Road Trips

          Road trips in the baseball world can get pretty repetitive. I haven’t always had a blog to kill the time, and even when I have, there are more road trips than blog posts, that’s for sure. Guys will read, write, play games on their phones, watch movies, play cards and of course sleep. Bus rides and plane rides get really boring after the first couple of trips but believe it or not, some can get pretty exciting, although those are few and far between.

          I remember my first road trip for baseball on a coach bus. When I say first, I mean the first one where I didn’t have Mommy or Daddy at the wheel to pull over every time I wanted a couple McChicken’s.

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Believe it or not, my old pal Zach Risedorf briefly fell asleep like this on the bus trip down to Georgia.

My old travel ball team was bussed from East Hartford to Marietta, GA, for the East Cobb World Wood Bat tournament, which was about 17 hours with asses in every seat of that coach bus.  People were coming up with very creative ways to fall asleep on the bus because staying in that seat upright for that whole time was just about impossible. I employed the method of sliding underneath the seats with my pillow and making a little nest on the floor, which was surprisingly comfortable, as long as you didn’t get kicked in the head and no one farted on you.

 

          In my freshman year at UConn, I was introduced to plane trips nearly every weekend in the beginning of the season. I had only ever been on a plane once before college for the Power Showcase in Miami that January of my senior year of high school, so I was still very new to the flying thing. People would complain about the flights, some because they were scared to death of flying and others because they were seniors and they had done it nearly 100 times. I on the other hand, because of how our alphabet fell, got a window seat every time for those JetBlue flights, and I would get a good playlist going. It is still captivating to me, thinking about watching us take off and getting to our 35,000 foot altitude among the clouds and soaring along at 600 miles per hour….that’s my father’s pilot instincts I guess. If I didn’t have a window seat for a plane ride and I couldn’t find someone to switch with me, the whole day was pretty much ruined.

          It was on bus trips while playing for the Newark Pilots the summer after my freshman year in upstate New York when I discovered a really fun way to scare the piss out of some of my teammates on the rides home, while also having a comfortable spot to stretch out my legs. I was in the very back of the bus and crawled up into the overhead storage spots, which I could just barely fit into. I would slither up and down the compartment. Some of them had doors that could be pushed open from the inside, and others had just the big rubber bands going across and nothing else. I would reach down with my arm and pick peoples noses and wake them up while they were sleeping and they’d think it was a ghost arm because they didn’t think anyone was crazy enough to do what I was doing. It was too much fun and also after a while I would get bored and fall asleep up there. Being up there seemed to make some of those 4 hour trips go by a little faster.

          Road trips can also get ugly, such as UConn’s first trip my sophomore year when a handful of guys contracted the Bubonic Plague (queue the scary music). At least it felt like the Plague at the time and that’s what we called it, but in reality five or six of us got a really bad stomach bug. We were leaving campus for the University of San Antonio at 3:30am for a 6am flight out of Bradley. Luckily I had packed the night before, because I woke up around 2am before we had to leave and started puking my brains out. I still made the 3:30 bus and about 15 seconds after it started rolling towards the airport, I ran to the back of the bus and puked in the bus bathroom until we got to Windsor Locks. I was feeling a little better and fell asleep right away on our flight towards Baltimore, where we were connecting. Little did I know, while I was in my slumber, the Plague was spreading, as a few other guys puked in their seats, while others had to make a mad dash to the back of the plane to pinch a mean one. It was getting ugly.

          “Willy dude,” said our pitching coach after we landed in Baltimore, “Guys were puking and pooping everywhere on that flight because of you man! You feeling better?” At that very moment, it was like someone had punched me in the stomach, and I myself made a mad dash to the airport bathroom holding my mouth. It was a nightmarish two plane rides but finally we landed in Texas and as we got to our hotel, Coach Penders told me I couldn’t practice that day, which was probably the right move, but I almost lost my marbles. After the less than perfect day of travel, all I wanted to do was go to the field, let baseball take my mind off the last 18 hours, and get ready for the game tomorrow. And after all, it was our first series and we had been working for months and months to get here. But it was for the best that four others and myself were quarantined into one hotel room. I still played that weekend, dry heaving on the field and all in the Texas sun, while losing probably 15 pounds from the Plague and the heat.

