Well, that was quick.
I have been, as they say in baseball, "released" by the organization. Cuts were made on Sunday night after the day's scrimmage (that I did not participate in based on my back flaring up again), by text message. By form text message. By a form text message with a typo in it.
Thanks, coach. You're welcome for busting my ass over the last couple months, and I understand if you didn't want to spend a few precious seconds making sure your avoidance of face-to-face contact had correct spelling. Classy.
I did get the chance to talk about it, though. I went in this morning to coach's office, where we talked for a few minutes about what he thought and why. Coach explained that as a non-scholarship player that would only be around for one year, I basically had to show that I was good enough to start to be kept on the roster. There were too many other players that either had already been given scholarship money and couldn't get cut, or were freshmen who had 5 years to learn from the organization instead of one. So for me, they would rather use a bench slot on someone else. And there was no point in keeping me around for the next few weeks of training and fall ball when they knew what the outcome was going to be.
I understand why they made that decision, and I can't sit here and say that they should have done something different. A decision like that comes down to a coach's philosophy of what is best for his program, and that's up to him. They evaluated my talent correctly. The kicker is, I could have saved us all a bunch of time and TOLD them this was going to happen. I could have said, "look, I'm not good enough to be a starter. I don't hit for enough power, and my arm's not strong enough. My use to this team is going to be through foot speed and leadership." And coach would have said, "I understand, and a roster spot is too valuable to spend on a player that brings that to the table."
And so I would have been saved all the throwing up I did over the summer. BOY did I spend a lot of time on this.
But you know what? I'm not sorry. I'd do it again. To be part of a D-1 program, to get the gear and be part of the team, and see that I was one of the 35 most talented players on the field at this point in time (even if some of these freshmen project pretty well), was worth it and I'd do it again. Besides, I got some great writing material out of it.
--
So now what? My baseball career is finally over. After 17 years, hundreds of games, thousands of at-bats, and who knows how many swings and games of catch, my playing career has finished. What a ride! Baseball has certainly been the defining part of my life to this point, and has taught me much about life: hard work, success, teamwork, failure, disappointment, management, fitness, even spirituality. But oddly enough, I'm not as sad as I thought I would be. I feel less like I'm being forced out of something I love, and more like I finally finished working on a huge project, where now I'm sitting back and thinking what a great accomplishment it was. I think the fact that I knew it was going to end soon, whether it was this last May, or now, or next June, made me think about it and come to terms with it before it happened. Adding to the list of positives is that there's an awful lot of stuff that I have now been freed to be able to do:
-- I have an extra 30 hours a week. 30 hours! I talked to a professor yesterday for a half hour, and I think I'm going to be able to start doing research in his lab. I mean, I AM here for academics, anyways.
-- I can golf! I haven't been able to golf more than a handful of times since I got serious about baseball. I LOVE golf. I'll have to work on my swing, certainly, but I've got some time for that now.
-- I can snowboard! Same deal; the danger of wrist injury kept me away from snowboarding all through high school and college. I have some money saved up that I think I'm going to spend on some new gear: boots, bindings, board, maybe some pants, the works. And student rates for season passes are in the $300 range, which is AWESOME.
-- I can visit friends! I had to tell all of my friends at the end of school, when we all went our separate ways around the country, that I didn't know when was the next time I would be able to see them. Now I have the time to make a few trips and spend some time with people who are important to me.
-- I can drink! Maybe this isn't a big deal for some of you, but I do occasionally like to sit down and have a drink, maybe two, maybe get blind drunk and pass out with my shoes on. Pretty normal for a 22-year-old. But while most of my peers were enjoying their newfound legality over the past few years, I was staying sober for training and baseball. I don't think I'll develop into a steady drinker, but I like at least having the freedom to do so.
-- I'm not constantly in pain! I don't have to throw a baseball for as long as I want. I don't have to swing a bat for as long as I want. I can let my hands, my elbow, my shoulder, my back, my foot, everything on me that hurt at least a little ALL THE TIME finally take a rest. I can lift and run when I want, and take a break when I want.
That's a pretty good list, and that's just the start. I don't think I will be hurting for things to do in the meantime.
But...
It's not springtime yet. And when spring comes, and the grass is growing, and spring training starts, and the frost gives way to new grass, it will be baseball season. And I won't be playing. When I had to sit out a year for my shoulder, the track guys all made fun of me because I kept telling them that it smelled like baseball season. Spring will always mean baseball to me. And I will miss it the most this time around.
Even though my playing days have ended, my relationship with the game has not and never will. In recognition of that, it might be time for me to get my feet wet in the coaching world. I liked being a captain on my old team, and I quickly built a reputation with the younger players here as someone who was knowledgeable and to be respected. I think that translates well into an assistant coach, especially at the high school level; I would hope to focus on hitting, baserunning, and outfielding-- my specialties. I want to learn what it's like to be a head coach from a position that would let me observe from very close, with an established head coach at a good program.
At the end of my conversation with Coach, he told me he knew the head coach of a high school in town that has had a successful program, and he would give him a call and recommend me as an assistant. I don't know yet how that's all going to work with school and class and my other newfound activities, but I think this is a step in the right direction. And it's a way to stay involved in the game that has meant so much to me.
--
Where does that leave Inside the Lines? As a project, it has fulfilled its purpose. I intended to chronicle my time trying to walk on to a D-1 program, and I have done that. I hope the readers have learned a little more about what it's like to live the life of a collegiate baseball player.
I think that for the time being, ITL will remain dormant. I could figure out a way to view my coaching exploits, if they happen, into an extension of what it's like to live inside the lines... but I might have to write a new intro. Maybe re-qualify my opening statement. Something. Whatever. You guys will know what's up.
I guess this is goodbye for now. Thanks for reading.
-- Your Loyal Baseball Scribe
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Scrimmage 1
We had our first actual scrimmage this morning. I was DH... for both teams. Apparently that happens occasionally to get guys more at bats. It meant I got 4 instead of the 2 or 3 that most others got, so I was okay with it. I was 1-4, with the hit coming in my first at-bat. That makes three consecutive schools that my first at-bat has been a hit (high school, college 1, college 2). Awesome trend. Oh, and everyone hit with wood bats today.
AB #1: Pitcher was a righty, threw 91-92 fastball. The hit was a clean single into short right field off of a 3-1 outside fastball. This was the only good pitch to hit I saw all day.
AB #2: A total waste. Pitcher was a lefty, 87-88. First pitch was a high outside fastball that I tried to drag bunt down the 3rd base line. Bad combination; I should have let it go, but I lunged for it and got just enough of it to pop it about 3 feet into the air. The catcher took one step, caught it, and I was out. I was furious.
AB #3: Tough at-bat. Righty, 90-91. First pitch I got a sign to push bunt, and I shit my pants and moved straight through the fastball and missed it, 0-1. Next pitch was one of the filthier change-ups I've seen in a while; it's like the pitch just stopped and dropped about 5 feet from the plate. I swung over it and looked silly. 0-2. Next pitch was a high curveball I let go by, 1-2. Next he went high and away with a fastball, and I swung and missed. K.
AB #4: Different pitcher, similar stuff, 90-91. First pitch was low and in, but questionably called a strike. Next pitch was a curveball for a strike, 0-2. He threw a fastball in the dirt, 1-2. Then I fouled off a high outside fastball, and he threw a changeup in the dirt low and away, 2-2. Last pitch was a curveball that started at my face and fooled me some, but I got enough on it to hit a fly ball to shallow right field.
Honestly, I felt it was a decent showing. I got a hit in my first at-bat since May, off of a 92-mph fastball, with a wood bat. So that's a plus. My hands feel quick and my weight is sitting back, and I'm seeing the ball and reacting. I'm in a very good starting position. I need to get those bunts down, though... I've been bunting great in practice, but I failed on two of them today. Both of them were movement bunts, and I just need to remember not to start my weight toward first until contact has been made.
Room for improvement, but a good beginning. Scrimmage 2 is tomorrow.
AB #1: Pitcher was a righty, threw 91-92 fastball. The hit was a clean single into short right field off of a 3-1 outside fastball. This was the only good pitch to hit I saw all day.
AB #2: A total waste. Pitcher was a lefty, 87-88. First pitch was a high outside fastball that I tried to drag bunt down the 3rd base line. Bad combination; I should have let it go, but I lunged for it and got just enough of it to pop it about 3 feet into the air. The catcher took one step, caught it, and I was out. I was furious.
AB #3: Tough at-bat. Righty, 90-91. First pitch I got a sign to push bunt, and I shit my pants and moved straight through the fastball and missed it, 0-1. Next pitch was one of the filthier change-ups I've seen in a while; it's like the pitch just stopped and dropped about 5 feet from the plate. I swung over it and looked silly. 0-2. Next pitch was a high curveball I let go by, 1-2. Next he went high and away with a fastball, and I swung and missed. K.
AB #4: Different pitcher, similar stuff, 90-91. First pitch was low and in, but questionably called a strike. Next pitch was a curveball for a strike, 0-2. He threw a fastball in the dirt, 1-2. Then I fouled off a high outside fastball, and he threw a changeup in the dirt low and away, 2-2. Last pitch was a curveball that started at my face and fooled me some, but I got enough on it to hit a fly ball to shallow right field.
Honestly, I felt it was a decent showing. I got a hit in my first at-bat since May, off of a 92-mph fastball, with a wood bat. So that's a plus. My hands feel quick and my weight is sitting back, and I'm seeing the ball and reacting. I'm in a very good starting position. I need to get those bunts down, though... I've been bunting great in practice, but I failed on two of them today. Both of them were movement bunts, and I just need to remember not to start my weight toward first until contact has been made.
Room for improvement, but a good beginning. Scrimmage 2 is tomorrow.
80's Aerobics Party
In the interest of chronicling more than just the on-field exploits of a college athlete, I figured I ought to tell a few stories about the party we had the other night. There was a "mixer" between the baseball team and a certain sorority, whose greek letters are meaningless because they're all the same anyways. We'll call them Eta Omicron Sigma... or HOS. Because good lord, these girls were slut-tastic.
First of all, it's worth noting that these kinds of parties, apparently, are very difficult to get into and are highly sought after. Earlier toward the start of school, I was over at "the baseball house" for a gathering. When I arrived, two of the larger members of the team were at the door of the house...as bouncers! And they were turning people away! I got in simply because of my current membership as part of the team, but I hung around to watch what happened. A large group of girls came to the door, and the "bouncers" filtered through the group and admitted the hotter half of the girls, but not the uglier half. There was a brief moment of awkwardness, and then an unspoken exchange between the girls: "Sorry, but I want to hook up with a baseball boy more than I want to be your friend. Catch you later." And then the ugly girls went home. Absolutely astounding, and very sad for me to watch.
On to the party:
-- The Theme. 80's Aerobics. Gentlemen (HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAyeah right) were attired mostly in short shorts, tights, crop tops, sleeveless shirts, headbands, wristbands, all in miserably clashing neon colors. Ladies (HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAeven less likely) were attired in jumpsuits, tights, side ponytails, far too much makeup, and anything that would reveal their boobs and/or butts. This was not an occasion for modesty.
-- The Girls. Never have I encountered a group of individuals with lower self-esteem. Since I am, for the most part, three or four years older than most of these young ladies, they're not exactly my type. I'm not your typical creepy old guy predator (actually, I'm more attracted to the older, more mature type...but that's neither here nor there), so I politely told the drunken jailbait flashing their breasts at me that I wasn't interested in nailing someone I could have babysat at one point. I heard one girl, after getting rejected for the third time in about 15 minutes, annouce to nobody in particular, "c'mon....*stamps foot*...I have to fuck SOMEbody..." Ladies and gentlemen, the future of America!
-- The Guys. I could not believe how unsure of themselves some of these guys are. Not that I wasn't when I was that age...I probably would have been the MOST awkward of all of them. But I thought this would be different-- these kids have been very successful in baseball, and with success comes a lot of attention. Attention from girls, attention from coaches, papers, etc., so most of these kids have been exposed to social situations that other college freshmen haven't. Regardless, an 18-year-old boy remains an 18-year-old boy. Girls were THROWING themselves at these guys, doing everything short of dragging them back to their rooms, and the guys were still wondering if they had a shot with the girls. Unbelievable.
-- The Drunkenness. While the others got absolutely shit-hammered, I nursed two beers over the 5 hours I was there. When I got in my car to drive home, a bunch of guys tried to stop me; they had seen me chatting with people, having a good time, laughing, and so naturally assumed I was hammered. I hope they learn that you can have fun without alcohol, too. Although I think it's only the wonders of beer that lead to our second baseman furiously rounding the bases with a freshman HOS member IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CROWDED BASEMENT WITH PEOPLE SURROUNDING THEM. I honestly think they thought they were alone. Which leads us to...
-- The Story That Makes Me Worried For The Future Of Mankind. DISCLAIMER: This story is unthinkably graphic. We're talking quadruple-X, send the kids to bed, my-parents-won't-believe-this-happened graphic. So if you understandably would rather not know, skip to the Safe Zone.
***BEGIN UNTHINKABLY GRAPHIC SECTION. YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE SAFE ZONE.***
You sick fuck. Of course you want to know what happened.
Our saga begins with a freshman catcher. Because of his racial background, we'll refer to him as Chief Joseph, or CJ for short. On this night, CJ was, in every sense of the word, blackout drunk. He had little comprehension of what was going on in the surrounding world. That does not in any way excuse him for his actions.
Let's rewind to practice that day. One of the players who lives in the house, an upperclassman pitcher, Southpaw, was not pleased about having the party at his house. He informed everyone that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES was ANYONE to even TOUCH THE DOORKNOB to his room. It was off limits to the Pope. It was on lockdown. I don't think he had anything he was hiding, he just wanted to protect his things from unpredictable drunken actions. (File this under obvious foreshadowing.)
