Standing on the mound in windy Colorado Springs I did something I've never done before. I gave up 12 singles in 5.1 innings, yet left the game in line for the win. The first two innings came and went without much fan fare, scattering a couple hits with a couple strikeouts and holding onto my slim 1-0 lead. Nothing felt discernibly different as the third inning rolled around. It was the same hitters and the same ballpark (if not a couple degrees cooler and a bit breezier). I began the third by attacking the strike zone just as I had done in the previous innings. With the pitcher leading off the inning I had the first out, a weak grounder, in just 2 pitches. After racing to an 0-2 count on the next batter, the tide of the game turned.
I tried to run a fastball under the lefty's hands leaving the ball over the plate just a couple inches. He swung defensively and the sound of the splintering maple could be heard 20 rows up where my wife sat bundled in whatever "cold weather gear" we could rustle up in Vegas. The ball, apparently blessed with 20/20 vision, found a hole past the outstretched glove of my first baseman. I winced, as only a jilted pitcher can, and got the ball back from my infielders. What ensued was pure baseball magic. The next 7 hitters reached base via the single base hit. Pitch after good pitch was capped or jammed into those microscopic vacuums that hitters dream of and pitchers have nightmares about. Broken bats filled the opposing team's dugout trashcan while their players methodically circled the bases one by one. My catcher came out once to encourage me, saying "Keep making good pitches. They can't get lucky all day."After three more singles that traveled a combined 100 feet my pitching coach made the long walk from the dugout. He echoed the catcher with, "Geez. Can't catch a break, huh?" It was at this point that I had a decision to make. I could give in to the self-pity that was brewing inside me, or I could stay the course and keep making pitches in the hope that this inning would end without further damage.
Now it's easy to stand outside of a situation like this and take the high road. The road that makes more sense. The road that shows character and strength. But take a moment and think back to a time in your life where you couldn't seem to get ANYTHING right even though you were seemingly doing EVERYTHING right. Our emotional response is usually much stronger than our rational one. Self-pity seems so justified and a bad result becomes expected. It takes something special to believe the best is still possible. Something not found in the heat-of-the-moment (que the music) but forged in the victories of the past. It takes Faith. The belief in something hoped for. The evidence of things not seen. There have been times in the past where I've given up and given in to the situations. Where i've accepted the sting of defeat before it was sealed. But on this day, at this point in my career, I clung to the faith I had. That my stuff was good enough. That I had succeeded in the past. And that if I consistently gave 100% my chances of success would be high.
Long story short, I got out of the jam with a strike out and an outfield assist (thanks Juan) giving up only 3 runs. Our team battled hard and came back to take the lead 4-3. I made it into the 6th inning that day, and even though we ultimately lost the game, I was reminded of what a little bit of faith (and a good arm in centerfield) can do in times of chaos.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
10 Ways To Stay Humble
2013 has the potential to be a very successful year. I'm attending my first Big League camp, with at least a puncher's chance of breaking with the Mets when they head north on April 1. I am into my 4th year of marriage with Ashley and loving every second of it. Her business, Buzzy Craftery, is expanding and she's got plenty of work. My Twitter account is well over 5,500 followers meaning that my observations about things like clubhouse toilet manners is being received pretty well. All in all, things are looking up and it might be tempting for me to get a big head. So for my own humility, and as a tool for my readers, I give you 10 ways to stay humble...
1) Listen: The greatest tools we have in our humility artillery are our ears. The easiest way to get the focus off of ourselves is to give attention to others. My good friend and Boosterthon CEO, Chris Carneal, always says "Show up, Pay attention, and engage." I like to think about those 3 things when my listening skills need sharpening...which is always.
2) Do things you aren't very good at: I'm not a very good reader and I'm not very disciplined to do it consistently. Because of that, I made it a priority to read one book a month this year. At the pace I read it's going to take me reading 20-30 minutes everyday to reach it. Humility is when you start reading a 200 page book and you wife finishes her 750 page novel before you get halfway through it. Thanks babe.
3) Surround yourself with people who do what you do...only better: When you are the best at what you do everywhere you go, it's easy to become complacent. It's also easy to forget that the next best (fill in the black) is working his/her tail off trying to beat you. You're never as far ahead as you think. It's like your car side mirrors. The people behind you are closer than they appear. When you surround yourself with more talented people, it raises your game and levels your perspective.
4) Learn to say "I don't know": It's really hard, for whatever reason, to answer someone flatly "I don't know." Probably because with all of the world's information at our fingertips, not knowing something seems like an excuse and not a legitimate answer. That's just not true though. Everyday I am learning how much I don't know, and I couldn't be happier about it. Life's full of questions we simply don't have answers to. It's exhausting having to know everything, so leave that to Wikipedia. Say "I don't know", listen, then learn.
5) Encourage others: As an athlete, you have people cheering you all the time, and let's be honest, it feels pretty good. Take every opportunity you get to cheer someone else. It might make their day and it'll make you appreciate those people who take the time to do it for you.
6) Drive used cars: People in Detroit are going to be mad at me, but there's something about driving a car that has a few too many miles on it. That makes a funny sound when you turn left. That stays in a continual state of "not shiny". These things, while frowned up by some people, are exercises in humility. When you have the money, it might be easy to go buy a new toy and keep it sparkling for the world to see. It's much harder to be content with what you have and take pride in having "just enough."
7) Call your Parents and Grandparents: I understand that talking to our older relatives can be time consuming, repetitive, and often underwhelming. But it is also vitally important! Not only did these generations take the majority of their lives raising you and caring for you (I do understand that's not always the case), but they crave relationship with us in ways we sometimes don't understand. Talk on the phone for 10 minutes every few days. Go to that family gathering...again. You'll realize you didn't get to where you are by yourself, and you'll be better off for it.