          Who could forget the infamous Columbia bus breakdown? We had a game in New York City against Columbia, again in my sophomore year (rough year for travel), and we left for the City around noon for a 5pm game. I’ll never forget the trip on 195 in Storrs on our way to Interstate 84. Randomly, the bus would start fishtailing towards the side of the road, each time prompting a “woooaaaaaaah” from the whole bus. It happened three or four times before our bus driver finally pulled over in Tolland, about a quarter of a mile from the highway. It turns out, at some point, the two back right rear tires blew out.

          “Holy cow!” exclaimed our bus driver in a pretty thick accent. “Good thing I stopped and checked it out, if we went on the highway with that we would have flipped for sure.” Lovely. Hanging out in a random pizza shop, eating some pie, and watching some TV took my mind off of that scary thought. We waited for an hour and a half for a new bus to come and pick us up for NYC. We rolled up to the field around 4:40pm for our 5pm game, and yes we ended up starting at 5pm, to the dismay of our starting pitcher Anthony Kay. Talk about a show-and-go!

          I’ve had limited experiences in the minors, as bus trips in the Gulf Coast League and Extended Spring Training are not too lengthy (an hour and a half at most). I do know one thing, those trips are cramped for two reasons: 1) they get these in between size coach buses with just enough seats for everyone and 2) the Latin guys will sprawl out all over the far back of the bus to get comfortable, so you have to buddy up in the front and make sure you pee before you get on the bus because it’s a maze to get to the back. When I get up to the NY-Penn League this summer to play with Aberdeen, we will have a whole bunch of nice long road trips, including an eight hour trip up to Burlington, VT, with no traffic (ooph).

          The higher one climbs in this game the longer the road trips get, which I’m okay with, no doubt. Although most of them are pretty boring and a lot of the same, it’s fun to see what a ballplayer will experience over the many road trips, or what they will think of to pass the time.

Superstitions

          Screen Shot 2018-04-12 at 8.23.11 PM.pngYeah, we all knew this one was coming. In case you do not know, I am a big superstition guy when it comes to baseball. Regardless of the day-by-day result, I stick by them. Heck, I’m writing this on the bus back from an extended spring training game in Fort Myers after going 0 for 4, but you know I will still be wearing my long sleeves and blowing into my lucky shot glass before I go to the field tomorrow. Superstitions are just another thing that make us ballplayers a very weird breed.

          The obvious one is the long sleeves, which is pretty much my signature look along with the horrendous “hands tan” that comes along with the sleeves. Believe it or not, I can remember the last game I did not wear a long sleeve Under Armor (specifically) undershirt in a game.

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No sleeves (ew gross) during a play at third base before I came in relief for Jacob Lamb to give up the infamous grand slam.

It was the District 17 Little League Championship game, when I was 12. One might think I was a psychopath for remembering that, but the real reason I remember is because I gave up a game winning grand slam to lose the Championship for our Mid County All-Star team, a team that would have gone to Williamsport if I hadn’t blown that game (I carry that weight with me everyday).

          There have been some days where I forgot or lost my Under Armor, and all hell breaks loose. I’ll have to wear some gross, baggy long sleeve shirt sometimes as a replacement, almost guaranteeing an 0 for 4 that day. A handful of times, if I had enough time, I would make a run over to Dick’s Sporting Goods to grab a new one, or the amazing parents that I have would scramble and miraculously find my missing undershirt (usually in the most obvious place) and bring it to me back in the day. It is the single most important part of my baseball uniform without question.

          A great Under Armor story goes back to when the Huskies played down in the NCAA regional in Gainesville. We won our first game against Georgia Tech and I had a pretty good game as well. Coach Penders approached me the next day, telling me that Nike called him and told them that “the Yahn kid” had to put on a Nike undershirt because the Under Armor logo was showing on TV.