That night, things were going rather well for CJ and a young lady, identity (thankfully) unknown. By "going well" I mean that they were both so drunk that their minds had regressed to unconsciously controlling basic life functions: eat, sleep, produce offspring. It was only 11:00, and they were quite full of beer, so that left only one other task. CJ took his lady friend by the hand and gracefully led her up the stairs to find some privacy (or maybe he carried her; it was unclear if she could walk at this point). Obviously, they found Southpaw's room unoccupied, and they quickly climbed into bed.
The young lady of questionable morals, unfortunately, was undergoing a medical process we like to call "bleeding out of her genitals." Sorry, I meant "menstruation." And she had neglected to tell CJ about the onset of her condition before inviting him to jackhammer her with impunity. And he didn't notice. So after they had sex, they turned on the lights to the sight of a deep red Jackson Pollock painting ALL OVER SOUTHPAW'S WHITE SHEETS. There was so much blood, in fact, that it soaked through the sheets to his mattress pad.
To Southpaw's credit, he was displeased, but realized the humor in the situation and stopped short of eviscerating CJ (which is what I would have done). All CJ has to do is take the girl's spandex shorts, which she was wearing at the party, and wear them to lifting on Monday. And, basically, be Southpaw's bitch for the forseeable future.
Unbelievable.
***YOU ARE NOW RETURNING TO THE SAFE ZONE.***
Parties like this are pretty standard fare for nights before off days, the next of which we have this Wednesday. I shudder to think what will end up topping this.
First of all, it's worth noting that these kinds of parties, apparently, are very difficult to get into and are highly sought after. Earlier toward the start of school, I was over at "the baseball house" for a gathering. When I arrived, two of the larger members of the team were at the door of the house...as bouncers! And they were turning people away! I got in simply because of my current membership as part of the team, but I hung around to watch what happened. A large group of girls came to the door, and the "bouncers" filtered through the group and admitted the hotter half of the girls, but not the uglier half. There was a brief moment of awkwardness, and then an unspoken exchange between the girls: "Sorry, but I want to hook up with a baseball boy more than I want to be your friend. Catch you later." And then the ugly girls went home. Absolutely astounding, and very sad for me to watch.
On to the party:
-- The Theme. 80's Aerobics. Gentlemen (HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAyeah right) were attired mostly in short shorts, tights, crop tops, sleeveless shirts, headbands, wristbands, all in miserably clashing neon colors. Ladies (HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAeven less likely) were attired in jumpsuits, tights, side ponytails, far too much makeup, and anything that would reveal their boobs and/or butts. This was not an occasion for modesty.
-- The Girls. Never have I encountered a group of individuals with lower self-esteem. Since I am, for the most part, three or four years older than most of these young ladies, they're not exactly my type. I'm not your typical creepy old guy predator (actually, I'm more attracted to the older, more mature type...but that's neither here nor there), so I politely told the drunken jailbait flashing their breasts at me that I wasn't interested in nailing someone I could have babysat at one point. I heard one girl, after getting rejected for the third time in about 15 minutes, annouce to nobody in particular, "c'mon....*stamps foot*...I have to fuck SOMEbody..." Ladies and gentlemen, the future of America!
-- The Guys. I could not believe how unsure of themselves some of these guys are. Not that I wasn't when I was that age...I probably would have been the MOST awkward of all of them. But I thought this would be different-- these kids have been very successful in baseball, and with success comes a lot of attention. Attention from girls, attention from coaches, papers, etc., so most of these kids have been exposed to social situations that other college freshmen haven't. Regardless, an 18-year-old boy remains an 18-year-old boy. Girls were THROWING themselves at these guys, doing everything short of dragging them back to their rooms, and the guys were still wondering if they had a shot with the girls. Unbelievable.
-- The Drunkenness. While the others got absolutely shit-hammered, I nursed two beers over the 5 hours I was there. When I got in my car to drive home, a bunch of guys tried to stop me; they had seen me chatting with people, having a good time, laughing, and so naturally assumed I was hammered. I hope they learn that you can have fun without alcohol, too. Although I think it's only the wonders of beer that lead to our second baseman furiously rounding the bases with a freshman HOS member IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CROWDED BASEMENT WITH PEOPLE SURROUNDING THEM. I honestly think they thought they were alone. Which leads us to...
-- The Story That Makes Me Worried For The Future Of Mankind. DISCLAIMER: This story is unthinkably graphic. We're talking quadruple-X, send the kids to bed, my-parents-won't-believe-this-happened graphic. So if you understandably would rather not know, skip to the Safe Zone.
***BEGIN UNTHINKABLY GRAPHIC SECTION. YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE SAFE ZONE.***
You sick fuck. Of course you want to know what happened.
Our saga begins with a freshman catcher. Because of his racial background, we'll refer to him as Chief Joseph, or CJ for short. On this night, CJ was, in every sense of the word, blackout drunk. He had little comprehension of what was going on in the surrounding world. That does not in any way excuse him for his actions.
Let's rewind to practice that day. One of the players who lives in the house, an upperclassman pitcher, Southpaw, was not pleased about having the party at his house. He informed everyone that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES was ANYONE to even TOUCH THE DOORKNOB to his room. It was off limits to the Pope. It was on lockdown. I don't think he had anything he was hiding, he just wanted to protect his things from unpredictable drunken actions. (File this under obvious foreshadowing.)
That night, things were going rather well for CJ and a young lady, identity (thankfully) unknown. By "going well" I mean that they were both so drunk that their minds had regressed to unconsciously controlling basic life functions: eat, sleep, produce offspring. It was only 11:00, and they were quite full of beer, so that left only one other task. CJ took his lady friend by the hand and gracefully led her up the stairs to find some privacy (or maybe he carried her; it was unclear if she could walk at this point). Obviously, they found Southpaw's room unoccupied, and they quickly climbed into bed.
The young lady of questionable morals, unfortunately, was undergoing a medical process we like to call "bleeding out of her genitals." Sorry, I meant "menstruation." And she had neglected to tell CJ about the onset of her condition before inviting him to jackhammer her with impunity. And he didn't notice. So after they had sex, they turned on the lights to the sight of a deep red Jackson Pollock painting ALL OVER SOUTHPAW'S WHITE SHEETS. There was so much blood, in fact, that it soaked through the sheets to his mattress pad.
To Southpaw's credit, he was displeased, but realized the humor in the situation and stopped short of eviscerating CJ (which is what I would have done). All CJ has to do is take the girl's spandex shorts, which she was wearing at the party, and wear them to lifting on Monday. And, basically, be Southpaw's bitch for the forseeable future.
Unbelievable.
***YOU ARE NOW RETURNING TO THE SAFE ZONE.***
Parties like this are pretty standard fare for nights before off days, the next of which we have this Wednesday. I shudder to think what will end up topping this.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
More Injury Updating / What is Control?
So they were half right...there was a lower back muscle pull, but that wasn't the only thing going on. I had some inflammation in the SI (sacroiliac) joint, which you can feel if you lift yourself out of your chair using just your arms and let your hips feel like they're hanging. That stiffness in your back/hips? Your SI joint. That's still kind of sore, and that might be something that stays sore for a while and I just play through. Back to the hurt/injury dichotomy, I guess. Good news is I think the muscle is about healed, and swinging a bat today felt stiff but possible. I was probably at 60% today on those swings, so if I can go 80-90 tomorrow, I should be ready for the scrimmages this weekend.
A few guys got cut after practice yesterday. The fall roster is down to 43 names. Only 35 make the spring roster...and that might include redshirts, which isn't what I originally thought. I thought it was 35 active players, but it seems more like it's 35 players PERIOD. I've overheard some guys who were on the roster last year talking about being redshirts, so that seems to be evidence enough. I can still pick out 8 guys that I think I should make the team ahead of, but you could make an argument either way. And let's say it comes down to me and a catcher, or me and a pitcher, or someone else who I'm not directly competing against...how does the coach decide which one of us is more important to the team? Regardless of who he chooses, how can I make an argument that he's right or wrong?
It's nice to have a forum here to let these thoughts out, because I know I can't waste too much time worrying about things like that. A lot of the mental game of baseball concerns maximizing the things you can control, and not waste mental energy on the things you can't. A lot of players will beat themselves up, maybe even fall into a slump, after an 0-4 or 0-5 day at the plate. But a closer look might reveal that the hitter hit a long fly ball in the gap that the center fielder made a diving catch on; a sharp line drive right at the second baseman; a screaming ground ball down the line that the first baseman made a lucky stab at; and a grounder to the right side that advanced a runner. He had a fantastic day at the plate! The fielders and the plays they make are not something that he can control, so he can't spend time and energy worrying about them.
Obviously, I'm going to be thinking about my chances of making the team. I wouldn't be here unless I cared about making it. There's a reason that I took the fall roster, highlighted all the outfielders, and put marks by players' names designating what I think their chances of making the team are. At the same time, I need to focus on controlling my mental approach, the quality of my work in the cage, staying healthy, and making sure I NEVER get out-hustled. Those are all things I can control.
A few guys got cut after practice yesterday. The fall roster is down to 43 names. Only 35 make the spring roster...and that might include redshirts, which isn't what I originally thought. I thought it was 35 active players, but it seems more like it's 35 players PERIOD. I've overheard some guys who were on the roster last year talking about being redshirts, so that seems to be evidence enough. I can still pick out 8 guys that I think I should make the team ahead of, but you could make an argument either way. And let's say it comes down to me and a catcher, or me and a pitcher, or someone else who I'm not directly competing against...how does the coach decide which one of us is more important to the team? Regardless of who he chooses, how can I make an argument that he's right or wrong?
It's nice to have a forum here to let these thoughts out, because I know I can't waste too much time worrying about things like that. A lot of the mental game of baseball concerns maximizing the things you can control, and not waste mental energy on the things you can't. A lot of players will beat themselves up, maybe even fall into a slump, after an 0-4 or 0-5 day at the plate. But a closer look might reveal that the hitter hit a long fly ball in the gap that the center fielder made a diving catch on; a sharp line drive right at the second baseman; a screaming ground ball down the line that the first baseman made a lucky stab at; and a grounder to the right side that advanced a runner. He had a fantastic day at the plate! The fielders and the plays they make are not something that he can control, so he can't spend time and energy worrying about them.
Obviously, I'm going to be thinking about my chances of making the team. I wouldn't be here unless I cared about making it. There's a reason that I took the fall roster, highlighted all the outfielders, and put marks by players' names designating what I think their chances of making the team are. At the same time, I need to focus on controlling my mental approach, the quality of my work in the cage, staying healthy, and making sure I NEVER get out-hustled. Those are all things I can control.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Injury Update
Good news, everyone. Turns out the knife in my back was just a pulled muscle (erector spinae, for you anatomy geeks out there...right near the sacroiliac joint). I did a bunch of therapy today and over the next few days, the trainers think I should be pain-free and ready to practice. The schedule coming up is for practice through the week, except for Friday off. Then we will scrimmage on Saturday and Sunday, both days starting at 8 AM.
If I had to guess, I think I will be completely off again tomorrow, then some light stuff Wednesday afternoon, and a real practice on Thursday. Then Friday I get to rest, and I'll be golden in time for scrimmages on Saturday and Sunday. Time to get those quick hands moving.
If I had to guess, I think I will be completely off again tomorrow, then some light stuff Wednesday afternoon, and a real practice on Thursday. Then Friday I get to rest, and I'll be golden in time for scrimmages on Saturday and Sunday. Time to get those quick hands moving.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Today Was Pro Day... For The Other Guys
Well, I was wrong. I was unaware of the irony at the time of the last post, but little did I know that the lower back pangs that I struggled with on Friday wouldn't get better over our off day. So here I am on Sunday, having attended but not participated in our Pro Day, waiting my 10:00 AM appointment with the athletic trainer on Monday. This is a pain I'm not used to, and just in case it falls under injury pain instead of sore pain, I figured that blowing out my back to participate in pro day wouldn't be worth sacrificing the rest of the fall season. Unthinkably frustrating, though, especially since I was penciled in as the second team center fielder.
I did get to sit and evaluate, though, which was nice. I got to watch every single position player hit, play the field, and run a 60-yard dash, and I got to watch all the pitchers pitch. This was something I hadn't been able to do yet, so I was glad to have the opportunity, even though I bad-lucked into it.
These guys throw HARD. Good lord. One of the freshmen was clocked at 94. The slowest guy was in the low to mid 80s. I have some pretty serious doubts about my ability to hit this pitching. Everything else aside, I need to show that I can be competitive at the plate. And oh man, will that be difficult. Whenever I step into the box, my consciousness will have to become my eyes, my hands, and nothing more. The confidence took a hit today. Both being injured and observing the level of pitching didn't help.
At the same time, though, of 17 pitchers going through three hitters each, there were only 6 hits. Nobody stood out as a great hitter, and it's obvious that all the hitters are getting back used to seeing pitching again. So even though I'm behind where I think I need to be in my own mind, it's possible I'm not actually behind the other hitters at all.
We'll see. I need to get my back healthy first so I can take a full hack and throw again. Or run even. I couldn't do anything today. I sure am glad I trained for months to lower my 60-yard dash time and then couldn't run it at pro day. Balls.
I did get to sit and evaluate, though, which was nice. I got to watch every single position player hit, play the field, and run a 60-yard dash, and I got to watch all the pitchers pitch. This was something I hadn't been able to do yet, so I was glad to have the opportunity, even though I bad-lucked into it.