8) Learn to apologize: Don't just say "I'm sorry". Think about how what you did makes someone else feel. Empathize and apologize. Then figure out how to do it differently the next time (the conundrum of marriage). Apology does not equal weakness. Apology equals humility.
9) Hold a new born baby: Nothing freaks me out more in life than holding a baby. They can't protect themselves, they can't even hold their heads up. They put their entire security in your arms and you become wholly responsible for them. You can't help but look at a baby in your arms and realize you're not the most important person in the room.
10) Get caught singing something embarrassing everyday: Whether it's Gaga or ABBA, sing it loud and sing it proud. Then blush when you get caught and hurry off the elevator.
1) Listen: The greatest tools we have in our humility artillery are our ears. The easiest way to get the focus off of ourselves is to give attention to others. My good friend and Boosterthon CEO, Chris Carneal, always says "Show up, Pay attention, and engage." I like to think about those 3 things when my listening skills need sharpening...which is always.
2) Do things you aren't very good at: I'm not a very good reader and I'm not very disciplined to do it consistently. Because of that, I made it a priority to read one book a month this year. At the pace I read it's going to take me reading 20-30 minutes everyday to reach it. Humility is when you start reading a 200 page book and you wife finishes her 750 page novel before you get halfway through it. Thanks babe.
3) Surround yourself with people who do what you do...only better: When you are the best at what you do everywhere you go, it's easy to become complacent. It's also easy to forget that the next best (fill in the black) is working his/her tail off trying to beat you. You're never as far ahead as you think. It's like your car side mirrors. The people behind you are closer than they appear. When you surround yourself with more talented people, it raises your game and levels your perspective.
4) Learn to say "I don't know": It's really hard, for whatever reason, to answer someone flatly "I don't know." Probably because with all of the world's information at our fingertips, not knowing something seems like an excuse and not a legitimate answer. That's just not true though. Everyday I am learning how much I don't know, and I couldn't be happier about it. Life's full of questions we simply don't have answers to. It's exhausting having to know everything, so leave that to Wikipedia. Say "I don't know", listen, then learn.
5) Encourage others: As an athlete, you have people cheering you all the time, and let's be honest, it feels pretty good. Take every opportunity you get to cheer someone else. It might make their day and it'll make you appreciate those people who take the time to do it for you.
6) Drive used cars: People in Detroit are going to be mad at me, but there's something about driving a car that has a few too many miles on it. That makes a funny sound when you turn left. That stays in a continual state of "not shiny". These things, while frowned up by some people, are exercises in humility. When you have the money, it might be easy to go buy a new toy and keep it sparkling for the world to see. It's much harder to be content with what you have and take pride in having "just enough."
7) Call your Parents and Grandparents: I understand that talking to our older relatives can be time consuming, repetitive, and often underwhelming. But it is also vitally important! Not only did these generations take the majority of their lives raising you and caring for you (I do understand that's not always the case), but they crave relationship with us in ways we sometimes don't understand. Talk on the phone for 10 minutes every few days. Go to that family gathering...again. You'll realize you didn't get to where you are by yourself, and you'll be better off for it.
8) Learn to apologize: Don't just say "I'm sorry". Think about how what you did makes someone else feel. Empathize and apologize. Then figure out how to do it differently the next time (the conundrum of marriage). Apology does not equal weakness. Apology equals humility.
9) Hold a new born baby: Nothing freaks me out more in life than holding a baby. They can't protect themselves, they can't even hold their heads up. They put their entire security in your arms and you become wholly responsible for them. You can't help but look at a baby in your arms and realize you're not the most important person in the room.
10) Get caught singing something embarrassing everyday: Whether it's Gaga or ABBA, sing it loud and sing it proud. Then blush when you get caught and hurry off the elevator.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
The Grass Is Green Under Your Feet, Too
As I watched the playoffs unfold in a most dramatic fashion the last few days, the reality of my station in life began to sink in. I was sitting on a couch halfway through a slice of pizza while these guys were playing for a championship. No less than 2 weeks ago I was there playing in the same league against the same guys, but from my TV the grass literally looked greener out there than when I stood on it. I was (am) a major league pitcher just like these men on TV, but I felt a long way off and yearning for a taste of what they're having. The more that statement sank in, the more I felt compelled to talk about it in the wake of my month-long stint in the big leagues.
The moment the season ended, my own personal debriefing began. Looking at the ups and downs (as discussed in my last post) I started to draw out the significances buried in my 21.1 innings of major league work. We should all take a moment...me included...to recognize and confess the fact that I am an analyzer. Clearly, as this blog would give credence to. So I analyzed how each outing unfolded. How my mechanics changed. How my routine got more defined and more polished. How I felt about my thoughts and what I thought about my feelings. After roughy 20 minutes of this uber-analysis my mind felt like mush and my spirit wasn't exactly soaring. I cleaned out my locker and got everything in order to leave for the offseason, feeling more than a little sorry for myself and licking my proverbial wounds. We all said our goodbyes and exited towards our neck of the world, me towards Georgia. Then something happened. Something good and completely normal. Something that shook me from my stupor.