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Relax, Nike, it was only showing a little!

Now, believe you me, I listen to everything that man says, doing so has gotten me pretty far in this game, but I did everything I could do to not yell “SCREW NIKE!” I was almost offended. I get it, we’re a Nike school, they provide us with our jerseys and cleats and such, but they have the nerve to look so closely at me on TV and tell me my lucky undershirt isn’t up to par with their dress code, with all the money they already have?? Nope, I just made sure my top button was secured and then tucked the back of my jersey in real tight.

          I got a lot of questions about my Under Armor when I went down to Florida and played. Every game we played in Florida when I was with UConn I wore it, and every game in the Gulf Coast League in Sarasota with the Orioles you know I was wearing the long sleeve black Under Armor. It works, that’s why I do it, but holy hell last summer in the GCL there were a few times when I wanted to rip that thing off. We would practice in the morning from 9am-11am before home games, and when we had a quick bite to eat from 11am-12pm just before first pitch, I would throw my Under Armor in the dryer for a half hour to dry it off. I used to do this on those hot summer afternoons in Bristol before the night games with the Blues as well. Sometimes it does get warm and slightly uncomfortable, but having a piss poor batting average is a lot more uncomfortable, so I stay with the sleeves.

          Now the story of the lucky shot glass is an epic one, a story which dates all the way back to my freshman spring at UConn before I was even a starter for the Huskies. The weekend before my first start was the first weekend of our spring break trip that year in Greenville, SC. After our Saturday double header, in which I had one pinch-hit at bat and grounded out, our bus had to deal with a lot of traffic headed back to our hotel, the Westin, because they were hosting a wedding. We finally get back after the bride and groom ride off happily ever after, and there was still some drunk and rowdy wedding-goers heading back to their rooms at the same time as us.

          “Hey guys, take this bottle of wine,” he said while clinging to the elevator railing just to stay on his feet. “I already had two of these and it did the job, but tasted like crap.”

          “We can’t take that,” one of the guys replied. “We’re here for baseball and we’re not allowed to drink in the hotel.”

          “Wow you guys are a bunch of wimps, huh?” The drunkard replied and we all just laughed. “Well one of you take this here glass I don’t want it, I can’t believe I haven’t broken it yet.”

          “Sure,” I said as he handed it to me. I don’t know why I had zero hesitation to take the glass. The glass read the couples names and March 14, 2015. After two more games, I woke up the morning of March 18 and looked at the glass I had saved, and simply just blew in it for good luck. Sure enough when we got to William and Mary that night, Coach Penders had penciled my name into the line up, and the rest is history.

          Tragically, about 14 months later, we were down at the University of South Florida for the final series of my sophomore season, and we had three to a room for this series, so big time Anthony Kay and Pat Ruotolo put my sophomore butt on the pullout coach for the weekend. Every game leading up to that day I had blown into my lucky glass (essentially a wine glass without the long stem at the bottom) and played very well since I had started doing so. I woke up the Sunday before our final game of the season, and it was gone. I tore the living room apart looking for it, throwing my clothes, my bag, the phone, the TV, all over the place trying to find this glass. I always put the glass on the bedside table and blew into it each morning when I woke up, and it was gone that morning. I came to the conclusion that housekeeping snagged it thinking it was from the bar downstairs or something like that, even though I called the bar and housekeeping trying to find it and they said they had not seen it. I claim USF baseball team colluded, trying to steal my glass after we beat them twice to try to get a Sunday win and salvage the weekend, but we’ll never know.

          We won the Sunday game, but I had a bad game, and going into the conference tournament that week, I needed my glass or that tournament could have been a bad one for me. My Dad came to Clearwater for the tournament and invited some of his old friends, one was Felton Elders, the other and our hero of the story was John Stofan, who goes by Sto, and has been a friend of my Dad’s since their middle school days up in Farmington, ME.

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Sto and I the day he gave me the lucky shot glass in Clearwater!

