When I was ten years old, I discovered that I could throw things much, much faster than anyone else. I was like a sharpshooter when it came to playground dodge ball, let me tell you. I threw in a crisp, clean, over the top motion, slightly turning to the left after my right arm whipped past my ear.
When T-Ball morphed into my first experience pitching, I discovered how much fun throwing could be. By high school, my talents were leading me to state records and championships. Offers from scouts and college coaches flooded in like a dam had collapsed.
Why? Because I could throw hard.
I was drafted, number 18 overall, by the Cincinnati Reds. That was kind of a rough pill, having grown up in
Sadly, the dream didn’t last. During my senior year I routinely sat at 97 MPH. My first day as a professional baseball player, in Extended Spring Training, I clocked in at 92. The team sent me for an MRI and the doctors discovered a torn rotator cuff. I had surgery the same week and missed what the stats guy called my “Age-18” year.
Talk about killing a dream. I’d heard the horror stories before about young pitchers blowing up, but I was very healthy, and always had been. I was careful with my mechanics, and my coaches were diligent about low pitch counts for us high school guys.
The doctor explained that these things happen. Not all arms are built for baseball, he told me. That’s all well and fine, but… wasn’t mine built exclusively for this? Are you telling me that I was created to do something other than be a Major League Pitcher?
I don’t believe you. I won’t believe you. I can’t believe you.
--***--
I got my first chance at game action for Single-A Dayton, a year and a month after my surgery. They gave me #78 (I’m not an offensive lineman, just so you know) and told me I’d be in by the 5th inning, so be ready. I nodded, and trudged out to the bullpen.
By the third inning, we had a comfortable lead, but what did I care? This was my debut, albeit belated and under celebrated. It’s safe to say that my ego had anticipated more fanfare than what Fifth Third Field could’ve offered. It helped that my parents were in attendance, though my mom couldn’t stop crying over seeing her son in his first pro uniform.
By the bottom of the third I started to stretch, just to be safe. I wanted to be very prepared. My shoulder had been reconstructed and had been cleared for take off, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it could do what it used to. I was throwing freaking darts, man, but my arm couldn’t take it. It fell apart. Could it be rebuilt? The hospital bills the club picked up said it could, but I needed to see with my own eyes, in a real game against live competition.
The bullpen phone rang, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. A second later, the bullpen coach pointed to me. I climbed onto the bullpen mound and felt the jolt of excitement, the same jolt that always hit me when the time was nearing for me to step into the action. It all came back, the emotions and thoughts I used to have. I felt the burning intensity again. I looked around at the people and smiled to myself. I love this.
But I had work to do. It was time for the test run.
I started the warm up process gingerly, just as I always had. Slow, loopy tosses to the catcher, slowly bringing up the intensity of the throws until I was ready for the mound. I shook my arm out a little, then twisted and bent over, stretching, before finally taking the mound.
I stared down at the catcher, ignoring the sounds around me. All I saw was him direct the symphony. He started by placing his index finger beneath his crouch, pointing directly to the dirt beneath him.
I nodded and came to the set position. My right hand, resting gently above my waist, was gripping the baseball and was now shoved into the mesh of my glove. My legs sat shoulder length apart, perfectly parallel.
I took a deep breath, and threw. I felt my arm whip past my body, and I heard the catcher’s mitt pop. My finishing position was perfect, both legs parallel from each other, my shoulders facing the catcher, ready for a potential come-backer from the bat of the hitter.
“Nice ball there, K-J. How’s it feel?” Coach Johnson, the bullpen coach, asked.
“It’s fine. No feeling.” I cracked a smile. “No pain.” I wasn’t sure if the bullpen coach was at excited as I was, but my smile didn’t wash away for a few seconds, regardless.
--***--
“Introducing, pitching for YOUR
Wasn’t much of a pop, I noticed. The jog into the mound was unbelievable. This was it, the start of the dream, re-born again. The shoulder felt so damn good warming up, I couldn’t stop smiling. I quickly found my parents sitting in the stands, and chuckled at my mom sobbing. My dad was smiling, and pumped his fist at me. I nodded.
He knew. I knew.
Game Time.
--***--
My first professional strikeout victim was a 20 year Single-A utility infielder named… shit. I never got his name. I remember he was number thirty-five, though.
I started him off with a fastball, hard and in, right beneath the belt. Oh and One.
I knew I shouldn’t have, but I peaked over my shoulder and read the MPH reading off the scoreboard. It was refreshing, like a warm shower after a long day. The numbers seemed to wipe a ten-thousand pound weight clean off my shoulders. 98 MPH.
I turned back around and climbed the mound. Instantly I remembered the position of power this entitled, holding the ball. My mound. My throne.
The catcher wanted a change-up, which I could throw reasonably well. But I wasn’t dancing to his tune today. I shook him off sternly. Give me the heat, I whispered to myself. The catcher put the single index down, and I nodded.
He sat up outside, low and away from the batter. I rocked and threw a blistering fastball that the batter flailed at. He took a step out of the batters box, shaking his head. Oh and Two.
The catcher walked out to the mound and asked me how I felt about a curveball. I had a nice curve in my holster if I needed it, but I wasn’t about to fire that particular bullet. Not today.
“Heat man. That’s all I want. Just give me the index.”
The catcher nodded, smiled, and trotted back behind the dish. He crouched and gave me the single index.
I fired in a 99 MPH fastball, high and away. It froze the batter solid, and the umpire pumped his fist wildly behind the catcher.
Strikeout.