As we approached the taxi headed to the airport, a boy and his father headed us off. These people were the only thing between me and my offseason, so I was not in a hurry to stop and oblige. The boy wore an oversized Mets hat. The kind you wear because you can, not because it fits. He tore it off his head and held it out towards me in longing. His father, without saying a word, gave his son the consent and gave me a look that said "Sorry man, but can you?" Feeling obligated, I leaned down to the boy trying my best not to make too much eye contact in lieu of further conversation. But he caught my eyes. His big genuine smile and his eyes tracing every stroke of my pen as I signed the bill of his hat. In one month how could I have gotten so calloused? In that instant, my heart felt something it hadn't for over a month. There was joy. I put the cap back on the boy and smiled, thanking him for coming out. He and his father returned thanks and headed on their way. I wish that I could say an immediate weight was lifted and I haven't thought about giving up runs since then, but that would be an exaggeration. It still comes back to mind on occasion, but instead of dwelling on it I can step back and appreciate the simple fact that I was there. That perhaps even for a second, it doesn't matter to the little boy whether I pitched well or not. I was a major leaguer and that's all that mattered to him. Shouldn't that be the thing I focus on too?
I realized that I had spent so much time agonizing over my performances and perceived lack of success, that the truly great things has been neglected. I was in the big leagues. My childhood dream of pitching at Turner field had happened. I was a Met. The greatest city in the world had welcomed me in with open arms and embraced me as one of their own. People cheered for me, knew my name, even had the inclination to want my name on their caps. I had a jersey (multiple jerseys actually) with my name stitched in the back and a locker of my own to hold all the stuff they freely gave me. I was learning from some of the best players in the game and became so familiar with them that we called each other "bro". I struck out guys that I grew up watching. I hit against pitchers that grew up emulating. I was there. It really happened!
We could go over the way things went down on the field until we're blue in the face, but that won't change the experience that this last month offered me. Clearly there are things to work on, and clearly there is more work to be done to make the team again next year. But let's take a moment (something that doesn't happen often enough) and enjoy life for exactly what it is. A bunch of ups a downs, experiences and emotions, that make us who we are. I know that I am not only a better pitcher because of my experiences this last month, but a better man, husband and one-day father as well.
It's easy to look at life and say that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. Perhaps it even is. There might be better soil or climate, less predators or more cultivators. But often if you look down at the grass under your feet, not comparing it to any other, it's quite green too. It's soft, comfortable and meant to be enjoyed. Looking for greener pastures and more strikeouts isn't a bad thing, but don't forget that the grass you're standing on is someone else's greener pasture and being there is a very very good thing.
The moment the season ended, my own personal debriefing began. Looking at the ups and downs (as discussed in my last post) I started to draw out the significances buried in my 21.1 innings of major league work. We should all take a moment...me included...to recognize and confess the fact that I am an analyzer. Clearly, as this blog would give credence to. So I analyzed how each outing unfolded. How my mechanics changed. How my routine got more defined and more polished. How I felt about my thoughts and what I thought about my feelings. After roughy 20 minutes of this uber-analysis my mind felt like mush and my spirit wasn't exactly soaring. I cleaned out my locker and got everything in order to leave for the offseason, feeling more than a little sorry for myself and licking my proverbial wounds. We all said our goodbyes and exited towards our neck of the world, me towards Georgia. Then something happened. Something good and completely normal. Something that shook me from my stupor.
As we approached the taxi headed to the airport, a boy and his father headed us off. These people were the only thing between me and my offseason, so I was not in a hurry to stop and oblige. The boy wore an oversized Mets hat. The kind you wear because you can, not because it fits. He tore it off his head and held it out towards me in longing. His father, without saying a word, gave his son the consent and gave me a look that said "Sorry man, but can you?" Feeling obligated, I leaned down to the boy trying my best not to make too much eye contact in lieu of further conversation. But he caught my eyes. His big genuine smile and his eyes tracing every stroke of my pen as I signed the bill of his hat. In one month how could I have gotten so calloused? In that instant, my heart felt something it hadn't for over a month. There was joy. I put the cap back on the boy and smiled, thanking him for coming out. He and his father returned thanks and headed on their way. I wish that I could say an immediate weight was lifted and I haven't thought about giving up runs since then, but that would be an exaggeration. It still comes back to mind on occasion, but instead of dwelling on it I can step back and appreciate the simple fact that I was there. That perhaps even for a second, it doesn't matter to the little boy whether I pitched well or not. I was a major leaguer and that's all that mattered to him. Shouldn't that be the thing I focus on too?
I realized that I had spent so much time agonizing over my performances and perceived lack of success, that the truly great things has been neglected. I was in the big leagues. My childhood dream of pitching at Turner field had happened. I was a Met. The greatest city in the world had welcomed me in with open arms and embraced me as one of their own. People cheered for me, knew my name, even had the inclination to want my name on their caps. I had a jersey (multiple jerseys actually) with my name stitched in the back and a locker of my own to hold all the stuff they freely gave me. I was learning from some of the best players in the game and became so familiar with them that we called each other "bro". I struck out guys that I grew up watching. I hit against pitchers that grew up emulating. I was there. It really happened!
We could go over the way things went down on the field until we're blue in the face, but that won't change the experience that this last month offered me. Clearly there are things to work on, and clearly there is more work to be done to make the team again next year. But let's take a moment (something that doesn't happen often enough) and enjoy life for exactly what it is. A bunch of ups a downs, experiences and emotions, that make us who we are. I know that I am not only a better pitcher because of my experiences this last month, but a better man, husband and one-day father as well.
It's easy to look at life and say that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. Perhaps it even is. There might be better soil or climate, less predators or more cultivators. But often if you look down at the grass under your feet, not comparing it to any other, it's quite green too. It's soft, comfortable and meant to be enjoyed. Looking for greener pastures and more strikeouts isn't a bad thing, but don't forget that the grass you're standing on is someone else's greener pasture and being there is a very very good thing.