Sto is a pilot for Southwest Airlines, and had heard the story of my lost glass from my Dad. So during dinner after our first game of the tournament, one in which I did not get a hit (of course), Sto makes a big presentation and whips out a Southwest shot glass. I was pumped, I don’t think he knew how much I needed something like this. I couldn’t have just gone and bought myself some random lucky glass to replace my wedding glass, it had to mean something, and Sto couldn’t have come through at a better time. We went on to win the conference tournament, and with the help of my new lucky Southwest shot glass, I performed pretty well for the remainder of the tournament.

          Ballplayers have all sorts of things that fall under the category of superstitions, it can be daily routines, certain meals, certain equipment, anything. I know I’m not alone in naming equipment. My current bat, Brenda, and glove, Penny, really appreciate that and it makes them feel loved and they return the favor with base hits and good plays. Baseball is such an unpredictable game in which you rarely go a day without failing. Superstitions keep the ballplayer at ease, giving them a slight sense of cause and effect. If I blow in my lucky shot glass and wear my long sleeves, then I will get two hits and make my plays. It’s never guaranteed, nothing is guaranteed in this game, that’s why I’m writing this after going 0 for 4. But will the superstitions stop? Never, I’ll go crazy if they did.

Playing Through It

Ballplayers get asked all the time what they believe is the hardest part of our game. There are many challenges to it. Of course the hardest one is hitting a slider when you think a 90+ mph cheese ball is coming at you (or vice versa), or getting a good read on a high hopping groundball with a fast runner at the plate, the list goes on. But one of the hardest things that many people who follow baseball do not think about is trying to stay healthy for an entire season. Whether it’s a 56 game college season, a 60 game minor league short-season, a 140 game minor league full-season, or a big league 162 game season, being on the field for a majority of those games is one of the biggest challenges ballplayers face. Take that a step further, it’s knowing your body and knowing when you can, and when you cannot, play in the game that day (or in my mind tricking the trainers into letting you play). How do you think Cal Ripken Jr. played in 2,632 consecutive Major League games (more than 16 seasons)? He just got lucky and was never hurt right… NO! That man had bruises, strains, sprains, illnesses, etc. all during that span, he just played through it, because that’s what ballplayers do.

Here’s the catch; there are injuries you just cannot play through, like torn ligaments, back problems, broken bones, etc. and I have been there. My junior season at UConn, with expectations through the roof and the most important season of my life so far as a Captain, I broke my left hand during live at-bats on a Saturday, six days before the season started. I was devastated as baseball had been taken away from me. My true love. Everything that I had been working towards since we were eliminated in the NCAA Tournament in Gainesville my sophomore year, after a surgery to repair that same left hand, after hours of work in the cages, on the turf and in the weight room, it felt like my future I had worked tirelessly to put before me was slipping through my fingers.

“5th metacarpal breaks usually take 6-8 weeks to heal properly,” said the Doctor about an hour after I had been hit by the pitch.

“Yeah well we have a game on Friday in Port St. Lucie, so what do I have to do Doc?” Was my natural response. Eventually after further evaluation and realizing the break was worse than they originally thought, I had to get my metacarpal reset and was told I would be out for the first five weeks of the season.

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A little bit of foreshadowing in the caption, no?

These times really test a ballplayer. You have to be tough for your teammates and make sure you’re getting your rehab work in everyday. But being the Captain my junior year and being on the sideline the week before the season was about to start was too much. I was sick to my stomach. It was a phone call with my parents after the first game of the season that comes to mind, when I hatched the plan while pretty emotional.

“I’m losing my mind, there’s no way I’m sitting out for that long,” I told my parents.

“Willy, you have to do what is best for your future health, to play the second half of the season, and for the draft,” my parents were saying.

“When I start giving a rat’s ass about the draft is when everything goes down the drain. I need to get back on the field as soon as possible for my sanity. I’m going to play in three weeks.” The debate continued for a while, but getting into an argument with me about not playing baseball is (in the famous words of Coach Penders) like getting into a pissing contest with a skunk. I explained how I could not live without being on a field, next to my guys, belly flopping on the dirt. I was never concerned with the draft while having success my first two UConn seasons and while on the Cape, why should that change now? I was quite literally losing my mind.