These guys throw HARD. Good lord. One of the freshmen was clocked at 94. The slowest guy was in the low to mid 80s. I have some pretty serious doubts about my ability to hit this pitching. Everything else aside, I need to show that I can be competitive at the plate. And oh man, will that be difficult. Whenever I step into the box, my consciousness will have to become my eyes, my hands, and nothing more. The confidence took a hit today. Both being injured and observing the level of pitching didn't help.
At the same time, though, of 17 pitchers going through three hitters each, there were only 6 hits. Nobody stood out as a great hitter, and it's obvious that all the hitters are getting back used to seeing pitching again. So even though I'm behind where I think I need to be in my own mind, it's possible I'm not actually behind the other hitters at all.
We'll see. I need to get my back healthy first so I can take a full hack and throw again. Or run even. I couldn't do anything today. I sure am glad I trained for months to lower my 60-yard dash time and then couldn't run it at pro day. Balls.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Week 1 Complete.
I completed the first week of practice in one piece. Barely, though, I was thinking as I was sitting in an ice bath for 15 minutes after practice today. There's something about doing squats and weighted ab exercises at 6 in the morning that slows down your running just enough during practice later in the day that something gets thrown out of whack. So after my ice bath to soothe the burn in my quads, I had ice bags wrapped onto my left hip flexor, my lower left back, my right shoulder, and my right elbow.
But tomorrow is a day off! Which means no throwing! In fact, as soon as practice ended, my arm felt better just knowing that I had a full day to take off from using it. Funny how pain can be so mental at times.
--
In years past, I have sat out of practices and out of games for a lot of different reasons: some in my head, some real pains, but I would never claim to have a high pain tolerance. My desire to play has often been questioned, since I've been very unwilling to play hurt. I think it rose less out of a fear of the pain, or that I would get even more hurt, but more that I was scared to play and have to be depended on when I knew I wasn't going to be at my best. I let it affect me, basically.
Something in me changed over the last year or two. I think a lot of it was the simple fact that my arm hurt all the time, and I surprised myself in games by doing things hurt that I didn't think I would have been able to do. Especially my junior year: I hurt my groin at the end of my sophomore year, and it was a very deep connective tissue injury that nagged me throughout the next two years. But it never got worse; it only stayed the same level of pain. So I learned how to distinguish between different types of pain: pain that was a warning of further injury, pain that was simply uncomfortable and could be defeated mentally, or pain that was good, a sign that lifting or stretching was working. I found that much of the pain that I had held myself out of games for had been of the discomfort instead of injury variety.
Fast-forward to this last year, my senior year. We were playing in a tournament held at a field with brick outfield walls. In the second inning of the game, I ran full-speed into the wall with my left knee trying to catch a ball. It hurt. A LOT. I figured I just had a contusion, so I walked it off and kept playing ( I finished the game 1-2 with 2 walks and a HBP). It started to feel funny around the fifth inning or so, and it was stiffening up. I rolled my pants up to take a look at it, and BOOM! It had started to swell WAY more than it should have. By the end of the game, it was getting tough to bend. The trainer and I went to work on it with wraps and ice, but by that night, my left knee was three times the size of my right knee.
The next day came around and I could barely walk. I had to sit out that day's doubleheader, something I was furious to have to do. But when I tried to jog, I couldn't put any weight on that leg. I worked all day long to reduce the swelling, alternating ice and compressive wrap and bending exercises for the next 8 hours. It started to go down, and by the next day, I could walk. I told myself there was no way I was going to miss another game, and since I had played the rest of the game in which I had been injured without any functional problems, I didn't have a fractured kneecap or torn ligament that could get worse with more playing. So I played. And although I was very uncertain at game time if I could actually play, I was surprised at how much ability I actually had when I got out onto the field.
I gained a major lesson out of that experience (as well as a numb spot on my left knee where I destroyed the nerve tissue, and a dent in my kneecap). I found that it if I tried to do something until I failed, instead of guess that I was going to fail and not risk trying, I could do far more than I originally would have imagined. When I was limping in between stations at practice today, and then finding I could actually gun it full speed during drills, I was thankful for that lesson.
--
Back to reality. After a week, I'm absolutely sure that I belong in this class of athlete, and I'm ecstatic that this is the case. I'm still unsure, however, if there will be a spot for me on this team. I looked at the fall roster today, and there are 46 names on it. Only 35 get to go on the roster come springtime. I looked at it and, from what I've been able to see, which isn't very much, I tried to make some honest judgments about what I would do with some of the players. Redshirt, grayshirt, cut-- I went through the names. I went through one time, and came up with 34 guys that I thought should be on the team outright (including myself). So for now, I think I make it... barely. Of course, it depends on what the coaches are thinking. If there was a hustle award for the first week, I would have won it. Nobody has separated themselves from the group in terms of hustle like I have. If that matters to the coaches, that raises my value. If they put more value in, say, power hitting, or arm strength, then it definitely drops. We'll see. I might ask one of the coaches at the end of next week to give me some feedback about where I stand and what I should focus on improving over the next few weeks.
But tomorrow, I'm going to rest.
But tomorrow is a day off! Which means no throwing! In fact, as soon as practice ended, my arm felt better just knowing that I had a full day to take off from using it. Funny how pain can be so mental at times.
--
In years past, I have sat out of practices and out of games for a lot of different reasons: some in my head, some real pains, but I would never claim to have a high pain tolerance. My desire to play has often been questioned, since I've been very unwilling to play hurt. I think it rose less out of a fear of the pain, or that I would get even more hurt, but more that I was scared to play and have to be depended on when I knew I wasn't going to be at my best. I let it affect me, basically.
Something in me changed over the last year or two. I think a lot of it was the simple fact that my arm hurt all the time, and I surprised myself in games by doing things hurt that I didn't think I would have been able to do. Especially my junior year: I hurt my groin at the end of my sophomore year, and it was a very deep connective tissue injury that nagged me throughout the next two years. But it never got worse; it only stayed the same level of pain. So I learned how to distinguish between different types of pain: pain that was a warning of further injury, pain that was simply uncomfortable and could be defeated mentally, or pain that was good, a sign that lifting or stretching was working. I found that much of the pain that I had held myself out of games for had been of the discomfort instead of injury variety.
Fast-forward to this last year, my senior year. We were playing in a tournament held at a field with brick outfield walls. In the second inning of the game, I ran full-speed into the wall with my left knee trying to catch a ball. It hurt. A LOT. I figured I just had a contusion, so I walked it off and kept playing ( I finished the game 1-2 with 2 walks and a HBP). It started to feel funny around the fifth inning or so, and it was stiffening up. I rolled my pants up to take a look at it, and BOOM! It had started to swell WAY more than it should have. By the end of the game, it was getting tough to bend. The trainer and I went to work on it with wraps and ice, but by that night, my left knee was three times the size of my right knee.
The next day came around and I could barely walk. I had to sit out that day's doubleheader, something I was furious to have to do. But when I tried to jog, I couldn't put any weight on that leg. I worked all day long to reduce the swelling, alternating ice and compressive wrap and bending exercises for the next 8 hours. It started to go down, and by the next day, I could walk. I told myself there was no way I was going to miss another game, and since I had played the rest of the game in which I had been injured without any functional problems, I didn't have a fractured kneecap or torn ligament that could get worse with more playing. So I played. And although I was very uncertain at game time if I could actually play, I was surprised at how much ability I actually had when I got out onto the field.
I gained a major lesson out of that experience (as well as a numb spot on my left knee where I destroyed the nerve tissue, and a dent in my kneecap). I found that it if I tried to do something until I failed, instead of guess that I was going to fail and not risk trying, I could do far more than I originally would have imagined. When I was limping in between stations at practice today, and then finding I could actually gun it full speed during drills, I was thankful for that lesson.
--
Back to reality. After a week, I'm absolutely sure that I belong in this class of athlete, and I'm ecstatic that this is the case. I'm still unsure, however, if there will be a spot for me on this team. I looked at the fall roster today, and there are 46 names on it. Only 35 get to go on the roster come springtime. I looked at it and, from what I've been able to see, which isn't very much, I tried to make some honest judgments about what I would do with some of the players. Redshirt, grayshirt, cut-- I went through the names. I went through one time, and came up with 34 guys that I thought should be on the team outright (including myself). So for now, I think I make it... barely. Of course, it depends on what the coaches are thinking. If there was a hustle award for the first week, I would have won it. Nobody has separated themselves from the group in terms of hustle like I have. If that matters to the coaches, that raises my value. If they put more value in, say, power hitting, or arm strength, then it definitely drops. We'll see. I might ask one of the coaches at the end of next week to give me some feedback about where I stand and what I should focus on improving over the next few weeks.
But tomorrow, I'm going to rest.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
I'm Arguing With My Elbow... And Losing
Yikes. My right forearm near my elbow is throbbing. I've been icing most of the night, and I have two Aleve in me. I'll have to ice more in the morning. Only two more practices until Saturday, then I get a full day off.
This is occasionally a problem for me. As previously mentioned, my right (throwing) shoulder has been operated on once. For the orthopedic surgery geeks in the audience, I had an anterior capsular instability caused by putting too much stress on my capsule when throwing. For regular people, the front side of my shoulder was loose, so when I tried to throw, the head of my humerus would wiggle around enough for it to be blindingly painful. So the surgery I had took my loose capsule, folded it over on itself, and stitched it up, leaving it much tighter.
In a sense, the surgery worked, because I've never had instability problems in that shoulder again. However, I'm now four years post-surgery, and I'm still loosening my shoulder out to the range of motion that a baseball player is supposed to have. As a result of that tightness, when my shoulder gets tired, I put a lot of stress on my elbow when I throw because I'm compensating for the power that should be coming from my shoulder. When that happens, boom, the muscles around my elbow blow up.
We did outfield cutoffs today, which is where we are hit balls in the outfield and we throw them to bases. My first two throws were fine, and then it just tailed off from there. I let loose some balls that I'm not at all proud of, and when I was finished, my arm was hanging like a limp rag at my side. At least I hit the cutoffs. A weak throw on target is better than a strong throw that can't be caught. But a strong throw on target is much better. It was frustrating because I clearly had the weak arm in the outfield. This does not bode well for me. Although, I always knew I was going to have a weak arm relative to everyone else, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It remains the same: I'm going to run my way onto this team. I did make a sliding catch during outfield drills, and I got some compliments on my speed. That does bode well for me.
So that's why I'm sitting here icing. It didn't help that we did a bunch of push-ups again this morning, which helped put plenty of pressure on an already sore joint. But on the flip side, I did measure a 30.5" standing vertical leap. I disagree with the statement that white men can't jump.
This is occasionally a problem for me. As previously mentioned, my right (throwing) shoulder has been operated on once. For the orthopedic surgery geeks in the audience, I had an anterior capsular instability caused by putting too much stress on my capsule when throwing. For regular people, the front side of my shoulder was loose, so when I tried to throw, the head of my humerus would wiggle around enough for it to be blindingly painful. So the surgery I had took my loose capsule, folded it over on itself, and stitched it up, leaving it much tighter.
In a sense, the surgery worked, because I've never had instability problems in that shoulder again. However, I'm now four years post-surgery, and I'm still loosening my shoulder out to the range of motion that a baseball player is supposed to have. As a result of that tightness, when my shoulder gets tired, I put a lot of stress on my elbow when I throw because I'm compensating for the power that should be coming from my shoulder. When that happens, boom, the muscles around my elbow blow up.
We did outfield cutoffs today, which is where we are hit balls in the outfield and we throw them to bases. My first two throws were fine, and then it just tailed off from there. I let loose some balls that I'm not at all proud of, and when I was finished, my arm was hanging like a limp rag at my side. At least I hit the cutoffs. A weak throw on target is better than a strong throw that can't be caught. But a strong throw on target is much better. It was frustrating because I clearly had the weak arm in the outfield. This does not bode well for me. Although, I always knew I was going to have a weak arm relative to everyone else, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It remains the same: I'm going to run my way onto this team. I did make a sliding catch during outfield drills, and I got some compliments on my speed. That does bode well for me.
So that's why I'm sitting here icing. It didn't help that we did a bunch of push-ups again this morning, which helped put plenty of pressure on an already sore joint. But on the flip side, I did measure a 30.5" standing vertical leap. I disagree with the statement that white men can't jump.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Grittiness and Hustle and Sweat, Oh My
--I completely tore the left butt cheek of my baseball pants today. Seems Under Armour makes a wonderful product, but it cannot withstand the needs of a scrappy player such as myself. No matter: they just gave me a new pair of pants. Sweet. Free stuff.
--I also managed to dive back to second base to avoid being picked off, thus caking the entire front of my shirt in dirt (which became a sweaty mud) for the rest of practice. Hey, anything that gets me attention for hustling and playing hard is good in my book.
--It was so hot today that I sweat through my baseball pants. I need to find a way to bring more water to the field, or something. I don't think I'm losing weight, and I'm not having dehydration headaches. 3 and a half hours in 95 degree heat and direct sunlight kind of zaps your energy, though.
--They handed out bats to returners today. There was a big bucket of bats, and they just got passed out like it was no big deal. $350 to you, $350 to you...oh, that's not the one you wanted? Well here, have another stick worth $350. Nah, just keep the other one. I was unaware this kind of thing happened.
Time for bed. More lifting tomorrow.
--I also managed to dive back to second base to avoid being picked off, thus caking the entire front of my shirt in dirt (which became a sweaty mud) for the rest of practice. Hey, anything that gets me attention for hustling and playing hard is good in my book.
--It was so hot today that I sweat through my baseball pants. I need to find a way to bring more water to the field, or something. I don't think I'm losing weight, and I'm not having dehydration headaches. 3 and a half hours in 95 degree heat and direct sunlight kind of zaps your energy, though.
