I want to travel back in time and visit a young man who didn’t know what he was quite literally throwing away.
I want to see him in 1999 and tell him that he doesn’t have to throw the ball as hard as he can to get guys out. Also that it wouldn’t hurt to let up a little bit when his teammates and he are doing rundown drills without gloves.
I want to see him in 2001 and make him promise never to set foot on a pitching mound again, no matter how tempting it may seem. Furthermore, I’d tell him that even though curve balls are standard fare in the Sunday beer league that he still isn’t quick enough or nasty enough to be effective at all.
I want to see him in 2002 and tell him that it’s just C-league intramural co-ed softball. Again, that he doesn’t have to throw the ball as hard as he can to get guys (and girls) out.
I want to see him in 2004 and convince him that it’s not worth it to wind up a cold, drunk arm to try and throw 82 MPH to beat some guy named Brett Hughes at the speed pitch booth. I’d also let him know that the girl with the gun was probably lying when she said, “The last two were 100 miles per hour, I think you need to throw again!”
I want to see him in 2006 and tell him not to try and tough out batting practice, not even for one more batter. I’d remind him that he hates batting practice and that he could do a better job helping players hit while giving them soft-toss.
In all of these situations, I would try and explain to him that it makes more sense to enjoy throwing for a long time rather than spending all of his bullets in relatively meaningless endeavors.
Let’s see, play catch with your son in twenty years, or attempt to throw your friend out from left field on a softball field when the first baseman isn’t even looking and everyone is just there to screw around and hit some balls? Obviously, he wasn’t smart enough to make those decisions on his own, time and time again.
Sadly, this young man is still making stupid decisions regarding his shriveled, rotten shadow of a throwing arm. The head baseball coach at his high school asked if he would be willing to throw BP, and for unfathomable reasons, the guy agreed to give it a shot.
Four batters and eighty pitches later, he descended the dirt mound, having bitten the inside of his cheeks to keep from screaming or otherwise showing his pain on his face for the last thirty or so. He cursed the stubbornness and idiocy that kept him from quitting in the middle of a hitter or simply and politely refusing to throw in the first place.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t know this young man as well as I do.
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