Friday, September 21, 2012
The Process vs. The Product
Baseball is a performance based industry. Where you play, how long you play and how much you get paid to play are almost completely tied to your performance on the field. Notice that I didn't say "stats" are the most important thing. Stats can be a deciding factor in a player's career, but it's not the whole story. The game has been intimately tied to its stats for as long as it's been around. Hitting 400. 60+ home runs. 3000 hits. 300 wins. These benchmarks have been established to distinguish the good from the great. It's easy to look at the great players with their incredible statistical performances and be amazed. However, I have always been more interested in the process behind the numbers. Having talked to some players much smarter and wiser than myself, I've grown to realize that performance can be broken down into two categories...The Process & The Product.
We've all seen the product...both good and bad. In fact I've seen them both close up in my first few major league outings. 7 shutout innings with 9 K's and 2 hits. Good product. 4 innings, 5 runs, 3 HR, 2 BB, big fat "L". Poor product. It's easy to dig yourself when the product is one you want, but it's just as easy to beat yourself up when the product is underwhelming. The weird/frustrating thing is, both performances were given the same amount of effort while yielding drastically different results. Given the volatility of the product in this game, it seems more valuable to invest my brain power in the process over the product.
As a pitcher, once the ball leaves your hand, forces outside of your control begin to work on the ball. Wind, elevation, bat speed, length of the grass, catchers, fielders, throwers, umpires and official scorers. You become a fielder upon releasing the ball, but more often than not, the ball finds someone else. However, leading up to the time the ball leaves your hand you control almost everything. You control what you ate the day before. How much sleep you got that night and each of the 4 days leading up to it. How much time you devoted to the weight room, training room, and bullpen mounds. The focus on each throw you made playing catch all week. Your routine the day of your start. Your balance on the rubber. Your release point...rinse and repeat.
After my outing in St. Louis, I was kicking myself over the 4 runs I gave up. I had put our team in a pretty deep hole against one of the toughest teams in the league. A product that I was not proud of nor in a hurry to repeat. Yet, one week later I did the same thing against the Nationals at home. I began to ask myself what the issue was. Why I had gone from such a good performance to two poor ones so quickly? The amount of effort I put into each one was the same (perhaps even more against the latter teams). My team was playing well around me defensively, but the product didn't meet my expectations. I began to question some of the veteran pitchers on how they deal with failure. What they told me will stick with me for a long time.
"Failure is something almost totally out of your hands. You have to look at each outing as a series of (around) 100 processes. If you go through your process each of the 100 times and feel good about everything leading up to your release, the product becomes secondary. And more often than not (which is all we can ask for in this game of averages) the product will go in your favor."
In my career thus far, that statement has been very true. The most successful times I've had over the last couple years have been when I simplify things. When I can focus on one pitch at a time and find one key in my mechanics that keeps me consistent. I remember an interview with Greg Maddux where he said the same thing. People always assumed he was a genius because of how he fooled hitters with below average velocity, but he was adamant that his secret was making one good pitch at a time. It seemed to work okay for him, right? From my brief experience in the Bigs, the ability to focus on the process is what separates a bunch of pitchers with very similar "stuff". The ones that can repeat the focus on each pitch tend to be the most consistent, and as a pitcher, that's the goal we're shooting for.
When things have gone well lately it's been a short and relatively simple process:
- Concentrate on chewing my gum (it calms the nerves and gives me some internal rhythm)
- Get your elbow up
- Throw it THROUGH the spot
- Repeat approx. 100 times
I know that I can't speak for all of the rookies on the team...or in the league for that matter, but I have a feeling that we are all on the same page. We're still learning. A lot. Everyday. It's a slippery slope and an easy one to get caught on when we begin to pay more attention to the product than the process. Getting caught on the emotional roller coaster with every performance is ultimately detrimental to our development. The more consistent we can be emotionally and physically, the better chances we have of performing well over the long haul. No matter what the product says, I know that I'm getting better each time out. I'm becoming more and more comfortable with my process before each outing. Before each pitch. And sooner rather than later, this game will begin to slow down. The product will start to match the process, creating a performance worthy of my expectations.
We've all seen the product...both good and bad. In fact I've seen them both close up in my first few major league outings. 7 shutout innings with 9 K's and 2 hits. Good product. 4 innings, 5 runs, 3 HR, 2 BB, big fat "L". Poor product. It's easy to dig yourself when the product is one you want, but it's just as easy to beat yourself up when the product is underwhelming. The weird/frustrating thing is, both performances were given the same amount of effort while yielding drastically different results. Given the volatility of the product in this game, it seems more valuable to invest my brain power in the process over the product.
As a pitcher, once the ball leaves your hand, forces outside of your control begin to work on the ball. Wind, elevation, bat speed, length of the grass, catchers, fielders, throwers, umpires and official scorers. You become a fielder upon releasing the ball, but more often than not, the ball finds someone else. However, leading up to the time the ball leaves your hand you control almost everything. You control what you ate the day before. How much sleep you got that night and each of the 4 days leading up to it. How much time you devoted to the weight room, training room, and bullpen mounds. The focus on each throw you made playing catch all week. Your routine the day of your start. Your balance on the rubber. Your release point...rinse and repeat.