--They handed out bats to returners today. There was a big bucket of bats, and they just got passed out like it was no big deal. $350 to you, $350 to you...oh, that's not the one you wanted? Well here, have another stick worth $350. Nah, just keep the other one. I was unaware this kind of thing happened.
Time for bed. More lifting tomorrow.
Monday, September 29, 2008
The Last First Day
I was talking with my brother about today, the first day of practice. He made a very meaningful point: today is my last first day. My eligibility is done with after this year, and everyone knows adult leagues aren't the same. And even though scout day is on Sunday, my name won't be one they're following closely. This starts the last time I will be able to compete at this level.
--
It's worth briefly mentioning how much of an influence my brother has been on my baseball career. Well, no, it would be more accurate to say how much of an influence he has been on my life; but that would be a topic of such length and complexity that I have neither the patience nor the linguistic ability to appropriately write it. So we'll stick to baseball. My brother was a rags-to-riches story in baseball; he started as a kid who looked to have little or no future beyond little league. Teams picked him last, coaches left him off select teams-- the game of baseball essentially thumbed its nose at him. But instead of quitting, like most frustrated 13-year-olds, he decided that he loved baseball and would work to develop whatever talent he had. My dad, extremely proud of his young son's work ethic, would go out with him every Sunday morning when everyone was at church and the fields were open. And for reasons unknown, they decided to drag along the whiny, snot-nosed little bastard who did NOT want to be pulled away from his cartoons.
Obviously, that was me.
As I shagged ball after ball at what came in our family to be known as the Sunday Morning Church of Baseball, a few funny things happened. First and foremost, my brother got better. His arm got stronger, his bat quicker, his eyes sharper, and with every success, his work ethic grew to be unparalleled. He first became known in high school as the kid who basically willed himself onto the junior varsity team as a sophomore, short on talent but huge on hustle and heart. But then he became the workout maniac-- nobody ran harder, threw medicine balls with more fire, or could hold boards as long as he could. His senior year, he finally busted out and became the player he had wanted to be. His batting average from his senior captain season still ranks in the top 10 all time at our high school.
And then, soon as it began, it was over. He ended his baseball career at the top, moving on to conquer other mountains once he got to college. But in the meantime, the Sunday Morning Church of Baseball wasn't done working its magic. Shagging balls on those dewy morning fields, I learned and honed my greatest skill: tracking fly balls. When a ball was hit, I simply knew where it was going to end up. I also had the speed to get there. Although my hitting was never a problem, my greatest strength in baseball has always lain in my ability to cover an astounding amount of ground in the outfield.
But I got to draw on his greatest strength, as well. I learned what it really meant to work for something that you wanted, to hustle the hardest, to be the scrappiest, grittiest player on the field. And now, even though his baseball career ended seven years ago, I still see him in my head and hear him in my mind letting me know that if he was on the field next to me, he'd be working even harder. That helps me when I'm going well, picks me up when I'm down, and drives me all the time.
--
So now you know a bit more of the background of the conversation. He reminded me to take just a minute, at the start of practice, to look around, take it in, and remember the road I've come down to get to this point. But not too long of a look, because I can't afford to lose focus on the task at hand. It's true: it is very difficult to be retrospective, especially about accomplishments, for any length of time without losing out a little bit on what you're working toward at the current point in time.
I looked over the field, breathed deeply twice, and smiled. Then I started my last first day.
--
It's worth briefly mentioning how much of an influence my brother has been on my baseball career. Well, no, it would be more accurate to say how much of an influence he has been on my life; but that would be a topic of such length and complexity that I have neither the patience nor the linguistic ability to appropriately write it. So we'll stick to baseball. My brother was a rags-to-riches story in baseball; he started as a kid who looked to have little or no future beyond little league. Teams picked him last, coaches left him off select teams-- the game of baseball essentially thumbed its nose at him. But instead of quitting, like most frustrated 13-year-olds, he decided that he loved baseball and would work to develop whatever talent he had. My dad, extremely proud of his young son's work ethic, would go out with him every Sunday morning when everyone was at church and the fields were open. And for reasons unknown, they decided to drag along the whiny, snot-nosed little bastard who did NOT want to be pulled away from his cartoons.
Obviously, that was me.
As I shagged ball after ball at what came in our family to be known as the Sunday Morning Church of Baseball, a few funny things happened. First and foremost, my brother got better. His arm got stronger, his bat quicker, his eyes sharper, and with every success, his work ethic grew to be unparalleled. He first became known in high school as the kid who basically willed himself onto the junior varsity team as a sophomore, short on talent but huge on hustle and heart. But then he became the workout maniac-- nobody ran harder, threw medicine balls with more fire, or could hold boards as long as he could. His senior year, he finally busted out and became the player he had wanted to be. His batting average from his senior captain season still ranks in the top 10 all time at our high school.
And then, soon as it began, it was over. He ended his baseball career at the top, moving on to conquer other mountains once he got to college. But in the meantime, the Sunday Morning Church of Baseball wasn't done working its magic. Shagging balls on those dewy morning fields, I learned and honed my greatest skill: tracking fly balls. When a ball was hit, I simply knew where it was going to end up. I also had the speed to get there. Although my hitting was never a problem, my greatest strength in baseball has always lain in my ability to cover an astounding amount of ground in the outfield.
But I got to draw on his greatest strength, as well. I learned what it really meant to work for something that you wanted, to hustle the hardest, to be the scrappiest, grittiest player on the field. And now, even though his baseball career ended seven years ago, I still see him in my head and hear him in my mind letting me know that if he was on the field next to me, he'd be working even harder. That helps me when I'm going well, picks me up when I'm down, and drives me all the time.
--
So now you know a bit more of the background of the conversation. He reminded me to take just a minute, at the start of practice, to look around, take it in, and remember the road I've come down to get to this point. But not too long of a look, because I can't afford to lose focus on the task at hand. It's true: it is very difficult to be retrospective, especially about accomplishments, for any length of time without losing out a little bit on what you're working toward at the current point in time.
I looked over the field, breathed deeply twice, and smiled. Then I started my last first day.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Ooh... Free Stuff...
A major perk of Division I is the stuff you get that you don't have to pay for. For instance:
--Clothing. Just for fall ball today, I got a hat, three shirts, and a nice pair of under armour shorts. All custom material (as in, you can't buy them anywhere). Estimated total cost? Probably around $80-100. And I'm not even on the team yet. They took down my batting glove size, pant size, preferred bat size, cleat size, and jersey size, for stuff that I could get if I make the team. Estimated cost: Who knows? Bat alone could be $300, cleats $100, jersey pants $50, custom top $70, batting gloves $30. Oh, and jacket, $60. That adds up to $610. Per player. Athletics are expensive.
--Health care. There are few things I love more than walking into an athletic training room. It's like a free health care club. Here's an excerpt from an email I wrote to my brother today:
"I went into the training room after lifting today to get some ice for my shoulder and back (shoulder preventatively, and back because it's been a bit sore from all the hitting). I was swarmed by student trainers who were just dying to help me. I had to tell them I was fine, that I could get my own ice bags...and then they swarmed me to help wrap everything on. I asked them their names and introduced myself, and they looked at me like nobody had ever asked them their names before. I thanked them for helping take care of me, and they were all smiles."
Note to future athletes: Trainers are PEOPLE. Just like you. Just as it is your job to perform on the field, it is their job to keep you healthy. Your job may be higher-profile, but it is not more important. Don't forget that. Let them know that you appreciate their help and they will come through in spades for you.
--Tickets. Any game we play at home this year, I can get a few people in for free. I know, it doesn't sound like much, since tickets are probably only like $3 for non-students. It's more the principle of it. Maybe it only sounds cool to me.
--Clothing. Just for fall ball today, I got a hat, three shirts, and a nice pair of under armour shorts. All custom material (as in, you can't buy them anywhere). Estimated total cost? Probably around $80-100. And I'm not even on the team yet. They took down my batting glove size, pant size, preferred bat size, cleat size, and jersey size, for stuff that I could get if I make the team. Estimated cost: Who knows? Bat alone could be $300, cleats $100, jersey pants $50, custom top $70, batting gloves $30. Oh, and jacket, $60. That adds up to $610. Per player. Athletics are expensive.
--Health care. There are few things I love more than walking into an athletic training room. It's like a free health care club. Here's an excerpt from an email I wrote to my brother today:
"I went into the training room after lifting today to get some ice for my shoulder and back (shoulder preventatively, and back because it's been a bit sore from all the hitting). I was swarmed by student trainers who were just dying to help me. I had to tell them I was fine, that I could get my own ice bags...and then they swarmed me to help wrap everything on. I asked them their names and introduced myself, and they looked at me like nobody had ever asked them their names before. I thanked them for helping take care of me, and they were all smiles."
Note to future athletes: Trainers are PEOPLE. Just like you. Just as it is your job to perform on the field, it is their job to keep you healthy. Your job may be higher-profile, but it is not more important. Don't forget that. Let them know that you appreciate their help and they will come through in spades for you.
--Tickets. Any game we play at home this year, I can get a few people in for free. I know, it doesn't sound like much, since tickets are probably only like $3 for non-students. It's more the principle of it. Maybe it only sounds cool to me.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Orientation and Being a Mentor
Now that's two hours of my life I want back. I just had to sit through the Student-Athlete Orientation, required for all incoming freshmen and transfers. It was two hours of time management and "Here's How College Is Different From High School." What a waste of time for me.
You should have seen the looks on the other baseball players' faces when I told them no, goddammit, I'm NOT a freshman, I DON'T live in a dorm, I'm a graduate student, I'm 22 years old, and I already graduated from one college.
As an aside, this puts me in an interesting position. There's one incoming freshman, we'll call him "Chris," who I hit with today. The kid, simply put, is talented. He hits the ball harder and with more consistency than I do, and with a lot less effort. Not that big, but you can tell that he hasn't even filled out yet. The thing that separates him from the other players, though, is his attitude. He might be the most gifted freshman, but he is a worker. Always looking to see what he can improve, what he can get better, listens to advice, so on. Many of the other idiots were going through the motions, taking bad hacks, and not getting the most out of their time in the care. Not Chris. Every swing had a purpose.
Naturally, he reminds me of me.
So I took Chris aside and told him a little more of my background. I told him that I had already been through a career, including being a standout and captain. I told him I was impressed by his work ethic, and how important it was going to be for him to keep that in the face of his surroundings, that he couldn't afford to be derailed by the other players not giving their best. There were other players talking about how they would be skipping the 6 AM workouts starting next week, and I noted that those would be the guys who would get cut first. He told me he appreciated the guidance, and he wanted to continue to hit and throw with me outside of workouts.
Whoa. Did I just get a student? Can I handle that? I mean, I'm used to being a captain, and being a mentor to younger players. But I was also one of the best players on the field at my old school. Can I still fill the role of mentor, even though I'm fighting to make the team just like the players I want to teach? And will the other players on the team be upset that I'm okay with that role? Such are the issues facing a 22-year-old first-year player, I guess.
I imagine some of these questions will sort themselves out. Again, if I can swing it, it's probably in my best interest to show that I am capable of being another authority figure on the team...kind of a half-coach, if you will. Maybe that makes me more valuable to the team? Hopefully?
Whatever. I can still catch fly balls better than anyone I've ever seen. I have a better shot relying on that than I do on anything else.
You should have seen the looks on the other baseball players' faces when I told them no, goddammit, I'm NOT a freshman, I DON'T live in a dorm, I'm a graduate student, I'm 22 years old, and I already graduated from one college.
As an aside, this puts me in an interesting position. There's one incoming freshman, we'll call him "Chris," who I hit with today. The kid, simply put, is talented. He hits the ball harder and with more consistency than I do, and with a lot less effort. Not that big, but you can tell that he hasn't even filled out yet. The thing that separates him from the other players, though, is his attitude. He might be the most gifted freshman, but he is a worker. Always looking to see what he can improve, what he can get better, listens to advice, so on. Many of the other idiots were going through the motions, taking bad hacks, and not getting the most out of their time in the care. Not Chris. Every swing had a purpose.
Naturally, he reminds me of me.
So I took Chris aside and told him a little more of my background. I told him that I had already been through a career, including being a standout and captain. I told him I was impressed by his work ethic, and how important it was going to be for him to keep that in the face of his surroundings, that he couldn't afford to be derailed by the other players not giving their best. There were other players talking about how they would be skipping the 6 AM workouts starting next week, and I noted that those would be the guys who would get cut first. He told me he appreciated the guidance, and he wanted to continue to hit and throw with me outside of workouts.
Whoa. Did I just get a student? Can I handle that? I mean, I'm used to being a captain, and being a mentor to younger players. But I was also one of the best players on the field at my old school. Can I still fill the role of mentor, even though I'm fighting to make the team just like the players I want to teach? And will the other players on the team be upset that I'm okay with that role? Such are the issues facing a 22-year-old first-year player, I guess.
I imagine some of these questions will sort themselves out. Again, if I can swing it, it's probably in my best interest to show that I am capable of being another authority figure on the team...kind of a half-coach, if you will. Maybe that makes me more valuable to the team? Hopefully?
Whatever. I can still catch fly balls better than anyone I've ever seen. I have a better shot relying on that than I do on anything else.
Monday, September 22, 2008
First Lift
At 8:00 this morning, I got to see if my offseason conditioning did me any good. After a quick hiccup where the strength and conditioning coach didn't believe me that I'd been cleared to work out, we got everything cleared up and got started.
First, the setting. This is the first time I'd ever been able to use a varsity weight room. It's not very big, but it's nice. And more importantly, it is CLEAN. And ORDERLY. Every weight is in its correct place, every bar racked. It looks like a military weight room. Only a handful of machines, too; most of the space is dedicated to clean pads, squat racks, and benches. Cool, as far as I'm concerned.
