding down the mound, of getting on top of the ball and driving it towards home plate. That is something I will never take for granted again.

I threw 14 more pitches that were very similar to the first one and concluded my session for the day. I continued my coaching duties and proceeded to complete my necessary rehab exercises.

I learned a lesson today, a very good lesson. Obstacles such as sickness cannot hold me back from what I am trying to accomplish. Because what I want to accomplish is something I haven't been able to do in a long, long time, and it's something I want to do very dearly. Pitch a baseball.

This afternoon, I did just that.

Reminiscing and Recreating

2012-01-31T15:56:00.002-05:00

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

2012-01-24T20:16:00.004-05:00

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

2012-01-19T19:27:00.004-05:00

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?

Livin' on a Prayer

2012-01-14T19:50:00.005-05:00

There's an old saying that I've heard throughout much of my life that many things, good or bad, come in bunches. Tommy John Surgery is no different in that respect. With Tommy John, those things come in bunches of six. It was originally supposed to be a six hour flight to Pensacola, with layovers, but of course that drastically changed (http://joshherzenberg.blogspot.com/2011/07/d-day.html). Six days post-op I lifted a cup of water to my mouth for the first time. Six weeks post-op was the first day I could be in public without the bionic arm. SIXteen weeks (bear with me) post-op, I threw a baseball for the first time. And next Saturday, January 21, 2012, is the point that is six months post-op for me.

Six months. That's pretty incredible to think about. I've gone from literally not being able to move my fingers to throwing a ball 120 feet. I've gone from not being able to press a button on an elevator to doing pushups. I've gone from not being able to bend or straighten my arm even a centimeter to curling dumbbells and performing triceps pushdowns.

The amazement that the progression leaves me with is an incredibly satisfying feeling. To track my step-by-step daily growth is an experience that is one of a kind because it enables me to not only sense the gratification of my current standing, but reminisce a bit on what I was in the past.

Yet through all of the self-fulfilling accomplishments and progress that I have already been through, there's one underlying startling fact behind the entire scenario:

Six.

Six months.

Six months means I'm halfway there.

Halfway? Are you kidding me? I've been working every single day of my life since surgery to get to the point that I am today. Literally every day. I would estimate that the amount of hours I've put into the rehabilitation of my arm would be several, several hundred, and may be just about eclipsing into the thousands. I have never had a setback and continually strive to make steps towards the next phase of my rehab.

I've written a few times in the past about my final desire to reach my goal of pitching competitively in a game once again. Of course, that is the goal of every individual that has some sort of operation. They'd love to get back to their original self...or even better than their original self. I am no different from the next person in that respect and will continue to push to enable myself to reach that goal. My fears aren't any different than those individuals either...fears of not being able to reach those goal, of peaking at a plateau that is not high enough, of a setback.

My goals have not changed at all since I received that initial phone call from Dr. Andrews. As soon as I heard the words over the phone- in a calm southern drawl- "You need Tommy John Surgery," my brain went to work. I yearned so badly to prove to myself that I can perform at a high level once again, and to regain the euphoric atmosphere that surrounds me when I step on the mound. I yearned to prove to others that I had the work ethic and the persistence to be able to accomplish that feat. Mostly though, I yearned to just play baseball again. That's all I wanted to do. Just play.

I've been on an emotional roller coaster in the last six months that is not quite something that an individual can prepare for. I sometimes feel emotionally drained, and sometimes feel as though it's not worth it anymore. Other times I feel like I am progressing my way into a World Series start at Yankee Stadium. However, the most startling aspect of the process is simple: I've done so much to get to this point already and yet I still have so much more to go. I've pushed myself to my extreme limits- mentally and physically- just to get halfway there.

Despite the somewhat distraught and stressful feeling that I have in association with the thought of enduring another six months of progressive misery, I know there is still hope. This morning I was in New York City working out with three buddies of mine, all of whom were right-handed pitchers who were all drafted by Major League teams at the end of their college careers. The catch? At one point during their time in college, they were required to redshirt a season due to undergoing Tommy John Surgery. We talked for a while about the process, shared stories about the ups and downs of rehab, and laughed when we all put our arms up in the air to reveal the oh-so-familiar scar (http://joshherzenberg.blogspot.com/2011/07/greek-life-of-sports-medicine.html). I continued doing what I was doing, and they went to the other side of the facility to throw with each other in preparation for spring training, which is quickly approaching. After a minute or so, I made my way to them just to watch for a minute. I witnessed baseballs being whipped back and forth with no reserve, provided a resounding thud of the mitt with every single throw. There was no hesitation, no difficulties.