After my outing in St. Louis, I was kicking myself over the 4 runs I gave up. I had put our team in a pretty deep hole against one of the toughest teams in the league. A product that I was not proud of nor in a hurry to repeat. Yet, one week later I did the same thing against the Nationals at home. I began to ask myself what the issue was. Why I had gone from such a good performance to two poor ones so quickly? The amount of effort I put into each one was the same (perhaps even more against the latter teams). My team was playing well around me defensively, but the product didn't meet my expectations. I began to question some of the veteran pitchers on how they deal with failure. What they told me will stick with me for a long time.
"Failure is something almost totally out of your hands. You have to look at each outing as a series of (around) 100 processes. If you go through your process each of the 100 times and feel good about everything leading up to your release, the product becomes secondary. And more often than not (which is all we can ask for in this game of averages) the product will go in your favor."
In my career thus far, that statement has been very true. The most successful times I've had over the last couple years have been when I simplify things. When I can focus on one pitch at a time and find one key in my mechanics that keeps me consistent. I remember an interview with Greg Maddux where he said the same thing. People always assumed he was a genius because of how he fooled hitters with below average velocity, but he was adamant that his secret was making one good pitch at a time. It seemed to work okay for him, right? From my brief experience in the Bigs, the ability to focus on the process is what separates a bunch of pitchers with very similar "stuff". The ones that can repeat the focus on each pitch tend to be the most consistent, and as a pitcher, that's the goal we're shooting for.
When things have gone well lately it's been a short and relatively simple process:
- Concentrate on chewing my gum (it calms the nerves and gives me some internal rhythm)
- Get your elbow up
- Throw it THROUGH the spot
- Repeat approx. 100 times
I know that I can't speak for all of the rookies on the team...or in the league for that matter, but I have a feeling that we are all on the same page. We're still learning. A lot. Everyday. It's a slippery slope and an easy one to get caught on when we begin to pay more attention to the product than the process. Getting caught on the emotional roller coaster with every performance is ultimately detrimental to our development. The more consistent we can be emotionally and physically, the better chances we have of performing well over the long haul. No matter what the product says, I know that I'm getting better each time out. I'm becoming more and more comfortable with my process before each outing. Before each pitch. And sooner rather than later, this game will begin to slow down. The product will start to match the process, creating a performance worthy of my expectations.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Buffalo to NYC to Buffalo
I'm coming off perhaps the best start of my career, my MLB debut. 7 shutout innings, 9 K's...I didn't throw up. Seriously though, stepping onto the hill at Citi Field was a thrill I can't seem to find the words to describe. Fun. Exciting. Nerve wracking. These encompass only a part of the emotions coursing through my veins that day. There were those weird butterfly stomach noises that seemed unending. The restless legs that took to the rhythm of whatever was playing over the clubhouse speakers...Then the clock began.
Every start I've had for the last 5 years has begun the same way. One hour before game time I begin my process of preparing physically and mentally for the outing ahead of me. Some treatment for my arm. Going over the scouting reports on opposing hitters. Putting on my uniform the same way each time. Pants. Jersey. Cleats. Chewing gum. Jacket. Towel. Down the stairs to the dugout. Out the the bullpen. And once that ball touches my fingertips, the world slows down to a crawl. My focus narrows and I feel the laces, searching around for one that is slightly more raised than the others. The first time I let the ball fly my body remembers what it's been doing since I was 10...pitching. Once that clock begins, whether at Citi field or the local sandlot, I become familiar. I become comfortable. August 23, 2012 was no exception. MLB debut or not, the clock overcame nerves just as it's done so many times through the years.
Now, my wife and I find ourselves back in AAA Buffalo. You may say that seems unfair. Perhaps you have some witty quip about how I should've just thrown better. But the truth of the matter is, there have been many times in my career where I was convinced it was all over, only to make it out on the other side no worse for the wear. This pit stop on our baseball journey (or life, as we call it) is just another checkpoint. For reference, I'll revisit a few of the more desperate (and now laughable) times through which we came to our current contentment...
Kingsport, TN. 2008. My rookie ball year. I had run up an ERA of over 5, my arm was hanging on by a thread, and I just didn't really know how to pitch. I got a start (one of only a handful that season) against the White Sox rookie ball team, Bristol. I don't remember my exact line, but I do remember (vividly) the despair that met me afterwards on the steps of my run down apartment. I sat and stared at my phone, trying to summon up the courage to call my wife (then girlfriend) and tell her that I was a failure. As I was losing the nerve, she called me. When she heard my dejected tone and asked what the matter was, I told her the bad news. I had thrown pretty poorly and was 100% convinced that the team wouldn't want me back come sunrise. Self pity turned to tears, which turned to anger, which made me tired...which led to sleep. Once I had woken up and realized the new day had not brought my release papers, I learned my first important lesson of pro ball: Don't be dramatic. It's just one outing.
Savannah, GA. 2010. Low A, SAL League. Having watched my best baseball friend, Mark Cohoon, throw 3 consecutive complete game shutouts giving up less hits in 27 innings than I had in one inning during my last start, I was losing my mind. There were 6 pitchers in the rotation, 4 of which were going to the All-Star game, and the next level soon after that. The other starter and I were vying for most mediocre season in the history of mediocre seasons. I knew that there was a strong chance that, unless I had the 2nd half of my life, I was destined to repeat the level. Meaning my career would go from a crawl to a...whatever is slower than a crawl. For the first time (and every year after) I looked at myself in the mirror and said to myself, "Nobody will have a better second half than you." I ended my first full-length season with a 3.33 ERA and 129 K's. I don't know if it was the best second half in the organization, but it was good enough to make it to the next level.
