“You better not feel any pain in that shoulder,” said Tim Hicks, the manager of the Dragons. He was referring to my right hitch.
“No pain. We’re all good.”
Hicks eyed me from the floor to the tallest brown hair on my head. “Good. I’m throwing you today, Clark. Be ready.”
I nodded and turned to walk away, but Hicks wasn’t done. “
I nodded, chuckled to myself, and walked out.
--***--
My second professional appearance didn’t arrive as simply as the prior one had. The starter got tagged around like he was tossing up softballs, so coach turned to me in the top of the fourth inning, with runners on second and third.
My shoulder felt great as I threw my warm up tosses. The ball was firing out of my hand like bullets out of a rifle. My control wasn’t excellent, but I knew I was throwing hard again, and I could do more than just get by with ninety-seven mile per hour heat. I wanted to declare in my mind that KJ Clark was back, but with an eye to the superstitious I held off. I’m not there yet.. but boy am I close.
Coach Hicks walked out to the mound and took the ball from the starter. He tapped his right wrist, and right then, I felt the fire start to burn. I closed my eyes took a deep breath, and felt the intensity engulf me like a tidal wave. I climbed off the bullpen mound, burst through the outfield door and started to jog into the game. I was entering my first important situation as a professional baseball player. No outs. Game tied at three. Runners on the corners, and the
Game time.
--***--
“You ready
I nodded. “I think so, yeah.” It was the truth. I could feel the anticipation eating away at me; Get off the mound and let me work, Coach.
Coach Hicks’ eyes peered right into me. “I hope. Let’s take care of business, gentlemen.”
The catcher, George Smith, gave me a wink and jogged back to home plate.
--***--
Georgie gave me the index, and I gave him a 97 MPH fastball low and in to the leadoff hitting righty at the dish. The umpire pointed to his right, signaling a strike. Oh and One.
Georgie called for another fastball, this time low and away. I rocked and fired a bullet that broke out of the strike zone, but the batter swung and tapped it foul towards first base. Oh and Two.
I quickly climbed back onto the mound. I felt my intensity beginning to take over. It was becoming just reaction after reaction, no real thinking going on to slow the process. I was just throwing now, not pitching. It was fluid, easy, just like before my rotator cuff tear.
My repertoire included the four-seamer, a seventy-nine mph change up with slight movement, a decent eleven-to-five (hands on a clock) breaking curveball, and a biting, devastating slider that came in at about eighty-nine mph. I was very, very proud of that slider, and although if trouble occurs I always fell back on my fastball, my slider could dominate.
Georgie put down three fingers and some other gestures, but all I needed was the three. I rocked, fired, and threw a sharp slider that started just beneath the belt, middle of the plate, and broke like a brick falling from the sky, ending up at the knees, pegging the outside corner. The umpire pumped his fist, signaling the strikeout. One down.
I didn’t slow down. Georgie called for another fastball, and even though the pitch was hard—97 MPH—it was over the heart of the plate. The batter made contact, but he slapped it foul. Oh and One.
George threw down his index and middle fingers, calling for the change. I let it loose, just missing the outside corner low and away. One and One. I stepped off the mound and glanced over at the runners. The man on first was a catcher and no threat to steal. The runner on third was quicker, but I was staring him in the eye each time I stepped on the rubber. If he broke for the plate it was an easy out, regardless if I delivered the pitch or not. He’s not out-running a 98 MPH fastball.
I stepped back onto the mound and stared in to George. He gave me the index, and I came into the set position. I looked to third, then to second, and delivered the pitch, a blistering 99 MPH fastball up and in that the batter missed. One and Two.
Let me drop the hammer was my only thought after getting the second strike. The slider was sick the first time I threw it, and when it’s on, you have to run with it. I never liked to waste pitches, and even if it meant defying what Coach wanted, if George called for anything but a fastball or slider I was shaking him off.
George did what was right, dropped three fingers, and I held up my end of the bargain. The slider broke off the plate low and away, and the batter followed, swinging and missing. Two down.
The three hitter walked over and stepped into the batter’s box. He wasn’t a big muscular guy, but in the first inning he slammed a fastball out of the park, which is the kind of thing a pitcher tends to remember. The power was there. But I couldn’t help but think… He hasn’t seen my fastball yet.
George felt the same way. He called a fastball, low and away. I came set, checked my runners, and delivered. It nailed the outside corner, 97 MPH, for a called strike one. Oh and One.
George asked for another heater, and I nodded. I rocked and fired a 97 MPH fastball that just missed inside. One and One.
I walked off the mound, and wiped the sweat of my forehead. The batter was watching me, trying to guess my next move. He knew the slider that I’d uncorked on the past two hitters; he had to be cautious of it. My ego didn’t want to throw the slider, though. I wanted to bring the heat.
After tossing the rosin bag for a second, I climbed back onto the mound. George dropped his index, middle and ring fingers, calling for the slider. With the count one and one, I didn’t really like the call, but I went with it. The pitch missed low. Two and One. I was down in the count.
I didn’t waste any time getting back on the rubber. George cut the crap and gave me a fastball. I came set, checked my runners and fired in heat.
The batter pulled it foul, and he was right on it. The scoreboard read 95 MPH, a slight drop from where I’d been sitting. The count was now Two and Two, a slight pitchers count, but only because I had two more chances to screw up and the batter didn’t have any.
Now you call the slider, big guy. George must have blocked my telepathy, because he dropped his index and middle fingers, asking for a changeup. I sternly shook him off. One of two choices, Georgey. Power pitches man, not the off speed junk!
I noticed Coach give me a piercing look from the dugout, but I shook it off. I was relieved to see that George had gotten it together; he called for the slider.
The hitter bit hard on the slider. The pitch started inside at the belt and took a sharp drop near the plate. The batter swung and missed and the ball ended up right beneath the knees, snugly in George’s glove. Three Out, Inning Over.
--***--
My first inherited situation as a pro ended up going very smoothly. My line read: 1 Inning Pitched, 3 Strikeouts, 0 Walks, 0 Hits, and Zero Runs Allowed. Everything went as planned.
My fastball was crisp and my control improved as my pitch count steadily rose. The slider was the strikeout pitch twice, and was biting both times. The change up was a nothing pitch, but that’s all it’s meant to be.
I ended up only throwing one inning that day. The Dragon offense exploded in the next half-inning, scoring eight runs. Coach told me to go get treatment, so I did.
The trainers wrapped my right shoulder up, nice and tight, with some ice to be safe. They always asked how it felt, and although I was saying the same answer repeatedly, it felt good in of itself to be able to say… “I promise guys, my arm feels great.”
The surgery and the injury was haunting. Losing the ability to perform a God-given talent is a traumatizing event, especially for a green nineteen year old like myself. Baseball, and pitching to be more specific, is all I know. It’s my safety blanket, my only venue to be myself. I need this game.
I don’t know what I’d do without it.
