Haven’t you ever loved anything that much?
A field of dreams.
Just reading the words almost forces the solicitation of the most imaginative and creative thoughts your mind could produce.
We’ve all had our very own version of this “field of dreams”. Mine, literally was just as it sounds - a field filled with all of my childhood dreams and aspirations.
When I was young - we’re talking 3 years old - I would fall asleep in my bed with a baseball cap on my head and a glove on my hand - I was born to play baseball. I was born to hold a ball in my hand. I was born to stand on a picther’s mound and be in total control of each and every pitch. I was born to stand under the bright lights of Yankee Stadium, in front of the Green Monster in Boston, on the soft green grass of Turner Field.
The sunshine was supposed to dance on my shoulders on a mid-July day. The breeze was supposed to tickle my face as I walked out of the dugout and onto the most lush and perfectily trimmed grass on the planet. The warm summer air was supposed to induce sweat to trickle off the brim of my hat as I stared in from the mound to get a sign from the catcher.
These images, these dreams, were all I thought about growing up, even when I was three falling asleep dressed ready to play a game I knew nothing about. A game that would soon become more than just a game, but a passion, a love, the very thing I would live and die for.
Even as I sit here now, typing up the words that produce the very imagery I so desperately yearned for (and still do), my eyes have began to well up with tears that have been shed many times before over the very same thing. I always knew that a woman would break my heart, but not this. Not baseball.
It’s been six years since my second, and subsequently last surgery on my right shoulder; on my ticket to a bigger and better life; my ability to be truly happy in life.
Since the first weekend in October I’ve had an excruciating pain reside in my left shoulder. I know what it’s from, it’s the only thing it could possibly be; baseball. Long gone are the days when scouts watched my pitch, American universities talked to me about being a part of their program, all-star game selections and playing on the biggest available stages. But even playing beer-league softball I can’t just play for fun.
Diving around the day before was surely the cause of the physical and mental torture I’m going through right now.
I have seen three different doctors in the past 2 weeks, had an ultra sound, x-rays and likely on my way for an MRI when I see an orthopedic surgeon on Friday. With every subtle movement of my left arm, pain takes over. Beyond that, the flashes of my past come roaring back full throttle.
For three years I did physiotherapy four times a week at a clinic that was 40 minutes away from my house. The majority of my last two years of high school consisted of a severe dedication to get back onto the very field I was born to stand on.
My dream of playing college baseball at an American university vanished with my first shoulder surgery, as no school was willing to take a chance on a kid with a torn labrum in his throwing arm; especially a pitcher.
When I set goals, I set them in increments. The first goal on the list to making it to the “show” was playing at a division I school in the US. From there it was to play in the under-romanticized minor leagues, eventually getting the call that I’ve made it.
Pouring blood, sweat and tears into something has never been as true as with my battle with recovering to get back to the place I was put on this earth to be.
My senior year of high school was supposed to be the stage in which all those incremental dreams began. Instead, it was just the opposite.
I’ll never forget the day I told my coach that I couldn’t play baseball anymore. After leaving his office I sat in the locker room and cried. I couldn’t control it. It was, without a doubt, the single worst day in my entire life.
To most, this might seem like an arbitrary thing to be so upset over. You’re entitled to that opinion. But to put into perspective for you, there is nothing in my life I wouldn’t sacrifice in order to get it back; friends, family, money you name it. I would give ANYTHING to be able to play baseball again
I miss the smell of the grass. I miss the feel of the dirt underneath my cleats. The feel of a rosin bag. The sounds of the crowd and the infield chatter. I miss it more than anything else that has passed on in my life.
All of this has come rushing back to me in the last couple of weeks, and I hate it. It has taken over every waking thought and the memories relived are more painful than the lightning bolts coursing through my arm when I move it.
In general, I’m just sad these days. I know the dream of playing baseball is over, I get it. But deep down, there’s a part of me that will never fully allow myself to truly give it up.
It’s 3:39 a.m. and I’m wide awake. I don’t get much sleep anymore when I try, as I wake up constantly through the night with my shoulder being unable to stay quiet for very long. But tonight was a bad night.
With the current state I’m in, I’ve began to lose enjoyment in the things I should enjoy most. I lack excitement and enthusiasm in the things that should be fun, but subsequently are not. The feeling sucks and I don’t know when it will go away.
I know that until my shoulder is fixed (which by the way no doctor can figure out what’s wrong with it) I will continue on the current path I’m on. It’s a dialy battle and most days I lose.
It’s strange to feel the way that I do. The first time, it took me nearly five years to fully get past all the anguish that tagged along with the initial loss. I know it won’t last forever and I know it won’t take another five years. I also know that a part of me will never forget, and I’m ok with that.
I’ve never loved anything as much as I do baseball. It’s been a growing affection for the last 24 years of my life. It’s brought me the happiest and the saddest moments of my life. And now, I seem to be stuck in the rut filled with the sad ones once again.
I have six scars on my right shoulder that serve as a daily reminder of where I’ve been and what I’ve been through. Having to relive it all over again is not something that I particularly enjoy.