Binghamton, NY. 2011. AA spot start. I threw 6 pretty good innings in a promotion I didn't deserve, and was left in limbo wondering if/when I would get sent back down. One start turned into a relief outing, which turned into a couple more sub-par starts, all culminating in what I had decided was my imminent retirement. Between the toll my career was taking on our marriage and the odds against ever making it out of AA, I had the farm director dialed into my phone ready to make the toughest call of my life. I don't know exactly what stopped me from going through with it. Maybe it was Ashley telling me it was the easy way out, despite how much she would have appreciated a stability baseball could not seem to provide. Maybe it was the hundreds of friends and family who were (and still are) dedicated to praying for wisdom for me. Or maybe it was the gut feeling that the journey just didn't seem over quite yet. For my wife, it was the realization that perceived success or failure in your life are far less important than who you're becoming along the way. Whatever the reason, I put the phone down and kept on keeping on. Ashley and I made the agreement soon after that we would ride this baseball thing out as long as we felt called to it - we shook on it. From that day, the calling has only gotten stronger and more focused. With a new lease on baseball, my High-A ERA of 6.31 narrowed into a AA ERA of 2.89. Most importantly, we started to have fun again.
There have been too many times in my life where, if I was a betting man, I wouldn't have bet on myself. But I just spent 3 of the best/craziest/most exhilarating days of my life pitching for the New York Mets. Which just goes to show you, betting against anyone in this game is the real gamble.
That being said, our trip from Buffalo to NYC to Buffalo is one met with excitement, not dread, pity or fear. We've learned that embracing the mystery of what's ahead makes the present, whether good or bad, just another part of the journey - not the determining factor of where we'll end up. So if and when we do happen to meet up again in Queens, know that it wasn't by accident or fate, but definitely on purpose.
Every start I've had for the last 5 years has begun the same way. One hour before game time I begin my process of preparing physically and mentally for the outing ahead of me. Some treatment for my arm. Going over the scouting reports on opposing hitters. Putting on my uniform the same way each time. Pants. Jersey. Cleats. Chewing gum. Jacket. Towel. Down the stairs to the dugout. Out the the bullpen. And once that ball touches my fingertips, the world slows down to a crawl. My focus narrows and I feel the laces, searching around for one that is slightly more raised than the others. The first time I let the ball fly my body remembers what it's been doing since I was 10...pitching. Once that clock begins, whether at Citi field or the local sandlot, I become familiar. I become comfortable. August 23, 2012 was no exception. MLB debut or not, the clock overcame nerves just as it's done so many times through the years.
Now, my wife and I find ourselves back in AAA Buffalo. You may say that seems unfair. Perhaps you have some witty quip about how I should've just thrown better. But the truth of the matter is, there have been many times in my career where I was convinced it was all over, only to make it out on the other side no worse for the wear. This pit stop on our baseball journey (or life, as we call it) is just another checkpoint. For reference, I'll revisit a few of the more desperate (and now laughable) times through which we came to our current contentment...
Kingsport, TN. 2008. My rookie ball year. I had run up an ERA of over 5, my arm was hanging on by a thread, and I just didn't really know how to pitch. I got a start (one of only a handful that season) against the White Sox rookie ball team, Bristol. I don't remember my exact line, but I do remember (vividly) the despair that met me afterwards on the steps of my run down apartment. I sat and stared at my phone, trying to summon up the courage to call my wife (then girlfriend) and tell her that I was a failure. As I was losing the nerve, she called me. When she heard my dejected tone and asked what the matter was, I told her the bad news. I had thrown pretty poorly and was 100% convinced that the team wouldn't want me back come sunrise. Self pity turned to tears, which turned to anger, which made me tired...which led to sleep. Once I had woken up and realized the new day had not brought my release papers, I learned my first important lesson of pro ball: Don't be dramatic. It's just one outing.
Savannah, GA. 2010. Low A, SAL League. Having watched my best baseball friend, Mark Cohoon, throw 3 consecutive complete game shutouts giving up less hits in 27 innings than I had in one inning during my last start, I was losing my mind. There were 6 pitchers in the rotation, 4 of which were going to the All-Star game, and the next level soon after that. The other starter and I were vying for most mediocre season in the history of mediocre seasons. I knew that there was a strong chance that, unless I had the 2nd half of my life, I was destined to repeat the level. Meaning my career would go from a crawl to a...whatever is slower than a crawl. For the first time (and every year after) I looked at myself in the mirror and said to myself, "Nobody will have a better second half than you." I ended my first full-length season with a 3.33 ERA and 129 K's. I don't know if it was the best second half in the organization, but it was good enough to make it to the next level.
Binghamton, NY. 2011. AA spot start. I threw 6 pretty good innings in a promotion I didn't deserve, and was left in limbo wondering if/when I would get sent back down. One start turned into a relief outing, which turned into a couple more sub-par starts, all culminating in what I had decided was my imminent retirement. Between the toll my career was taking on our marriage and the odds against ever making it out of AA, I had the farm director dialed into my phone ready to make the toughest call of my life. I don't know exactly what stopped me from going through with it. Maybe it was Ashley telling me it was the easy way out, despite how much she would have appreciated a stability baseball could not seem to provide. Maybe it was the hundreds of friends and family who were (and still are) dedicated to praying for wisdom for me. Or maybe it was the gut feeling that the journey just didn't seem over quite yet. For my wife, it was the realization that perceived success or failure in your life are far less important than who you're becoming along the way. Whatever the reason, I put the phone down and kept on keeping on. Ashley and I made the agreement soon after that we would ride this baseball thing out as long as we felt called to it - we shook on it. From that day, the calling has only gotten stronger and more focused. With a new lease on baseball, my High-A ERA of 6.31 narrowed into a AA ERA of 2.89. Most importantly, we started to have fun again.
