I, like a couple of my brethren in the Lounge, was once a professional and collegiate prospect. Blessed enough with a sizable frame and determined enough to battle through injuries, I went undefeated as a right-handed starting and closing pitcher for a summer league team called the Atlanta Blue Jays. I threw comfortably from 88-91mph and had an assortment of 8 different pitches at two arm slots. I threw 2 no-hitters and struck out a Puerto Rican junior national team 9 times in 7 innings while slightly under the influence (thanks David Wells for being a great idol).
Because of my efforts and blessed talent, I earned national recognition. I was a Rawlings Southeast All-Region prospect, a top prospect for Perfect Game, Baseball America and the WWBA nationally. I had trash bags filled with collegiate prospecting letters from Stanford and the University of San Francisco to The University of Alabama and Clemson University (shout out to Patton and Calf Zilla). This all may sound braggadocios and horn tooting but it’s what I was. I was a talented player on the field. However, my joy, and God how I was the happiest kid when I strapped up my cleats and slapped rosin across my hand, seemed unfairly “knocked out of my park.”
Life is more challenging than you realize as teenager. Life, in general, is more than a young mind can truly understand or appreciate. I never would have imagined how quickly things could change and how something so golden could slip away without a whole lot of warning. A dropped-third-strike, an errant throw and my stubbornness led to a broken left knee and facilitated early on-set arthritis. I was out of baseball for 4 months without a single chance to "shine on the diamond". At the time, I didn’t believe the injury was serious and even stayed on the field, watching as the injured base runner carted his way to the dugout. At the end of the inning, swelling and pain took over, I hit the bench, unbeknownst to the level of damage and difficulty I was about to meet head on.
Rehab began with little goals like learning to walk and run again, slowly progressing to jumping, leg pressing and eventually squatting (the workout, not on the toilet). However, taking a dump with a stiff brace is awkward; Calf Zilla and Fantasy Fred know what's up. Anyways, four months without “seeing” the field was emotionally draining - and more importantly – the injury slowly and painfully eliminated scouting attention that may have come along during that summer. Unfortunately, the knee injury wasn't the worst of my injuries.
The fall of my senior year was a metaphoric roller coaster of emotions. Early on, my hard work and talents attracted several junior colleges, propelling them to extend offers. Additionally, I was prepping for the biggest tournament of my life, the WWBA World Championship in Jupiter, Florida. In Jupiter, hundreds of professional and collegiate scouts scatter the Marlins’ and Cardinals’ spring training facilities looking for the next top signing. Included were the University of Alabama and Vanderbilt University. These two SEC schools were in need of new arms for their upcoming signing class, and their recruiters targeted me!
Before my final high school game, I sat in the bleachers with my coach, as he made his pitch to ‘Bama and Vandy, claiming I threw in the high 80's with good command and plus pitches. The scouts were excited, ready and willing to finalize negotiations, if I could throw in my advertised range. But, as you can imagine from the title of this post and the overall depressing theme following, that damn injury bug "bit" me again - this time to my right shoulder.
Over a month’s period, I went from effortlessly throwing in the high 80's to struggling to reach the 70's. The pain was nearly unbearable – my love for baseball being the only force more powerful. In that game, in front of the ‘Bama and Vandy recruiters, at least 30-50 other scouts lined the fences to watch me pitch. Though my speed was terribly disappointing, I have never put more effort into one event than in my life.
Every half-inning I downed two ibuprofens and lathered up my right arm with BioFreeze. But, no matter what I did, the pain wouldn’t subside. And though my effort was admirable, scouts want tangible results, not pure effort. At one point, and I'll never forget this, I looked down the third base, where scout-filled golf carts line the fence, and mentally waved goodbye to my lifelong aspirations as a professional pitcher. And, if you've ever seen For the Love of the Game, you understand why Kevin Costner's character's "zone" is a necessity for pitchers, especially at that moment. I desperately needed an escape and if I was going out, I needed to do it on my terms. So, I “nutted up and shut up”, threw a complete game two-hit shutout and added 1 hit and a RBI as our cleanup hitter. I successfully helped the Blue Jays win a second game in a row.
Strangely enough, I have a mocking happiness for my injuries. Honestly, I’m not sure if I would truly appreciate the importance of my family and friends had I not experienced the need to rely on them. Maybe things happen for an omnipresent reason, maybe fate and destiny coexist for our benefit, whatever the case, I’m happier now than I was when I played. My new dreams and future are in reach and today I have a couple of things to show for all those years - some damn good memories and a healthier, stronger body and mind that serve me well in my capacity to debate whether those in professional sports are elite enough to play on my fantasy rosters.
-Oscar from Boston-
The nightmare of the gifted is the loss of their gift.
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