After the first two weekends went by slowly, I got my cast off the Thursday morning before we flew down to Stetson for the final series that I had planned to miss (although the Doc said I would miss two more after that). I was shooting to play again on March 10th against UC Davis, 3 ½ weeks after I broke my hand, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to get that idea past our trainer and the Doc.

We got back early Monday morning March 6th and I went to the training room that Monday afternoon. Our trainer said the Doc still had me on track to get back March 25th, but I could start swinging off a tee if it felt comfortable. So, naturally, I fired up the pitching machine and took probably 10 rounds of batting practice. It felt… OK physically, but I was happy as a clam let me tell you. I returned to the training room on Tuesday and hesitantly told our trainer what I did, and that I planned on playing that Friday. He contacted the Doc immediately after that and told him what schedule I had prescribed for myself, and we never heard from the Doc again (not sure why). I was pretty much on my own and had to convince Coach Penders I was healthy to play. After he and the coaching staff told me repeatedly I was insane and borderline out of control (music to my ears) and our trainer fitted me with a plastic guard for the outside of my hand to wear at all times, I indeed started my first game of the season 3 ½ weeks after I broke my metacarpal against UC Davis.IMG_3068 It hurt, A LOT, and that didn’t go away for a while, the guard made my hand bleed, my glove squeezed the metacarpal when it closed in the field, and I did struggle somewhat because of that. In reality, I would do a lot more to get back on the field with my brothers, no question.

There are less drastic instances that test a ballplayer’s health day-to-day. Just yesterday I faced Alex Cobb in a simulated game as he had his last tune-up outing before he goes up to the Baltimore roster. He struck me out my first at bat, so my game plan the second at bat was to jump a fastball early and stay away from a two-strike count with his nasty repertoire. Sure enough, he threw his 60-million-dollar change-up and I hit a laser directly into the inside of my left ankle. It’s not the first time I have done that and it won’t be the last. (Add swollen shin picture if you can find it) A swollen ankle cannot slow a ballplayer down because this is going to happen all the time, and no I will not put on the eyewash shin guard or elbow guard people! (That’s what we call chrome)

Another time comes to mind when we played at Boston College midway through my sophomore season and during batting practice I was taking groundballs from Coach Penders. Boston College’s old field wasn’t exactly a putting green, and there was a nice lip on the edge of the third base grass/dirt area. I went for a backhand and it hopped up at the last second, went off the heel of my glove, and smoked me in the nose. I knew it caught me pretty square but I wanted to keep going and get more reps. I look up to get another grounder and Coach was halfway towards third base looking pretty concerned and I didn’t understand why. What I thought was just a runny nose from the cold day turned out to be a gushing bloody nose and probably an undiagnosed broken nose.

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I found it amusing at the time, I guess?

Our trainer put two cotton balls in my nose to temporarily stop the bleeding after I had taken off my blood stained sweatshirt. She then asked me if I still wanted to play in the game that day.

“Does a one legged duck swim in circles?,” I replied. Despite having to get new cotton balls put into my nose every three innings because of the bleeding lasting throughout the game, I played fine and we won the game up there in Boston.

No, the point of this post was not to show that I’m some kind of tough guy, because I’m not, ask my mom (she’s the tough one). She’ll tell you about my Dad and me screaming like little girls when we see snakes or flying bats near us outside at night in the summer. The point is to show what some ballplayers will go through to play as many games as possible, not because we feel pressure on us to produce or fulfill expectations, but because we need the game to keep us sane. We don’t really know anything else besides our game, and one day our highly competitive days will brush by us, like strangers in a crowd.* Sure, I have a back up plan, and most likely would not have one without the opportunity baseball presented to study at the UConn Journalism School, but I will always play the game. I plan to become an adult league legend when I finish my professional career. Baseball is my meditation. Baseball is my sanctuary.

