Page 1 of Big Pitch Energy

Chapter One

Sam

The ball hitthe net with a pathetic thud instead of a sharp thwack.

Again.

Judging by the sound alone, I don’t have to look at the radar gun to know my velocity isn’t anywhere near where it should be.

“Shit.”

I stormed across the backyard and onto the deck, tossed my glove on the table, and slumped into the chair. Grabbing my water, I downed it in one long gulp, but the cool liquid didn’t do a damn thing to cool my temper.

After dragging my fingers through my hair, I locked them behind my head and leaned back, glaring up at the washed-out November sky. Dull blue and streaked with grey, it looked every bit as moody as I felt.

But I think I have a right to be moody.

I followed every damn thing the docs told me to do…all the rehab, all the restrictions, everything. Figured if I did it right,I'd come back stronger than ever. Fifteen months later and I'm still throwing batting practice speed. They don't call me Cherry Bomb for sitting at 85. My fastball is supposed to be sitting mid-to-high nineties, so this garbage isn't gonna cut it.

Shifting forward, I studied the pink scar on the inside of my right elbow.

I’m not the first pitcher in MLB to have this surgery, and I won’t be the last. Hell, the namesake for ulnar collateral ligament reconstruction, Tommy John, had it when he was just thirty years old. And he went on to pitch fourteen more seasons.

So when I felt that dreaded pop in my elbow after throwing a slider last year, and the MRI confirmed a torn UCL, I had hope. Hope that I’d be back on the mound throwing smoke in no time. But after all the rest, rehab, and bullpens, I’m still not able to throw the pitch that’s defined my career. If I don’t get at least ten more on the gun, I’m done.

Shaking my head, I stood to collect the balls scattered around the net. But before I stepped off the deck, my phone buzzed.

My agent.

“Hey Ray.”

“How’s it going?” he asked.

Ray Mendoza’s been with me since my rookie season and he’s one of a handful of people I completely trust.

"It's going," I muttered.

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“What’s it feel like when you throw? Stiff? Weak? Does it hurt?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. We talked about this after Ray watched one of my train wreck bullpen sessions. The one where my fastball didn’t have any more life than it did today. And my answer is the same. I stood and walked off the deck into the yard, heading toward the bullpen.

“It feels fine.Ifeel fine. There’s no pain. No stiffness. No weakness.” I groaned. “I’ve been medically cleared, so I don’t understand what the problem is.”

The line stayed quiet for what seemed like forever, which is never a good sign. It means Ray is picking his words, so I’m probably not gonna like them.

“Being medically cleared doesn’t mean you’re mentally ready. And you know what Yogi said, ‘Baseball is ninety percent mental. The other half is physical.’ You wouldn’t be the first player to get the yips after coming back from an injury. Your arm might feel fine, but your head? That’s the part that’ll get you every time.”

“You honestly think my fastball’s missing because my head’s not in the right place?” I fought to keep the sarcasm out of my tone. Ray’s been like a father to me and I don’t want to be disrespectful. I shook my head. “No, there must be something wrong with my mechanics.”

“You’ve got three months until spring training.”

It’s funny, time crawled after surgery, like I was stuck in reverse. Now it’s racing toward opening day and I feel like I’m getting left behind.

“I’ll figure it out,” I said. “I have to, because if I don’t…”

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