These young men, my friends, had endured everything I am going through right now and still made their way to the end of the program. They successfully recovered from Tommy John and are being compensated with it by having professional contracts. They got passed the barrier, over the hump, and continued to move. White Sox, Reds, Angels.

I've been through this whole process for six months. Six. Halfway there.

It's Not That Bad

2012-01-05T22:01:00.005-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ReKXI401xhs

As a quick prelude to the following blog post, I provided the above link for those interested. This past Monday my father accompanied me to our local high school football field where I completed my throwing session with a college teammate. Armed with my sister's digital camera, he took a clip of me throwing from three different angles for about two minutes. I uploaded the video to YouTube as a reference for both those who have been following along with me here on this blog and for my viewing as well. The video of me throwing shows that the recovery is largely a heavy work in progress, and yet it is a visual chronicle that enables me to truly get a gauge of how far I've come. Five months ago I sat on the couch in my parent's house...gulping down Vicodin pills and struggling to make a fist. A few days ago I crow-hopped into 75 throws 90 feet away from my friend, with no pain or discomfort whatsoever. Modern medicine, specifically orthopedics, is truly a miracle.

I sat here a few hours ago fiddling around on the Internet and began skimming through my past blog posts. I re-read the complaints I had in July directly after surgery, and I re-read the frustrations I felt with the "bionic arm" in August. I re-read about the first time I lifted a weight, the first time I had a setback, the first time I threw a baseball. I traced my steps all the way to the video above, and spent a good amount of that time in a deep state of reflection. I am incredibly satisfied with my progress up to this point and will continue to work hard towards continued progress into the future. However during that time of reflection, I came across something that hit me very hard.

My next door neighbors at home have had a very tough time since 2005. It was then that they lost their daughter, who was the victim of a brutal attack in her off-campus apartment as a sophomore in college. Recovering from the loss of a child is something that is unimaginably difficult and an experience that I don't wish anyone to ever have to deal with. As their lives continued on, the healing process grew stronger. A charity was founded under their daughter's name and has raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for off-campus safety awareness. Their older daughter has since been married and is due to have her first child in the next month. Then suddenly, their lives have been thrown upside down once again.

Last week the husband/father of the family was diagnosed with liver cancer. He would need a transplant in order to ensure the possibility of a full recovery.

After all of the heart-wrenching turmoil that the family has gone through in the last few years, the fear of death was back upon them. Cancer is an ominous and frightening word, and the fact that the tumor was eating away at his liver was not taken lightly in everyone's minds.

Last month while sharing a meal, the man shared with me news of his future: his sister would donate half of her liver to him in a transplant operation at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. It was a blessing that his sister was found to be a match and it was a blessing that she would be so courageous as to volunteer to help her brother in his fight to beat cancer. Such an event is so life-changing- both literally and figuratively- that it is truly inspiring to witness.

Two hours ago I received word that both my next door neighbor and his sister were in recovery after a successful liver transplant. They are currently resting comfortably in their hospital rooms at Columbia-Presbyterian and we are all very hopeful that the cancer has subsided and completely gone away.

Learning about experiences like these are everyday life and are events that, despite recognition of their disastrous nature, go relatively unnoticed because of the lack of personal connection that most people have with these circumstances. However, when something like the death of a loved one or the looming of a tumor within an individual that is close occurs, these particular occurrences can literally alter the way a person views life.

The sequence of development that has been established within this family's life has affected me in ways that are unimaginable. During my period of reflection earlier today when I continued to read through my own trials and tribulations of recovering from Tommy John a thought ran through my head...should I REALLY be keeping a blog talking about this? There are people that are very close to me in my life that are dealing with situations of much more severity and much greater longstanding ramifications than what I am going through right now. Should I really be keeping a log of my thoughts in a public manner such as a blog?

Simply put, am I whining over something that has turned into one whole giant exaggeration?