 

*Field of Dreams reference, courtesy of Moonlight Graham

Unwritten Rules

Unwritten Rules

Unwritten rules are a funny thing in baseball. They are completely off of hearsay from older guys or coaches telling younger guys things they need to know to respect the game, respect their opponent, and protect their own teammates. Just yesterday while playing with the AA team as spring training winds down, I learned a new one that I had never heard before.

One of the veteran guys approaches me and tells me that walking in front of the catcher and the umpire to get to the batter’s box can be a display of disrespect. Allegedly, it can be viewed by the battery (the pitcher and the catcher) as disrespect, or even sometimes by the home plate umpire as well. I didn’t take it too seriously right when I received the information. I just nodded my head with body language saying “yeah, sure, whatever” while thinking about how soft umpires and pitchers can be. But then I thought back to my at bats thus far that day. In my first at bat, I got a heater that shaved off some of my blonde chin hairs and sent me back like a limbo participant en route to a walk.

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Playing limbo with fastballs happens more often than you’d think.

Then I had a bad at bat my second time around and popped out weakly to the first baseman. I think to myself “maybe I’m not just pissing off the pitcher by doing that, I’m pissing off the baseball Gods too”, and my third at bat I go around the catcher and the umpire with the utmost respect. Yup, you guessed it, I hit a first pitch rope up the middle for a base hit.

If I didn’t want to keep your best attention I would talk about every single unwritten rule that there is in baseball, but I won’t do that to you, rather I’ll keep it brief and talk about the infamous “snowball fight” last summer in Fort Myers against the Gulf Coast League Twins and how that started.

In hindsight, the game of dodge ball with hard white rocks could have begun by the unwritten rule I was talking about before, about going around the umpire and catcher on my way to the box, who knows. I would argue it’s because those 17 year old Latin guys who throw 100 couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn from 10 feet away. Regardless, my teammate J.C. Escarra and I, in our first eight games that season, were hit probably 20 times combined by GCL Twins pitchers, and our manager and pitching coach didn’t think it was by accident. They thought J.C. and I were getting plunked on purpose, so in our 4th meeting of the season he tells one of our lefties to drill the first batter of the next inning, who sure enough was the first overall pick Royce Lewis (whether our manager knew this or not is still debated in our clubhouse in spring training). As you can imagine, that specific incident made the Twins coaching staff very upset.

It was either the 9th or 10th game against the Twins at their place in Fort Myers when the “snowball fight” began. If you were in the starting line-up that day, you got plunked. Guys were wearing pitches back and forth like sweaters on both sides, but in areas you’re supposed to get hit, the thigh, the ribs, and the rump etc., areas that won’t do too much damage. In the 6th inning or so, we’re in the field, I’m on third base, and one of the Latin pitchers for us comes up and in twice on their four hitter (worth mentioning that hitters name was Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez, I kid you not, great dude) and the second pitch got him in the shoulder. He chirped a little bit and walks down to first, then all hell breaks loose with the next batter. Our guy throws it right over this shorter, feisty Latin guys head, not missing by much. Major unwritten rule: DO NOT throw intentionally at a guy’s head, no matter what. It was bad enough he came up on Benny in the last at bat near his shoulder. The hitter walks out with some pace towards the mound ready to rumble. I, not thinking just sort of reacting to the situation in front of me, get in between the two Latin guys and the benches clear, charging out towards the mound like the ‘Running of the Bulls’. No punches were thrown and there wasn’t really too much shoving going on, just a lot of Spanish cussing going on around the mound, with this little pale dude from Sharon, Connecticut acting like he’s about to break up a fight between these two furious Dominicans if it started (oh wait that’s me). The Ft Myers GCL snowball fight will forever live in infamy.

The unwritten rules of baseball have started many snowball fights across the baseball world. They’ve sent little birds twirling around Jose Bautista’s head after a dirty slide into second got him laid out by Rougned Odor, they’ve made pitchers the loneliest guys in a dugout when they’re in the midst of a no-hitter, the rules and the stories are endless. It really emphasizes how weird the creatures known as ballplayers can be.    