The lifting itself is very orderly and as a team. After warm-ups, we paired off and headed to a clean pad. At the direction of the strength and conditioning coach, we got our weight ready, and then we did sets together. The pace was clearly set and was not deviated from. I like the order. It gives a very official feeling to the whole affair, and the varsity weight room makes you feel like you're in a club. Maybe I'm the only one who was giddy about that sort of thing, but I had to hide it anyways, since, you know, I'm the grizzled veteran and all that crap.
I was very surprised to see that in terms of the weight I could lift, I was comparable to some of the other lifters. And my form was GREAT. As expected, I'm definitely below average in strength, in terms of total weight lifted; but for my size, I am in great shape. Of course, whenever they open up the Good For Your Size League, I'll be a charter member, but until that exists, nobody cares how good you are for your size. Well, maybe in boxing. But not here.
After we finished lifting, we went outside to do a little bit of running. I was worried, because I'd worked myself pretty hard in the lifting, and Mr. Stomach didn't sound pleased to be doing any running. Lucky for me, it was agility-type things that I had done extensively back when I ran track, and I had a leg up (literally, for one of them) on the rest of the guys. At the end, the S&C coach picked three guys, and told them to pick three teams for a relay race. I was second picked! Out of like 20 guys! On the explanation that he didn't know my name, but I looked fast! This bodes well for me. And I didn't disappoint, either.
I guess this lift gave me the same feeling that I got after I hit and threw. On the one hand, one can see that I'm a smaller player, that I don't have the power or strength of the other guys. But I don't look like I don't belong, I just look like a small D-1 player. You can work and hustle and think yourself a long ways, but unless you have the physical tools, it can only take you so far. I'm learning that, actually, I can compete athletically at these guys' level. I guess I'm saying that I really do have the tools to be a D-1 player. That really helps to boost my confidence that this actually is something I can do.
That focuses me. Less hoping, more doing.
First, the setting. This is the first time I'd ever been able to use a varsity weight room. It's not very big, but it's nice. And more importantly, it is CLEAN. And ORDERLY. Every weight is in its correct place, every bar racked. It looks like a military weight room. Only a handful of machines, too; most of the space is dedicated to clean pads, squat racks, and benches. Cool, as far as I'm concerned.
The lifting itself is very orderly and as a team. After warm-ups, we paired off and headed to a clean pad. At the direction of the strength and conditioning coach, we got our weight ready, and then we did sets together. The pace was clearly set and was not deviated from. I like the order. It gives a very official feeling to the whole affair, and the varsity weight room makes you feel like you're in a club. Maybe I'm the only one who was giddy about that sort of thing, but I had to hide it anyways, since, you know, I'm the grizzled veteran and all that crap.
I was very surprised to see that in terms of the weight I could lift, I was comparable to some of the other lifters. And my form was GREAT. As expected, I'm definitely below average in strength, in terms of total weight lifted; but for my size, I am in great shape. Of course, whenever they open up the Good For Your Size League, I'll be a charter member, but until that exists, nobody cares how good you are for your size. Well, maybe in boxing. But not here.
After we finished lifting, we went outside to do a little bit of running. I was worried, because I'd worked myself pretty hard in the lifting, and Mr. Stomach didn't sound pleased to be doing any running. Lucky for me, it was agility-type things that I had done extensively back when I ran track, and I had a leg up (literally, for one of them) on the rest of the guys. At the end, the S&C coach picked three guys, and told them to pick three teams for a relay race. I was second picked! Out of like 20 guys! On the explanation that he didn't know my name, but I looked fast! This bodes well for me. And I didn't disappoint, either.
I guess this lift gave me the same feeling that I got after I hit and threw. On the one hand, one can see that I'm a smaller player, that I don't have the power or strength of the other guys. But I don't look like I don't belong, I just look like a small D-1 player. You can work and hustle and think yourself a long ways, but unless you have the physical tools, it can only take you so far. I'm learning that, actually, I can compete athletically at these guys' level. I guess I'm saying that I really do have the tools to be a D-1 player. That really helps to boost my confidence that this actually is something I can do.
That focuses me. Less hoping, more doing.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
First Baseball Party
Hey, in college athletics, your team becomes your fraternity. Obviously, if you get a bunch of guys together who have something in common, especially if they're young, they're going to party. So I got a chance last night to go to a baseball party for the first time, meet some of the guys, play some beer pong, whatever.
I was most surprised that everyone was very nice. Excited to meet me? No, but I didn't expect it; these guys have been a team, and I'm still an outsider. But everyone at least took the time to say hi, ask me my name, shake my hand. I talked with a few of them, and I'm learning a lot of names, but on the whole, the group was less aloof than I would have expected.
Had a fun conversation about drug testing. I found out that some of the players basically go nuts during the summer, and smoke a year's worth of weed in a few months so they can get it out of the way. Drug testing goes school-year-round, and some of it is planned, but some is not...and it's all random. At any time, an NCAA official could walk into the dugout, tap me on the shoulder, and ask me to please urinate in his cup while he watches. Weird. Back in D-III, we only got drug-tested if we made the playoffs, and it was only a few guys randomly selected from the team, so I've actually never been tested. I'm not too concerned, though.
It's very apparent that, like high school, there's a pretty wide ...er... academic capability gap between the players. Okay, I'll say it: some of these guys are DUMB. I wonder how exactly they keep their grades up to be able to compete, and I imagine there are some who really struggle with that. Some are higher academic achievers like myself, and some seem to be pretty capable guys. But there's a much bigger range than I'm used to.
Lastly, everyone is AWESOME at drinking games. I guess that's what comes from having a group of coordinated individuals. Go figure.
I was most surprised that everyone was very nice. Excited to meet me? No, but I didn't expect it; these guys have been a team, and I'm still an outsider. But everyone at least took the time to say hi, ask me my name, shake my hand. I talked with a few of them, and I'm learning a lot of names, but on the whole, the group was less aloof than I would have expected.
Had a fun conversation about drug testing. I found out that some of the players basically go nuts during the summer, and smoke a year's worth of weed in a few months so they can get it out of the way. Drug testing goes school-year-round, and some of it is planned, but some is not...and it's all random. At any time, an NCAA official could walk into the dugout, tap me on the shoulder, and ask me to please urinate in his cup while he watches. Weird. Back in D-III, we only got drug-tested if we made the playoffs, and it was only a few guys randomly selected from the team, so I've actually never been tested. I'm not too concerned, though.
It's very apparent that, like high school, there's a pretty wide ...er... academic capability gap between the players. Okay, I'll say it: some of these guys are DUMB. I wonder how exactly they keep their grades up to be able to compete, and I imagine there are some who really struggle with that. Some are higher academic achievers like myself, and some seem to be pretty capable guys. But there's a much bigger range than I'm used to.
Lastly, everyone is AWESOME at drinking games. I guess that's what comes from having a group of coordinated individuals. Go figure.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Hitting with the Guys
I had my first taste of D-1 hitting today. I went out and hit and played catch with two of the established members of the team, a 5th-year first baseman and a 3rd-year middle infielder. Both nice guys, both good athletes. Both got legitimate playing time last year and figure to be in the plans for this year.
First we played catch. Well, no, first I waited AN HOUR for them to show up...I always thought the point of having cell phones was to answer them, but hey, that's just me. In any case, we got to playing catch. On the one hand, I was throwing great; no pain, great range of motion, none of the things that usually bother me when I throw, even some carry on the ball. On the other hand, I felt like I was carrying a slingshot compared to their rifles. Just another reminder that the quality of athlete is higher here. I certainly didn't embarrass myself, but I definitely have a weaker arm. It's odd to be throwing and thinking "Oh my god! My arm feels fantastic! Whoo hoooo!" in your head, and still be the worst arm out there. Whatever.
After throwing, we step into the cage. I was just about shaking, because I was nervous and really wanted to show these guys that I belong, regardless of if I do or not. But thankfully, the first baseman went first. The guy is 6'5", 250, and cut. He started DESTROYING the ball. I would bet he could launch a ball 500 feet if he wanted to.
Watching him hit had an unexpected effect on me. I was all of a sudden very relaxed, no longer concerned with impressing these players. Why? Because not only did I know that I will never be able to hit like this other guy, nobody on the field expects me to be able to. I play a different game, and I need to be the best at MY game, not at anybody else's. So I stepped up next, had a pretty good round, didn't come anywhere CLOSE to the other guy's power, and was totally fine with it.
I think there will be two themes here that I need to be aware of. First, I am a fifth-year player who supposedly has been there and seen it all. I need to portray the image that nothing surprises me or fazes me. Hard to do when I'm going to be facing pitching that's faster than any I've ever seen before, or watching our first baseman launch balls into low Earth orbit. But I need to convince everyone that I belong. Second, I can't worry about how I do relative to the other players in terms of power. I'm smaller. I'm not going to beat them in power, and if I make the competition about power, then I'm going to lose. I need to make sure I'm competing based on my strengths: anticipation, bunting, speed, covering ground in the outfield. Spray hitting. Coaching other players. Confidence. And most of all, no QUESTION most of all, hustle. If I let anyone on the team out-hustle me, I'm not making it. I can't forget that.
First we played catch. Well, no, first I waited AN HOUR for them to show up...I always thought the point of having cell phones was to answer them, but hey, that's just me. In any case, we got to playing catch. On the one hand, I was throwing great; no pain, great range of motion, none of the things that usually bother me when I throw, even some carry on the ball. On the other hand, I felt like I was carrying a slingshot compared to their rifles. Just another reminder that the quality of athlete is higher here. I certainly didn't embarrass myself, but I definitely have a weaker arm. It's odd to be throwing and thinking "Oh my god! My arm feels fantastic! Whoo hoooo!" in your head, and still be the worst arm out there. Whatever.
After throwing, we step into the cage. I was just about shaking, because I was nervous and really wanted to show these guys that I belong, regardless of if I do or not. But thankfully, the first baseman went first. The guy is 6'5", 250, and cut. He started DESTROYING the ball. I would bet he could launch a ball 500 feet if he wanted to.
Watching him hit had an unexpected effect on me. I was all of a sudden very relaxed, no longer concerned with impressing these players. Why? Because not only did I know that I will never be able to hit like this other guy, nobody on the field expects me to be able to. I play a different game, and I need to be the best at MY game, not at anybody else's. So I stepped up next, had a pretty good round, didn't come anywhere CLOSE to the other guy's power, and was totally fine with it.
I think there will be two themes here that I need to be aware of. First, I am a fifth-year player who supposedly has been there and seen it all. I need to portray the image that nothing surprises me or fazes me. Hard to do when I'm going to be facing pitching that's faster than any I've ever seen before, or watching our first baseman launch balls into low Earth orbit. But I need to convince everyone that I belong. Second, I can't worry about how I do relative to the other players in terms of power. I'm smaller. I'm not going to beat them in power, and if I make the competition about power, then I'm going to lose. I need to make sure I'm competing based on my strengths: anticipation, bunting, speed, covering ground in the outfield. Spray hitting. Coaching other players. Confidence. And most of all, no QUESTION most of all, hustle. If I let anyone on the team out-hustle me, I'm not making it. I can't forget that.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Eligibility: Accomplished!!
FINALLY. After a month and a half of emails, phone calls, NO previous experience to guide me, and missed connections, I have enough credits, two passed physicals, about 17 signed forms, and official eligibility to practice. For the love of God, it should not have been this hard. Well, another box checked.
Future college athletes: when dealing with eligibility, GO TO A COUNSELOR. Go talk to somebody who has taken people through this process before, and have them help you. Pay them if you need to. It is so not worth trying to drag it through on your own. Also, never transfer. What a pain.
Future college athletes: when dealing with eligibility, GO TO A COUNSELOR. Go talk to somebody who has taken people through this process before, and have them help you. Pay them if you need to. It is so not worth trying to drag it through on your own. Also, never transfer. What a pain.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Made it to school!!
Well, I finally finished the summer off. Wrapped up the last week of lifting and conditioning, finished off my project at work, got everything packed up, and headed off in a car with no air conditioning. Balls. Dad and I found out around halfway that even though it was a beautiful 75 degrees outside, the constant sunshine made for an absolute hotbox rolling down the freeway. But we made it.
I guess the first portion of the great experiment is over. I'm sitting here in my half-finished room, thinking about how far my body has come since the summer began. Aside from some residual right knee soreness, which I am a bit concerned about, everything else feels pretty good. Shoulder feels loose, elbow isn't tight. I really couldn't ask for more from the conditioning. We'll see pretty soon if it was enough.
I guess the first portion of the great experiment is over. I'm sitting here in my half-finished room, thinking about how far my body has come since the summer began. Aside from some residual right knee soreness, which I am a bit concerned about, everything else feels pretty good. Shoulder feels loose, elbow isn't tight. I really couldn't ask for more from the conditioning. We'll see pretty soon if it was enough.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The Ongoing Eligibility Saga
Man, this is getting old.
I've run into yet another hiccup on my way to winning eligibility for the upcoming season. Maybe "winning" is the wrong word; there are a certain set of rules that apply to student-athletes, and if you meet them, you are eligible, and if you don't, you're not. It seems like a very cut-and-dried approach, and it should be easy to work through.
Months later, I have learned it's not quite that simple.
So what's so complicated about it, you ask? Part of it is the fact that eligibility runs over lots of different categories. You have to be medically eligible, academically eligible, amateurly (that's so not a word) eligible, NCAA-eligible, and so on. All of these categories requires paperwork, as well as somebody signing off that what I say I did is actually what happened. A doctor has to sign that I don't have any heart murmurs, my athletic director at my old school has to confirm that I only competed for three years, my old school has to confirm that I did actually graduate... you get the idea. On top of that, I have to pay $50 to register with the NCAA so that they, as an independent body, know that I exist. Gets to be a headache, a little bit.