When I step out onto that field tomorrow to continue with my throwing program and step to release that first throw I will no longer be thinking about my mechanics or the fear of pain in my elbow. I will no longer be cognizant of my soreness or groan about my lack of patience with my progression. Tomorrow morning I will think of one thing and one thing only: my neighbor, Mark, resting comfortably in his hospital room with a new liver.

Modern medicine truly is a miracle...not just orthopedics. I am thankful that I am physically capable to do all the things that I am currently able to do because I fully recognize that there are many individuals in the world that are much less fortunate to have these opportunities. And my work ethic and the progress that I make will consist of having those individuals in the back of my mind...realizing that I am blessed to be doing what I am doing.

Perfect Practice Makes Perfect

2011-12-29T13:53:00.003-05:00

Athletes, by nature, follow an intuitive daily routine that revolves around a feeling of comfort in their preparation. Each day prior to beginning any physical activity, the warm up that my teammates and I take part in is methodical in nature and customary in habit. We run and stretch, readying our bodies for the ensuing exertion. On days in which that physical activity includes some sort of baseball playing, throwing is involved in that warm up. We begin at short distances and low velocities, and work gradually as we progress further and further from each other. Some days we extend ourselves in a practice known to baseball players as long toss, throwing the ball extreme distances in order to strengthen our arms. Some days we keep the distance shorter, focusing on specific tasks or giving our arms a rest from the soreness that may have come on during the previous day. Nevertheless, there is always some sort of throwing that we take part in before practice or a game.

The methods of stretching and running and throwing always remained relatively similar throughout all of my experiences on the field, and became even more methodical as I progressed to higher levels of baseball. I grew comfortable with my routine and felt as though I was well prepared both mentally and physically for participating in the upcoming baseball to the best of my ability.

The continuous repetitions of my preparation were something that I somewhat took for granted over time. I became careless with perfecting each movement, and didn't think twice about my throwing mechanics. I would stretch and I would run and I would throw with the purpose of getting my body loose. I wouldn't stretch and run and throw with the purpose of getting my body prepared.

Prepare is a wonderfully in depth word. Merriam-Webster defines the word in the context of the verb "to prepare" as "to make ready beforehand for some purpose, use or activity." The example they provide is "prepare food for dinner." The word prepare in and of itself is a word that I assume every English speaking person knows and uses in his or her everyday life beginning at a very young age. But, just like any other word in the English language, the word prepare can be analyzed much further than what it is at the most outlying layer of itself.

What exactly does it mean to adequately prepare for a subsequent event? How does one recognize when he or she becomes adequately prepared for said event? These profound metacognitive thoughts are meant to provoke an introspective relationship with oneself and one's bodily actions. Yet that relationship is one that is very difficult- nearly impossible actually- to fully recognize. It is that relationship that separates the good from the great, whether it is referring to an intellectual activity or a physical activity. Recognizing the personal requirements that oneself may have in order to adequately prepare for optimal performance is one of the true marvels that human beings have so much trouble accomplishing.

A few months ago, I was just like any other individual who had trouble reaching this peak of introspective capacity. I would go about my methodical preparation without any sense of haste for perfection, without any laser-like focus. When I stretched my body, I'd stretch haphazardly. When I'd throw, I'd throw to make sure that my arm would not hurt when using it to it's full extent when required to do so. The purpose of my preparation wasn't maximization, it was satisfaction.

And then I got hurt. And everything changed.

This injury has made me realize that my time in the game is precious. I cannot take my body for granted because eventually, it will give out on me. My body does not have a capability that enables self-recuperation. If I don't take care of it, it will break down. And it did...and I'm just now paying the consequences. This injury has provided me with an outlet for that introspective reflection on the act of preparation. No longer do I step on the field and carelessly go about my warm up. No longer do I go through my methods of readying myself arbitrarily. Every single stretch I complete is with a purpose and every single throw I make is for a reason. Preparing myself for competition is the single most important aspect of reaching my ultimate goal of success. And I now come to an understanding of what it truly takes to adequately prepare myself.

I strive for perfection, and prepare myself as perfectly as I can. That's the only way to go about things and reach my goals. Coming back from such an operation as Tommy John Surgery is a daunting task, and one that can only be accomplished through grit and toughness. That work ethic begins with preparation. Each day when I begin a workout or a throwing session, I make sure that I complete every rep to the fullest and every throw to the best of my abilities. Preparedness is the key to all success, and preparedness is what I am working at...every single day.