Page 13 of Big Pitch Energy

Chapter Four

Sam

I stood on the deck,staring out at the mound, glove in hand. It’s been a couple hours since my second Reiki session with Hope and four days since I’d so much as picked up a baseball. But I felt a shift today. The same strange pull I’d noticed last time, only stronger, deeper. Like something inside me had clicked into place.

It’s time to see if it makes a difference.

I sat on the deck steps and laced up my cleats, the worn leather fitting like a second skin. Then I stood up and walked onto the grass, keeping my steps steady and sure.

The late afternoon sun warmed my shoulders as I stretched. I started with my legs, lunging forward and back, loosening my hips and hamstrings.I bent at the waist, fingers grazing the grass, and let my breath even out. These stretches and movements were almost muscle memory now, but for months after my surgery, they’d been impossible.

I thought about those first few weeks post-op, when even lifting a water bottle felt like a test. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, elbow throbbing, sheets damp with sweat. I hated my body then. Hated it for betraying me.

Rehab was slow. Agonizingly slow. I kept waiting for some switch to flip, for the strength to return, for the pain to ease, but it didn’t. Not for months. And even when the pain finally faded, I still wasn’t me. My mechanics were off, my timing felt weird, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find my fastball.

Until now, maybe.

I shook the thought from my head, rolled my neck, and began rotating my arms in slow, controlled circles. I didn’t want to put pressure on this. That was part of the problem, I’d been so wrapped up in expectations and numbers, trying to force my way back to who I was, that I couldn’t see straight. Every bullpen felt like a performance review, every pitch like a verdict. Maybe I hadn’t lost my fastball physically. Maybe I’d just been too locked up in my own head to find it.

I pulled my arm across my chest, then bent it carefully, the slight tightness in my elbow reminding me of everything I’d been through the past fifteen months…the surgery, the setbacks, the days I’d wondered if I’d ever throw again. But today, it feels different.

After setting the radar gun on its tripod, I walked to the mound and picked up a ball from the bucket. The leather felt right in my hand, familiar. I tossed a few easy ones at the net, letting my body ease back into the rhythm. Loose and relaxed. No pressure.

My arm felt good. Really good.

When I felt warm enough, I grabbed a ball and positioned my right foot along the rubber, feeling the slight ridge beneath my cleat. Taking a deep breath, I settled into my stance, glove heldat chest level. For a heartbeat, I paused, finding my center the way I always had.

I rocked back, lifting my left leg in a smooth, controlled motion, hands coming together at the peak of my windup. As I drove forward, everything kicked in. The push off the rubber, the power winding through my core, my arm snapping overhead in that clean, practiced arc I’d honed over the years. I let the ball go at just the right moment, feeling the seams drag across my fingertips as it left my hand.

The follow-through came naturally, my momentum carrying my body forward, right leg swinging around as I ended in fielding position. The ball smacked against the net.

I glanced at the radar gun display.

87.

I blinked hard, certain I'd misread it. Eighty-seven miles per hour? I hadn't topped 85 since before the surgery. My heart hammered against my ribs, as a rush of adrenaline flooded my system.

“Okay,” I said. “Let's see if that was a fluke.”

I picked up another ball, settled back onto the rubber, and threw again. My body felt looser now, more confident.

88.

Again.

90.

I threw pitch after pitch, watching in disbelief as the numbers climbed. One fastball hit 91. My slider came in at 80, which wasn't great, but considering where it'd been, that felt like winning the lottery.

By the time I stopped, my shirt was soaked with sweat. I was tired, but it was the good kind, the fatigue of work well done. Not the aching, tight-chested exhaustion that came from anxiety. And I hadn’t even realized how much that anxiety had been weighing me down until now, when it finally wasn’t.

Whatever Hope had done, whatever had loosened during the session earlier today, had changed something fundamental.

After cleaning up the bullpen, I headed inside for a quick shower. The hot water pounded against my skin, but it couldn’t quiet my racing thoughts. After all the doctors, endless rehab, and constant setbacks, could it really come down to this? Some alternative treatment I laughed off, now fixing what nothing else could?

I toweled off and stood in front of the mirror, water still dripping from my hair, steam curling around me. The scar on my elbow was pale now, a ghost of the surgery. I touched it gently, not because it hurt…because it didn’t anymore…but with something closer to reverence.

For months, it had felt like a symbol of everything I’d lost. But maybe now it could mean something else. Survival. Recovery. The start of something new.

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