I fall under a special group of student-athletes. Most of the time, when one transfers, they have to sit out a year before they compete again. Ardent followers of major college football and basketball will be familiar with this rule. But since I went to a D-3 school, and I graduated, and I've transferred (kind of) to a D-1 school, and...(Imagine that I'm listing off a list of odd, seemingly arbitrary rules for the next minute and a half while you zone out and drool on yourself.)...and if you fall into that category, you don't have to sit out a year! Incredibly, ALL OF THOSE RULES APPLY TO ME, so I actually get to use what's called the "one-time transfer exemption" to be immediately available to play.
Not so fast, say the fates. Apparently somebody at my old school had marked down that I had been recruited to play there, which would make me...*GASP*...ineligible! Upon receiving this information, I was crushed, to say the least. I was also confused, since we actually used to poke fun at our coach and tell him how lucky he was to have the best players on his team fall into his lap without having recruited them. I certainly don't remember being recruited, but maybe it was possible that I did something that I didn't realize, 4 years ago, would compromise my status? I re-read NCAA Bylaw 14.5.5.2.10.1 (I didn't make those numbers up), which explains the eligibility for the exemption, and I looked up NCAA Bylaw 13.02.12.1 (also not making up), which defines who has or has not been "recruited." Let's take a look:
13.02.12.1 Recruited Prospective Student-Athlete
Actions by staff members or athletics representatives that cause a prospective student-athlete to become a recruited prospective student-athlete at that institution are:
(a) Providing the prospective student-athlete with an official visit;
(b) Having an arranged, in-person, off-campus encounter with the prospective student-athlete or the prospective student-athlete's parent(s), relatives or legal guardian(s); or (c) Initiating or arranging a telephone contact with the prospective student-athlete, the prospective student-athlete's relatives or legal guardian(s) on more than one occasion for the purpose of recruitment.
(d) Issuing a National Letter of Intent or the institution's written offer of athletically related financial aid to the prospective student-athlete. Issuing a written offer of athletically related financial aid to a prospective student-athlete to attend a summer session prior to full-time enrollment does not cause the prospective student-athlete to become recruited.
Get that? If Coach had called me MORE THAN ONCE, or if the school had paid any of my travel costs to visit the school, thus making it an official visit, that counts as recruiting! I was surprised, shocked, amazed at the overwhelming absurdity that is the NCAA monolith... and that this still didn't apply to me.
That's right. None of that happened to me. I was never recruited, just like I thought. So now I have to go back to my old school, ask them why, exactly, they screwed up my record, prove it, fix it, have everyone sign off on it, then forward that to my new school so they can review it for NCAA compliance purposes.
Man, this is getting old.
I've run into yet another hiccup on my way to winning eligibility for the upcoming season. Maybe "winning" is the wrong word; there are a certain set of rules that apply to student-athletes, and if you meet them, you are eligible, and if you don't, you're not. It seems like a very cut-and-dried approach, and it should be easy to work through.
Months later, I have learned it's not quite that simple.
So what's so complicated about it, you ask? Part of it is the fact that eligibility runs over lots of different categories. You have to be medically eligible, academically eligible, amateurly (that's so not a word) eligible, NCAA-eligible, and so on. All of these categories requires paperwork, as well as somebody signing off that what I say I did is actually what happened. A doctor has to sign that I don't have any heart murmurs, my athletic director at my old school has to confirm that I only competed for three years, my old school has to confirm that I did actually graduate... you get the idea. On top of that, I have to pay $50 to register with the NCAA so that they, as an independent body, know that I exist. Gets to be a headache, a little bit.
I fall under a special group of student-athletes. Most of the time, when one transfers, they have to sit out a year before they compete again. Ardent followers of major college football and basketball will be familiar with this rule. But since I went to a D-3 school, and I graduated, and I've transferred (kind of) to a D-1 school, and...(Imagine that I'm listing off a list of odd, seemingly arbitrary rules for the next minute and a half while you zone out and drool on yourself.)...and if you fall into that category, you don't have to sit out a year! Incredibly, ALL OF THOSE RULES APPLY TO ME, so I actually get to use what's called the "one-time transfer exemption" to be immediately available to play.
Not so fast, say the fates. Apparently somebody at my old school had marked down that I had been recruited to play there, which would make me...*GASP*...ineligible! Upon receiving this information, I was crushed, to say the least. I was also confused, since we actually used to poke fun at our coach and tell him how lucky he was to have the best players on his team fall into his lap without having recruited them. I certainly don't remember being recruited, but maybe it was possible that I did something that I didn't realize, 4 years ago, would compromise my status? I re-read NCAA Bylaw 14.5.5.2.10.1 (I didn't make those numbers up), which explains the eligibility for the exemption, and I looked up NCAA Bylaw 13.02.12.1 (also not making up), which defines who has or has not been "recruited." Let's take a look:
13.02.12.1 Recruited Prospective Student-Athlete
Actions by staff members or athletics representatives that cause a prospective student-athlete to become a recruited prospective student-athlete at that institution are:
(a) Providing the prospective student-athlete with an official visit;
(b) Having an arranged, in-person, off-campus encounter with the prospective student-athlete or the prospective student-athlete's parent(s), relatives or legal guardian(s); or (c) Initiating or arranging a telephone contact with the prospective student-athlete, the prospective student-athlete's relatives or legal guardian(s) on more than one occasion for the purpose of recruitment.
(d) Issuing a National Letter of Intent or the institution's written offer of athletically related financial aid to the prospective student-athlete. Issuing a written offer of athletically related financial aid to a prospective student-athlete to attend a summer session prior to full-time enrollment does not cause the prospective student-athlete to become recruited.
Get that? If Coach had called me MORE THAN ONCE, or if the school had paid any of my travel costs to visit the school, thus making it an official visit, that counts as recruiting! I was surprised, shocked, amazed at the overwhelming absurdity that is the NCAA monolith... and that this still didn't apply to me.
That's right. None of that happened to me. I was never recruited, just like I thought. So now I have to go back to my old school, ask them why, exactly, they screwed up my record, prove it, fix it, have everyone sign off on it, then forward that to my new school so they can review it for NCAA compliance purposes.
Man, this is getting old.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Size Doesn't Matter ... As Long As You're Fast
I am not your typical baseball player size. Nor am I your typical baseball player shape, actually. My natural build is perfect for soccer, which is actually what I was playing and excelling at until my brother decided that baseball was his sport of choice, and since I wanted to be just like my big brother, I dropped soccer and track in favor of baseball. My worst sport of the three, actually. Oh well. I digress. Doesn't really matter, since I'm stuck with it now.
I'm a 5'9", 170 pound white guy. Although that is what I'm listed at, it's not one of those comically inflated listings that you'll often find for undersized athletes. No, if you lined me up next to a tape measure, and put me on a scale, these are the numbers you would actually get.
This is pretty small for a college baseball player. I was almost the smallest player on my last team, and I expect to be the smallest on this team. This is not out of the ordinary for me, since I have almost always been the smallest player on my team (and occasionally in my league). I got a lot of snickers in Little League when I'd drag a bat my size to the plate to face an early-developed man-child who already had whiskers peppering his chin. The snickers stopped, though, when I hit .683 or whatever. Still, I've rarely been the best player on my team; all throughout club baseball in my teens, there were always other players who were the stars.
I'm very thankful for the fact that I've always had somebody better around me. You always see kids who peak in their early teens because they have a growth spurt and dominate for a year or two, and then they get complacent because they figure they will always dominate like that. It's the guys who are always working and always fighting that stay in it and never drop out. Always having great competition is why I'm still around in baseball now. Well, that and being fast.
I have ALWAYS been the fast kid. I was always the fastest on my team, and I was commonly the fastest in the league. I always had a lot of fun messing with people on the basepaths, because if other teams knew about me, I attracted great amounts of attention because they worried so much about me stealing bases. I LOVE scoring from first, which happens a lot, since I'm on first a lot (as opposed to second or third, since you'd actually have to hit with power to be in that situation). We were not very strong in track in high school, but I used to look at the meet times in the paper and find that I had run the 100m faster than our best sprinter...in the rain...in tennis shoes...without blocks. I am not otherwise supremely talented: I have poor eyesight, I have a weak upper body, I have decent bat control, I have a miserable throwing arm (part of that is surgically induced, but it wasn't great before I hurt it either), and I'm injury-prone. But hey...speed never slumps.
So I hope to continue to ride that wave onto this team. I don't expect to be the fastest anymore, since I expect there will be some excellent athletes on this team. I'm certainly not going to make it based on my hitting power, although hopefully my contact hitting will be passable. I really hope the coaches aren't looking when I throw. I can't let myself get derailed when I face one of the 6'5" pitchers, or take batting practice with a round of guys who all weigh 210 or more. As long as I can beat them all in the sprints and run down some ridiculously long fly balls, maybe I can sprint my way into a jersey.
I'm a 5'9", 170 pound white guy. Although that is what I'm listed at, it's not one of those comically inflated listings that you'll often find for undersized athletes. No, if you lined me up next to a tape measure, and put me on a scale, these are the numbers you would actually get.
This is pretty small for a college baseball player. I was almost the smallest player on my last team, and I expect to be the smallest on this team. This is not out of the ordinary for me, since I have almost always been the smallest player on my team (and occasionally in my league). I got a lot of snickers in Little League when I'd drag a bat my size to the plate to face an early-developed man-child who already had whiskers peppering his chin. The snickers stopped, though, when I hit .683 or whatever. Still, I've rarely been the best player on my team; all throughout club baseball in my teens, there were always other players who were the stars.
I'm very thankful for the fact that I've always had somebody better around me. You always see kids who peak in their early teens because they have a growth spurt and dominate for a year or two, and then they get complacent because they figure they will always dominate like that. It's the guys who are always working and always fighting that stay in it and never drop out. Always having great competition is why I'm still around in baseball now. Well, that and being fast.
I have ALWAYS been the fast kid. I was always the fastest on my team, and I was commonly the fastest in the league. I always had a lot of fun messing with people on the basepaths, because if other teams knew about me, I attracted great amounts of attention because they worried so much about me stealing bases. I LOVE scoring from first, which happens a lot, since I'm on first a lot (as opposed to second or third, since you'd actually have to hit with power to be in that situation). We were not very strong in track in high school, but I used to look at the meet times in the paper and find that I had run the 100m faster than our best sprinter...in the rain...in tennis shoes...without blocks. I am not otherwise supremely talented: I have poor eyesight, I have a weak upper body, I have decent bat control, I have a miserable throwing arm (part of that is surgically induced, but it wasn't great before I hurt it either), and I'm injury-prone. But hey...speed never slumps.
So I hope to continue to ride that wave onto this team. I don't expect to be the fastest anymore, since I expect there will be some excellent athletes on this team. I'm certainly not going to make it based on my hitting power, although hopefully my contact hitting will be passable. I really hope the coaches aren't looking when I throw. I can't let myself get derailed when I face one of the 6'5" pitchers, or take batting practice with a round of guys who all weigh 210 or more. As long as I can beat them all in the sprints and run down some ridiculously long fly balls, maybe I can sprint my way into a jersey.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
New Schedule!
Update: major goal achieved. I have been officially placed on the fall roster for the baseball team. I got an email today telling me so, and with it I received a whole list of things I have to do. Eligibility is a BITCH. Paperwork, physicals, academic records, paperwork, scheduling, meetings, paperwork...yikes. Worth it, though.
I also got the new schedule from Coach. Starting with the first day of fall ball, on Oct. 1, we have:
Monday, Wednesday, Friday: Lifting from 6-7:30 AM, followed by practice from 2:30-5:30 PM.
Tuesday and Thursday: Practice from 1-4 PM.
Saturday and Sunday: Scrimmage from 9 AM to...whenever Coach decides we're done.
For those of you keeping score, that ends up being about 30 hours a week. When I said I would probably end up being the guy in the lab at 8:00 on Friday night because I have work I need to finish up, I wasn't really kidding.
And keep in mind, this is the offseason.
I also got the new schedule from Coach. Starting with the first day of fall ball, on Oct. 1, we have:
Monday, Wednesday, Friday: Lifting from 6-7:30 AM, followed by practice from 2:30-5:30 PM.
Tuesday and Thursday: Practice from 1-4 PM.
Saturday and Sunday: Scrimmage from 9 AM to...whenever Coach decides we're done.
For those of you keeping score, that ends up being about 30 hours a week. When I said I would probably end up being the guy in the lab at 8:00 on Friday night because I have work I need to finish up, I wasn't really kidding.
And keep in mind, this is the offseason.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Going Pro In Something Other Than Sports
I have mentioned previously that I am not a scholarship athlete. This is kind of true. I'm not quite the same as other walk-ons (for many reasons, but we'll just focus on one here). Most walk-ons are the true warriors; passed over for scholarships, they decided to enroll in school at a program they wanted to be a part of, paid out of their own pocket for the privilege of attending, and fought their way onto the team.
Suckers.
I noted that my previous school was a highly regarded academic institution. When I graduated high school, my academic background put me in the position that I could attend just about any university in the country. I ended up selecting a school because it featured a very strong engineering program, a competitive baseball team where I could be a team leader, and some other criteria (one of which, apparently, was hideous girls. I really wish somebody would have clued me in on that).