There have been too many times in my life where, if I was a betting man, I wouldn't have bet on myself. But I just spent 3 of the best/craziest/most exhilarating days of my life pitching for the New York Mets. Which just goes to show you, betting against anyone in this game is the real gamble.
That being said, our trip from Buffalo to NYC to Buffalo is one met with excitement, not dread, pity or fear. We've learned that embracing the mystery of what's ahead makes the present, whether good or bad, just another part of the journey - not the determining factor of where we'll end up. So if and when we do happen to meet up again in Queens, know that it wasn't by accident or fate, but definitely on purpose.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Marriage Of The Traveling Suitcases
As my wife and I reached our All-Star break destination we sat down with our two suitcases. These two suitcases contained almost the entirety of our "in season" wardrobe. You see we've gotten progressively better at packing/traveling/living abroad as my career has gone on. We've narrowed it down this season to whatever we can fit in the back seat, trunk, and any potential nook and cranny of my compact car. It hasn't always been that way...let's take a journey back in time.
Year one: Kingsport, TN
Professional college kid. Age 20. Single. Youthful exuberance and youthful hygiene. I brought one bag of regular clothes (clothes that I could wear to and from the field) and one bag of baseball clothes/equipment. I never once unpacked my suitcase, deciding instead to house my insanely diverse selection of white v-neck tees and khaki shorts within a 5 foot perimeter of said (Samsonite) suitcase. Having 3 other recently freed Collegiate roommates, our apartment could best be described as unorganized chaos.
Amount of times laundry was done that season: don't ask, don't tell.
Year two: Brooklyn, NY
I'm a city boy. Proudly and unapologetically. New York was the ultimate metropolitan paradise for me. However, for my clothing, it was unapologetically difficult. New York, as some of you probably know, can be quite sweltering in the middle of the summer. But unlike Atlanta, it get's downright chilly at night in September. My lone suitcase multiplied (thanks to Chinatown's Adidas sector) into a duffle bag hanging off the suitcase running (late) through the JFK terminal. My wardrobe expanded, unfortunately that was just about the time the airlines redacted the right of free checked bags.
Amount of knock off Ray Bans I collected that season: 3
How many I still have: ugh...0
Year 3: Savannah, GA
This is where it gets complicated. Ashley and I had been married for roughly 6 months and collected roughly 300 sq. ft. (our storage space) of wedding gifts and KitchenAid gadgets. Being new to a full baseball season and so close to home, Ashley and I decided to take both of our cars (and mom's SUV) down there. We packed the vehicles to the brim with an Industrial sewing machine, waffle maker, dishes, mugs (which I lost), etc. The cracks in the master plan began when Ashley left before the season ended, leaving me to pack up the aforementioned compact car. I crammed everything I could into it, including the oddly shaped mop that I stuffed through the back window. Unfortunately, on the first turn I lost the mop to Interstate 16, never to be heard from again. Something had to give. My vote was for the food processor...no, the other food processor...the smaller one.
Amount of shirts that I sweat through moving out of the top floor apt: 3...and 2 pair of athletic shorts
Year 4: Port St. Lucie, Fl: Atlanta, GA: Binghamton, NY
Yikes. Where to start?
We did a better job of packing this time around. We narrowed it down to just the back seats (trunks, nooks, crannies, etc.) of our two small cars. Our wardrobe was easily pared down to summer clothes. The FL heat made that an easy decision. We were settled and it felt good. And just like that, baseball yanked the rug out from underneath us. With Ashley back home in Atlanta for some work stuff and me in FL playing ball, the Mets promoted me 1200 miles away to Binghamton, NY. I had about 8 hours to pack up my two bags and catch a flight, leaving little to no time to pack up the rest of our life down there. When Ashley was finally able to join me in NY, she first had to drive back to Port St. Lucie, pack up everything we had from an apartment that we no longer lived in, then haul it up the Eastern seaboard. Not exactly how we planned it before the season started. On top of all that, we added another teammate passenger on the way back home. It was cozy. It was crowded.
Amount of times the mantra "We need a bigger car" was repeated: Everyday
Year 5: Binghamton, NY: Buffalo, NY: Present
We did it. We're down to 2 bags. Granted, we just upgraded Ashley's clothes receptacle from a couple Target bags to a ballin' Samsonite with 4 WHEELS. Movin' on up! We've also absorbed a couple necessities along the way this season. Pillow top mattress cover, Polartec blanket, and a mountain of mail that we've collected from various residences. The good news is, however, that we finally have room to grow. Maybe not enough room to have a baby or a dog right now, but definitely enough margin for the other important things. I believe that's what they call progress. Good to know we're learning something new every year in this whole journey!
Amount of years it takes to get it right: We'll let you know when we get there
Year one: Kingsport, TN
Professional college kid. Age 20. Single. Youthful exuberance and youthful hygiene. I brought one bag of regular clothes (clothes that I could wear to and from the field) and one bag of baseball clothes/equipment. I never once unpacked my suitcase, deciding instead to house my insanely diverse selection of white v-neck tees and khaki shorts within a 5 foot perimeter of said (Samsonite) suitcase. Having 3 other recently freed Collegiate roommates, our apartment could best be described as unorganized chaos.
Amount of times laundry was done that season: don't ask, don't tell.
Year two: Brooklyn, NY
I'm a city boy. Proudly and unapologetically. New York was the ultimate metropolitan paradise for me. However, for my clothing, it was unapologetically difficult. New York, as some of you probably know, can be quite sweltering in the middle of the summer. But unlike Atlanta, it get's downright chilly at night in September. My lone suitcase multiplied (thanks to Chinatown's Adidas sector) into a duffle bag hanging off the suitcase running (late) through the JFK terminal. My wardrobe expanded, unfortunately that was just about the time the airlines redacted the right of free checked bags.