After a successful undergraduate career at said highly regarded institution, I again put myself in the position to go to just about any graduate school I wanted. I picked the university where I am now because it was a great fit; great professors, a program that focused on what I wanted to study, great weather, hot girls (FINALLY). On top of that, part of the offer was to waive my tuition and pay me a living stipend. So obviously, I was going to come here even if there was no baseball team at all.
Quick note: Engineering grad students getting paid is fairly common. PhD students always receive some sort of payment, while it is much more rare for master's students to get paid. As a master's candidate, that is why this situation is so awesome.
So I am getting a scholarship, kind of. But it puts me in an interesting position. For many scholarship athletes, their sport is a vehicle for a better life. For many of these students, their academics alone are not strong enough to warrant their entry into a reputable university, or a four-year college of any kind, in some cases. And really, when you consider how the vast majority of these student-athletes are not going to go on to professional sports of any kind, you realize how important that opportunity is; a chance to get a college education, which opens up a world of career paths compared to what might have been available to them otherwise. Athletics become an aid to further academic success, which, ultimately, is the important pursuit.
Then what the hell am I doing? I'm taking an academic scholarship, given to help me further my academic pursuits, to be used toward my career that will be based on my ability to use my mind, to... spend half my time playing baseball? When, by the way, my career earnings from professional baseball will most likely be zero (0) dollars. This is like a can't-miss NFL prospect coming out of college and saying he's going to pass up the draft and attend the Berklee School of Music because he just really loves playing the violin, which, yeah, he's decent at, but there are so many other better violinists around that there's no chance for him to make a living doing it.
Hey, you can't put a price on a dream. I just hope my academic advisors don't erupt into a purple-faced rage when I tell them that, well, I really like playing baseball.
Suckers.
I noted that my previous school was a highly regarded academic institution. When I graduated high school, my academic background put me in the position that I could attend just about any university in the country. I ended up selecting a school because it featured a very strong engineering program, a competitive baseball team where I could be a team leader, and some other criteria (one of which, apparently, was hideous girls. I really wish somebody would have clued me in on that).
After a successful undergraduate career at said highly regarded institution, I again put myself in the position to go to just about any graduate school I wanted. I picked the university where I am now because it was a great fit; great professors, a program that focused on what I wanted to study, great weather, hot girls (FINALLY). On top of that, part of the offer was to waive my tuition and pay me a living stipend. So obviously, I was going to come here even if there was no baseball team at all.
Quick note: Engineering grad students getting paid is fairly common. PhD students always receive some sort of payment, while it is much more rare for master's students to get paid. As a master's candidate, that is why this situation is so awesome.
So I am getting a scholarship, kind of. But it puts me in an interesting position. For many scholarship athletes, their sport is a vehicle for a better life. For many of these students, their academics alone are not strong enough to warrant their entry into a reputable university, or a four-year college of any kind, in some cases. And really, when you consider how the vast majority of these student-athletes are not going to go on to professional sports of any kind, you realize how important that opportunity is; a chance to get a college education, which opens up a world of career paths compared to what might have been available to them otherwise. Athletics become an aid to further academic success, which, ultimately, is the important pursuit.
Then what the hell am I doing? I'm taking an academic scholarship, given to help me further my academic pursuits, to be used toward my career that will be based on my ability to use my mind, to... spend half my time playing baseball? When, by the way, my career earnings from professional baseball will most likely be zero (0) dollars. This is like a can't-miss NFL prospect coming out of college and saying he's going to pass up the draft and attend the Berklee School of Music because he just really loves playing the violin, which, yeah, he's decent at, but there are so many other better violinists around that there's no chance for him to make a living doing it.
Hey, you can't put a price on a dream. I just hope my academic advisors don't erupt into a purple-faced rage when I tell them that, well, I really like playing baseball.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Recovery Time
At the start of this project, I set a couple of goals, in increasing difficulty. I knew that just to go out and say, "I'm going to make this team!" was not going to be sufficient. So, I worked out a couple of steps on the ladder, so to speak.
One of the main goals was to get my body and my joints in good enough shape to be able to work out every day. Not necessarily a brutal, leg-shaking workout every day, but to get my recovery time down so that I could do at least something every day. I was really worried about this, because of my history of being broken and the ease that I come down with overuse injuries (tendinitis, shin splints, wrist pain, etc.). It's so easy, if you don't ice, take anti-inflammatories, get enough sleep, to let your recovery time creep over 24 hours. If that happens, well, you're screwed, because you can't take days off to rest up. Amazingly, this seems to be working out well for me; the workouts are tough, but I'm not waking up sore and stiff and tight every morning.
This is what amazes me the most about professional baseball players; not necessarily the effort and skill that they put out in any individual game, but the fact that they do it EVERY SINGLE DAY for MONTHS. I'm sure there are fantastic players, hitters, pitchers, fielders, who had the talent to be all-stars in the big leagues, but their bodies simply couldn't handle playing every day. Their natural recovery time was more than one day. And people wonder why players take human growth hormone? Seriously, if it was still legal and I could afford it, that would be a no-brainer.
The fun part is when one of my buddies joins me for a workout because they say "oh come on, it's can't be that hard." Well, sometimes, it's not. I've had friends who work out and are in good shape join me for lifting, and when we're done, say, "Wow, that was hard, but hey, I finished." (To be fair, I've also had friends quit halfway through because they needed to go vomit. So there's a scale, certainly.) And then I say, "Actually, that's pretty good. By the way, in ten hours, do you want to come work out on the field? I'm going to hit, throw, and catch fly balls for two hours."
They often look at me like I'm kidding. "But I can't move my legs," they say. "I know," I respond, "but don't worry. If you come with me tomorrow at this time, we'll run sprints for an hour and a half and it'll shake that tightness right out."
Them: When do you get a rest day?
Me: Next Sunday.
Them: But it's Monday.
Me: Yes. That's when I get to do active rest.
Them: What the hell is active rest?
Me: The principle that on an off day, if you can get your blood moving and heart pumping a little bit without straining your joints, that will aid your body's recovery more than if you just sat around for a day.
Them:...So when's the next day that you do nothing?
Me:...When I retire.
Them: Damn.
Again, to reiterate: I'm not complaining; I'm educating. I'm not a scholarship athlete (well, not really...see the next post), so nobody makes me do this. Nothing but free will brings me to do this. This is my choice. I'm simply explaining myself, because I'm tired of going out after work for drinks with a group of friends, ordering only water, and getting heaps of shit for it. NOTHING sucks away the bounce in your step like alcohol. Well...I can think of some things that are probably worse. But alcohol is not a performance-enhancer by any means.
One of the main goals was to get my body and my joints in good enough shape to be able to work out every day. Not necessarily a brutal, leg-shaking workout every day, but to get my recovery time down so that I could do at least something every day. I was really worried about this, because of my history of being broken and the ease that I come down with overuse injuries (tendinitis, shin splints, wrist pain, etc.). It's so easy, if you don't ice, take anti-inflammatories, get enough sleep, to let your recovery time creep over 24 hours. If that happens, well, you're screwed, because you can't take days off to rest up. Amazingly, this seems to be working out well for me; the workouts are tough, but I'm not waking up sore and stiff and tight every morning.
This is what amazes me the most about professional baseball players; not necessarily the effort and skill that they put out in any individual game, but the fact that they do it EVERY SINGLE DAY for MONTHS. I'm sure there are fantastic players, hitters, pitchers, fielders, who had the talent to be all-stars in the big leagues, but their bodies simply couldn't handle playing every day. Their natural recovery time was more than one day. And people wonder why players take human growth hormone? Seriously, if it was still legal and I could afford it, that would be a no-brainer.
The fun part is when one of my buddies joins me for a workout because they say "oh come on, it's can't be that hard." Well, sometimes, it's not. I've had friends who work out and are in good shape join me for lifting, and when we're done, say, "Wow, that was hard, but hey, I finished." (To be fair, I've also had friends quit halfway through because they needed to go vomit. So there's a scale, certainly.) And then I say, "Actually, that's pretty good. By the way, in ten hours, do you want to come work out on the field? I'm going to hit, throw, and catch fly balls for two hours."
They often look at me like I'm kidding. "But I can't move my legs," they say. "I know," I respond, "but don't worry. If you come with me tomorrow at this time, we'll run sprints for an hour and a half and it'll shake that tightness right out."
Them: When do you get a rest day?
Me: Next Sunday.
Them: But it's Monday.
Me: Yes. That's when I get to do active rest.
Them: What the hell is active rest?
Me: The principle that on an off day, if you can get your blood moving and heart pumping a little bit without straining your joints, that will aid your body's recovery more than if you just sat around for a day.
Them:...So when's the next day that you do nothing?
Me:...When I retire.
Them: Damn.
Again, to reiterate: I'm not complaining; I'm educating. I'm not a scholarship athlete (well, not really...see the next post), so nobody makes me do this. Nothing but free will brings me to do this. This is my choice. I'm simply explaining myself, because I'm tired of going out after work for drinks with a group of friends, ordering only water, and getting heaps of shit for it. NOTHING sucks away the bounce in your step like alcohol. Well...I can think of some things that are probably worse. But alcohol is not a performance-enhancer by any means.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Radio DJs are dumb.
So I was driving back from my lift yesterday morning (another puker...those 3x10 squats at 70% of max with a minute rest in between just floor me) and the guys on the radio were talking about the olympics. One of them made the point that hey, what really separates us from them is the time that got put into training, that everyone pretty much has the natural talent to at least be a collegiate-level athlete. The guys on set agreed with him that if only they would have gone back and focused on one thing back in junior high or highschool, that they could have been able to compete at a decently high level.
I was displeased, to say the least. I have no respect for people who downplay the achievements of others by claiming that they could have accomplished the same thing if they wanted to. It's no different than the kid who says sure, he's smart enough to get an A in the class, but he just didn't feel like putting in the effort. Or maybe someone you work with claims that really, he should have gotten your promotion, but he didn't want to kill himself so he had time to be at home with his wife.
There's no difference between "I could have, but..." and "I didn't." And by the way, the road to high school and college athletics is littered with people who did try, and tried as hard as they could, and still didn't make it because they didn't have the natural ability.
This is part of the reason that I wanted to write about this in the first place. The disconnect between regular people and athletes is wide enough that there's not an understanding of what really goes on or what it's like to operate at that level of athleticism. Here's an example: on a scale of athleticism, I'm closer to your average guy than I am to an NFL player. So it's safe to say that I'm far enough removed from the life of an NFL player that I don't really know what it's like for him. Earlier this summer, I was invited to work out with an NFL running back. He is still playing, although he is nearing the end of an illustrious career. He has been criticized in recent years for slowing down and not having as much explosiveness as compared to his younger self or other running backs around the league.
Look, I've always thought of myself as fast and explosive. I ran the 100 and 200 in college, and I ran a 4.6 40-yard dash in high school. As a 5'9" white guy, I have no trouble dunking a baseball. But compared to this NFL player, I was nothing. He was so much faster, so much stronger, so physically gifted that it stopped me in my tracks. He could give me a head start, run me down, and knock me off my feet with an open-hand slap if he so chose. And he's fighting to stay in the league.
I could have started at birth and absolutely perfected my technique for being a cornerback (my natural position on a football field) with hours of practice every day, and I would never, ever be good enough to play collegiate football. To say that I could if I had wanted to would unfairly take away from the guys who have the talent AND put in the time needed to excel.
I'd love to get a radio DJ in the box in "just a collegiate baseball game" and start a 91-mph slider at his hip, just to see if he wets his pants.
I was displeased, to say the least. I have no respect for people who downplay the achievements of others by claiming that they could have accomplished the same thing if they wanted to. It's no different than the kid who says sure, he's smart enough to get an A in the class, but he just didn't feel like putting in the effort. Or maybe someone you work with claims that really, he should have gotten your promotion, but he didn't want to kill himself so he had time to be at home with his wife.
There's no difference between "I could have, but..." and "I didn't." And by the way, the road to high school and college athletics is littered with people who did try, and tried as hard as they could, and still didn't make it because they didn't have the natural ability.
This is part of the reason that I wanted to write about this in the first place. The disconnect between regular people and athletes is wide enough that there's not an understanding of what really goes on or what it's like to operate at that level of athleticism. Here's an example: on a scale of athleticism, I'm closer to your average guy than I am to an NFL player. So it's safe to say that I'm far enough removed from the life of an NFL player that I don't really know what it's like for him. Earlier this summer, I was invited to work out with an NFL running back. He is still playing, although he is nearing the end of an illustrious career. He has been criticized in recent years for slowing down and not having as much explosiveness as compared to his younger self or other running backs around the league.
Look, I've always thought of myself as fast and explosive. I ran the 100 and 200 in college, and I ran a 4.6 40-yard dash in high school. As a 5'9" white guy, I have no trouble dunking a baseball. But compared to this NFL player, I was nothing. He was so much faster, so much stronger, so physically gifted that it stopped me in my tracks. He could give me a head start, run me down, and knock me off my feet with an open-hand slap if he so chose. And he's fighting to stay in the league.
I could have started at birth and absolutely perfected my technique for being a cornerback (my natural position on a football field) with hours of practice every day, and I would never, ever be good enough to play collegiate football. To say that I could if I had wanted to would unfairly take away from the guys who have the talent AND put in the time needed to excel.
I'd love to get a radio DJ in the box in "just a collegiate baseball game" and start a 91-mph slider at his hip, just to see if he wets his pants.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Week 1 complete! I am TIRED.
One down, uh... eight to go. Holy crap. The toughest day of the week was probably this morning. It's difficult to work through a full-body tired feeling in order to squeeze out more repititions. It's all mental though; it's surprising, when you push yourself, to find out exactly what you're physiologically capable of instead of what you think you should be able to do.
The good news is that aside from a strain in my left anterior deltoid (front of my shoulder), I have escaped the first week of workouts without major injury. No shin splints, no forearm tendinitis, so that feels like a victory. I was able to do everything in the workout plan, although I probably used more rest time in the running workouts than I should have. Whatever... I feel entitled to rest for a few minutes after I run 200 yards in under 35 seconds, 8 times in a row (with a minute rest in between). The strength and conditioning coach might disagree with me, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
The hardest part of these kinds of workouts is never during the workout. Everyone who has made it to this level of athletics is competitive and driven enough that they can dig deep and make themselves get through those last couple repititions. It's amazing to see how energizing it can be to tell a group of oxygen-deprived, butt-locked athletes, "hey...do you think that (insert rival here) cares if you're tired? What do you think they're doing right now?", and watch them bust out on the next run.
No, the hardest part is getting started. It's hearing your alarm go off at 5:30, and shaking yourself out of sleep to go kick your own ass. Or it's getting home from work, tired already, knowing full well that you'll be throwing up in about 45 minutes, after which you'll have to finish the last third of the running. It's the anticipation of the pain that's way mentally worse than the experience itself.
Having said that, there's no better feeling than finishing. Part of it has got to be the actual chemical flood of endorphins into your system, but part if it is knowing that you just gave it everything you had, and it made you better. That's the feeling that gets you up the next morning.
The good news is that aside from a strain in my left anterior deltoid (front of my shoulder), I have escaped the first week of workouts without major injury. No shin splints, no forearm tendinitis, so that feels like a victory. I was able to do everything in the workout plan, although I probably used more rest time in the running workouts than I should have. Whatever... I feel entitled to rest for a few minutes after I run 200 yards in under 35 seconds, 8 times in a row (with a minute rest in between). The strength and conditioning coach might disagree with me, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
The hardest part of these kinds of workouts is never during the workout. Everyone who has made it to this level of athletics is competitive and driven enough that they can dig deep and make themselves get through those last couple repititions. It's amazing to see how energizing it can be to tell a group of oxygen-deprived, butt-locked athletes, "hey...do you think that (insert rival here) cares if you're tired? What do you think they're doing right now?", and watch them bust out on the next run.
No, the hardest part is getting started. It's hearing your alarm go off at 5:30, and shaking yourself out of sleep to go kick your own ass. Or it's getting home from work, tired already, knowing full well that you'll be throwing up in about 45 minutes, after which you'll have to finish the last third of the running. It's the anticipation of the pain that's way mentally worse than the experience itself.
Having said that, there's no better feeling than finishing. Part of it has got to be the actual chemical flood of endorphins into your system, but part if it is knowing that you just gave it everything you had, and it made you better. That's the feeling that gets you up the next morning.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
What's going on here?
I finished the running workout. Not just finished it, but finished it to perfection. All my times came in under the specified times, I rested exactly as prescribed, and I didn't have to push myself past the vomit threshold. So why am I not overflowing with glee?
Something odd is occurring here. There is no way I should have been able to finish this workout, given my current fitness level. You can grind and grit your teeth and push through to your limit, but you can't cheat your VO2max. I can't figure out why I'm in as good of shape as I am. This is good news, obviously, but I'm in that mode where I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I've been very injury-prone throughout my career, and I've never been able to handle a lot of lifting or running volume without breaking down somewhere.
I guess we'll wait and see. Maybe my body is finally producing the natural testosterone and human growth hormone levels required to keep up with this level of training. That would be AWESOME.
On another note, today is my birthday. How did I start it? I got up at 5:30 and was in the gym by 5:50, doing the next workout. Why? Because the rest of the conference doesn't give a shit that it's my birthday.
Something odd is occurring here. There is no way I should have been able to finish this workout, given my current fitness level. You can grind and grit your teeth and push through to your limit, but you can't cheat your VO2max. I can't figure out why I'm in as good of shape as I am. This is good news, obviously, but I'm in that mode where I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I've been very injury-prone throughout my career, and I've never been able to handle a lot of lifting or running volume without breaking down somewhere.
I guess we'll wait and see. Maybe my body is finally producing the natural testosterone and human growth hormone levels required to keep up with this level of training. That would be AWESOME.
On another note, today is my birthday. How did I start it? I got up at 5:30 and was in the gym by 5:50, doing the next workout. Why? Because the rest of the conference doesn't give a shit that it's my birthday.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Ruminations on Pain
When I rolled out of bed this morning and found that I had quite a bit of difficulty moving my shoulders (stiff and sore is an understatement) I reflected upon some comments that I recently wrote for another venture. They detail a point that is hard to identify while watching a contest, since adrenaline can do a pretty good job of hiding ailments. But here goes:
--
If there's anything I've learned from being a four-year, two-sport college athlete, it's the simple fact that athletics at an elite level HURT. There's ALWAYS something that's sore, that needs ice, that feels funny, that is pulled, or strained, or is inflamed. Anti-inflammatories are a godsend, but painkillers are worthless; pain is a message, and ignoring the message makes it worse. Sleep is unparalleled in value, as is decent nutrition. I made the comment the other day that I will never again think poorly of an athlete when I hear that they took human growth hormone; to wake up in the morning, and be able to go through the day's workouts without having to grit through the pain, and finally being able to play to your potential instead of to what your creaking joints will allow, is a dream for most of us. And for professionals, whose performance determines their livelihood, and the ability for their kids to eat, well...it's easy for everyone to sit around and whine about "tarnishing the game," but they don't understand. Needless to say, my immediate company when I made these comments was appalled. Oh well.
And lest my intentions be lost in my observations, knowing what I know now, how much it hurt, how hard it was, would I do it again? Absolutely. No doubt. And next time, I'd do it harder.
--
And I just remembered that I forgot to take Aleve this morning. Shoot. I'm supposed to hit tonight after running... but we'll see if that's possible.
--
If there's anything I've learned from being a four-year, two-sport college athlete, it's the simple fact that athletics at an elite level HURT. There's ALWAYS something that's sore, that needs ice, that feels funny, that is pulled, or strained, or is inflamed. Anti-inflammatories are a godsend, but painkillers are worthless; pain is a message, and ignoring the message makes it worse. Sleep is unparalleled in value, as is decent nutrition. I made the comment the other day that I will never again think poorly of an athlete when I hear that they took human growth hormone; to wake up in the morning, and be able to go through the day's workouts without having to grit through the pain, and finally being able to play to your potential instead of to what your creaking joints will allow, is a dream for most of us. And for professionals, whose performance determines their livelihood, and the ability for their kids to eat, well...it's easy for everyone to sit around and whine about "tarnishing the game," but they don't understand. Needless to say, my immediate company when I made these comments was appalled. Oh well.
And lest my intentions be lost in my observations, knowing what I know now, how much it hurt, how hard it was, would I do it again? Absolutely. No doubt. And next time, I'd do it harder.
--
And I just remembered that I forgot to take Aleve this morning. Shoot. I'm supposed to hit tonight after running... but we'll see if that's possible.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Day 1!!
So I finally got my summer workout program in the mail on Friday. It coincides with the end of summer baseball (for most, at least...the college-age summer baseball scene in my hometown is fairly barren, so I've just been doing my own thing since I graduated). The thing is 80 PAGES. I had to put it in a binder, with dividers separating out the weight program, the running workouts, the nutrition guidelines, and the stretching sequences. I was pretty excited for this, because I have always had to work hard to develop my own offseason workouts, and it's difficult to push yourself based on what you plan. It's easier to have a weight sheet, where you know you have to rep this weight 8 times, and it's inflexible. Or at least it is for me. I find if someone sets the bar higher than I want it to be, I can rise to meet it.
So from now until October 1st, or nine weeks, every weekday is planned for me. Lifting in the morning MWF, running in the afternoons on TuTh, and hitting and throwing whenever I can get it in. Oh, and cardio on the weekends. That's the one thing I get to have input on.
I started the lift this morning. It was... intense. As someone who ran collegiate track for a year (in my off year from baseball), I'm no stranger to puking from exertion. I don't have a cast-iron stomach, but I'm not squeamish, either. Only occasionally do I end up pushing hard enough to pass the breaking point.
NEVER BEFORE have I puked from lifting. I didn't even know that was POSSIBLE. I think the other members outside the gym were surprised, too, when I sprayed a quart of liquid and fresh granola bar in the bushes outside the gym via my nostrils.
I'm genuinely afraid of the first day of running tomorrow. Updates to come.
So from now until October 1st, or nine weeks, every weekday is planned for me. Lifting in the morning MWF, running in the afternoons on TuTh, and hitting and throwing whenever I can get it in. Oh, and cardio on the weekends. That's the one thing I get to have input on.
I started the lift this morning. It was... intense. As someone who ran collegiate track for a year (in my off year from baseball), I'm no stranger to puking from exertion. I don't have a cast-iron stomach, but I'm not squeamish, either. Only occasionally do I end up pushing hard enough to pass the breaking point.
NEVER BEFORE have I puked from lifting. I didn't even know that was POSSIBLE. I think the other members outside the gym were surprised, too, when I sprayed a quart of liquid and fresh granola bar in the bushes outside the gym via my nostrils.
I'm genuinely afraid of the first day of running tomorrow. Updates to come.
Intro: What is Inside the Lines?
Welcome to Inside the Lines. Put simply, this is one college baseball player's attempt to present our day-to-day lives as student-athletes. From the grueling offseason workouts to the stresses of conflicting games and tests to media pressure to the joy of competing in front of strangers, over the next year I plan to chronicle my own personal journey through these highs and lows.
I have two reasons for starting this project. First of all, for much of the public, college athletes are but transient carriers of school colors and tradition. College teams are followed because of the connection the fans feel to the name on the front of the jersey, not the one on the back. Every year, the seniors graduate, the new freshmen carry the gear, and the cycle of renewal begins again for the players; the fans, however, maintain their focus on the program, and recent graduates immediately fade out of the consciousness. While there are many aspects of this system that are positive, it seems to me that it has a dehumanizing effect on the athletes themselves. They are transformed from unique individuals into faceless uniforms. If we were exposed to the athlete's side of the story more often, I think we would do a better job of remembering that those colors that we cheer for and yell at and support and boo are worn by people.
The second reason is far more selfish. I'm about to embark on something that I don't want to forget about, and this will help me to preserve this story for my own sake. Chances are this will make for interesting reading someday.
Furthermore, my personal history should provide an interesting perspective on this experience. You see, I've graduated already. I've been through this whole process; I've been a gear-carrying rookie, a solid team component and role-player, a team captain, the face of our media guide, and a graduated senior. I have a deep appreciation for the life cycle of the college athlete, an unwillingness to play my last inning, and a loophole that has allowed me one more shot.
I did not play my freshman year because of a throwing injury that eventually required reconstructive surgery on my right shoulder. That left me three more years to play, since non-scholarship-supported college is expensive. I decided to attend graduate school, at a new institution, which leaves me eligible to play for one more year. So here I am, a rather unlikely breed: a 22-year-old walk-on freshman/grad student.
For purposes of personal and institutional privacy, I won't mention names of schools or people. My old school was a very highly regarded academic institution with Divison III athletics, and our baseball program is a perennial Top 25 selection. I majored in engineering, and in doing so averaged writing about a paper and a half every year. I apologize if my writing is overly analytical or sequential; I'm afraid that's often how my mind works. I am continuing in engineering in graduate school, a school with Division I athletics that made the NCAA Tournament last year. I suspect I will often comment on the differences between these two programs, since they are my only reference points.
I'm sure I've forgotten several important points, but I will include them as they become relevant (and as I remember them). Read on and enjoy.
--Your Loyal Baseball Scribe
I have two reasons for starting this project. First of all, for much of the public, college athletes are but transient carriers of school colors and tradition. College teams are followed because of the connection the fans feel to the name on the front of the jersey, not the one on the back. Every year, the seniors graduate, the new freshmen carry the gear, and the cycle of renewal begins again for the players; the fans, however, maintain their focus on the program, and recent graduates immediately fade out of the consciousness. While there are many aspects of this system that are positive, it seems to me that it has a dehumanizing effect on the athletes themselves. They are transformed from unique individuals into faceless uniforms. If we were exposed to the athlete's side of the story more often, I think we would do a better job of remembering that those colors that we cheer for and yell at and support and boo are worn by people.
The second reason is far more selfish. I'm about to embark on something that I don't want to forget about, and this will help me to preserve this story for my own sake. Chances are this will make for interesting reading someday.
Furthermore, my personal history should provide an interesting perspective on this experience. You see, I've graduated already. I've been through this whole process; I've been a gear-carrying rookie, a solid team component and role-player, a team captain, the face of our media guide, and a graduated senior. I have a deep appreciation for the life cycle of the college athlete, an unwillingness to play my last inning, and a loophole that has allowed me one more shot.
I did not play my freshman year because of a throwing injury that eventually required reconstructive surgery on my right shoulder. That left me three more years to play, since non-scholarship-supported college is expensive. I decided to attend graduate school, at a new institution, which leaves me eligible to play for one more year. So here I am, a rather unlikely breed: a 22-year-old walk-on freshman/grad student.
For purposes of personal and institutional privacy, I won't mention names of schools or people. My old school was a very highly regarded academic institution with Divison III athletics, and our baseball program is a perennial Top 25 selection. I majored in engineering, and in doing so averaged writing about a paper and a half every year. I apologize if my writing is overly analytical or sequential; I'm afraid that's often how my mind works. I am continuing in engineering in graduate school, a school with Division I athletics that made the NCAA Tournament last year. I suspect I will often comment on the differences between these two programs, since they are my only reference points.
I'm sure I've forgotten several important points, but I will include them as they become relevant (and as I remember them). Read on and enjoy.
--Your Loyal Baseball Scribe
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