Amount of knock off Ray Bans I collected that season: 3
How many I still have: ugh...0
Year 3: Savannah, GA
This is where it gets complicated. Ashley and I had been married for roughly 6 months and collected roughly 300 sq. ft. (our storage space) of wedding gifts and KitchenAid gadgets. Being new to a full baseball season and so close to home, Ashley and I decided to take both of our cars (and mom's SUV) down there. We packed the vehicles to the brim with an Industrial sewing machine, waffle maker, dishes, mugs (which I lost), etc. The cracks in the master plan began when Ashley left before the season ended, leaving me to pack up the aforementioned compact car. I crammed everything I could into it, including the oddly shaped mop that I stuffed through the back window. Unfortunately, on the first turn I lost the mop to Interstate 16, never to be heard from again. Something had to give. My vote was for the food processor...no, the other food processor...the smaller one.
Amount of shirts that I sweat through moving out of the top floor apt: 3...and 2 pair of athletic shorts
Year 4: Port St. Lucie, Fl: Atlanta, GA: Binghamton, NY
Yikes. Where to start?
We did a better job of packing this time around. We narrowed it down to just the back seats (trunks, nooks, crannies, etc.) of our two small cars. Our wardrobe was easily pared down to summer clothes. The FL heat made that an easy decision. We were settled and it felt good. And just like that, baseball yanked the rug out from underneath us. With Ashley back home in Atlanta for some work stuff and me in FL playing ball, the Mets promoted me 1200 miles away to Binghamton, NY. I had about 8 hours to pack up my two bags and catch a flight, leaving little to no time to pack up the rest of our life down there. When Ashley was finally able to join me in NY, she first had to drive back to Port St. Lucie, pack up everything we had from an apartment that we no longer lived in, then haul it up the Eastern seaboard. Not exactly how we planned it before the season started. On top of all that, we added another teammate passenger on the way back home. It was cozy. It was crowded.
Amount of times the mantra "We need a bigger car" was repeated: Everyday
Year 5: Binghamton, NY: Buffalo, NY: Present
We did it. We're down to 2 bags. Granted, we just upgraded Ashley's clothes receptacle from a couple Target bags to a ballin' Samsonite with 4 WHEELS. Movin' on up! We've also absorbed a couple necessities along the way this season. Pillow top mattress cover, Polartec blanket, and a mountain of mail that we've collected from various residences. The good news is, however, that we finally have room to grow. Maybe not enough room to have a baby or a dog right now, but definitely enough margin for the other important things. I believe that's what they call progress. Good to know we're learning something new every year in this whole journey!
Amount of years it takes to get it right: We'll let you know when we get there
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Stay Back
This is my first post from a new level. AAA Buffalo to be exact. Thus far I have four starts under my belt. Three of which were mediocre (bordering on bad) and one that was pretty good (bordering on...well, pretty good). As I wrote last year upon my promotion to AA, there is always a learning curve. The goal is to shorten that curve as much as possible, and hopefully I'm moving in the right direction.
People have asked me what the differences are between AA and AAA. There are the the obvious ones like stricter strike zones, more patient hitters and better post game spreads. However, there are other nuances of the level that make for a more interesting topic.
My first three outings, as previously noted, were less than spectacular. I gave up something in the neighborhood of 11 runs in 14 innings, walking about a half dozen and plunking a couple to boot. Running through the gauntlet of "fixes" in my head, I couldn't seem to figure out where I was going wrong. After watching a few minutes of video, however, it was soon very apparent what was "off". My balance was bad. I was leaning forward towards home plate without gathering my momentum first. My arm wasn't catching up, the ball had no option but to be up in the zone and that ball got hit...hard. Once I learned what I was doing wrong it made it easy to fix. It was simple. Stay back.
AAA is filled with guys like me. Up and coming players. Players looking to make their mark. However, it's also filled with players who have tasted the big leagues. Some for a sip of coffee and others who have feasted up there for years. With that dichotomy brings an interesting mix of emotions. As younger players, we begin to realize that our dream of playing in the Big Leagues is closer than ever before. Literally one step away. The veteran guys also understand the proximity to the promised land. They've been there. They've tasted the milk and honey. Where once I was worried that I would never make it, now it's a struggle to...stay back.
The temptation for everyone here is to rush. Rush our careers to the big leagues or rush our way out of the minor leagues. Look at it either way you want! Momentum, just as in pitching, is a huge factor in the make up of a minor leaguer. Coming up through the ranks you're trying to keep the momentum moving forward. Coming down from the Bigs the goal is to get the ball rolling once more. We push and push towards the Bigs like a track runner lunging toward the finish line. What I'm beginning to learn, however, is that lunging forward can often be counterproductive. After talking to coaches and staff up here, they all preach the same thing. Be consistent. Be you. Be patient. When we feel the need to push so hard, we often lose the focus that got us here in the first place.
One of our veteran catchers said to me before my last start, "The thing that separates the great pitchers from the rest is their ability to focus one pitch at a time." That fact is especially true at this level. If we get too far ahead of ourselves and try to nose our way into the Big Leagues before it's our time, our focus isn't narrowed enough. Our scope is too broad, and the distractions hinder any momentum we might have or might be building.
What makes my mechanics sound is the same thing that makes for a sound head and heart. Stay patient. Stay balanced. Stay back.
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