Pam

Pam

 

One of my most cherished possessions, the most loved piece of rotten leather this world has ever seen, where hits through the left side go to die, after a long run my glove has been retired due to injury. The glove formally known as “Pro Preferred™ Pam: The Heat Seeking Ball Magnet 2.0” was forced to retire on Sunday, March 18, after some severe leather tears to the palm area. Screen Shot 2018-03-21 at 9.30.14 PM

A day that I thought would never come; I had to put Ol’ Pam on the shelf for reasons you can see above. The rips are pretty noticeable, but there were holes for laces close to blowing out, along with those grey patches that are more pieces of the palm deteriorating. Pam and I have been through it all together, having had her since the very beginning of my UConn career all the way back in September 2014. She’s been all over the country with the Huskies, to upstate New York in the Perfect Game League, to Muzzy Field where she and I were painfully close to a Futures League ring, to the Cape with all its historic high school fields despite the subpar playing surfaces, and finally to Sarasota to get her fill of minor league baseball in before she could take the beating no longer.

Pam, who is around 62 in glove years, could arguably be the cause of one of my worst injuries in my career back in 2016 (although I will always argue it was Florida’s catcher Mike Rivera), when a line drive off the Gator catcher’s bat crushed my palm with the corners drawn in and one out in Game 2 of the Gainesville NCAA Regional. With the adrenaline pumping from doubling off the runner at 3rd base in the top of the 9th as we approached our last licks against the #1 ranked college baseball team in the country, I didn’t feel a thing at the time. However, the next day after our loss to Florida, while taking grounders in the pregame batting practice before our matchup with Georgia Tech, every time I received a throw or grounder, my hand throbbed with pain.

After losing to Georgia Tech in what ended up being our final game of the season, I changed playing to Bourne, MA and the Cape Cod League to begin my summer ball season, and the pain remained. It didn’t bother me as much when I was hitting, rather it was when I caught balls in the palm or at the top of my web when my index finger would bend backwards. About 8 games into the season when I approached my trainer for the Bourne Braves, Karen, about the issue with my hand was another showing of recklessness to do anything it takes to stay on the field after she took a look at it herself.

“Well Willy there could be a bone broken in there, I’ll set up an X-ray for you within the next day or two to get it checked out,” Karen said casually.

“What are you crazy?” I replied. “Harvey [our coach] might sit me for a game, there’s not time for that.”

“Well what are we going to do about it then? You asked for my help,” said Karen.

“I was asking for, you know, under the table trainer advice, no one can know about this.” Karen was great about it, she didn’t say anything and performed some heavy tissue massages on the area to break up the swelling (probably not a great idea in hindsight) but somehow had me at ease mentally thinking I was at least doing something to make my hand better.

As the dream Cape Cod season came to an end after I played in every game, I went to the best hand doctor east of the Mississippi in the middle of August who just so happens to work half his time in Sharon, CT, Dr. Yaghoubian. I had last seen him when I broke two of my fingers playing goalie in soccer my sophomore year of high school. Sure enough, the X-rays confirmed I had played my summer season with a small bone in my hand, called the sesamoid bone, shattered into pieces. After a cortisone shot and finishing up fall ball for UConn, a quick surgery and some rehabbing of my hand left nothing but a cool scare and an example of how frail my glove was, granted that was almost 2 years ago now (that’s how flimsy it is now upon retirement).

It’s hard to remember, but way back in the dark ages there were gloves before Pro Preferred™ Pam: The Heat Seeking Ball Magnet 2.0. Which leads into the explanation of the 2.0 part in Pam’s name, she wasn’t the first of her kind that had been with me on the field of battle

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A picture of Pam 1.0

. I had a glove that was almost a replica of Pam with the exception of a color scheme difference. She was loved, she had some great memories from junior and senior years of high school, summer ball with Team Connecticut, my first collegiate baseball experience with the Torrington Titans in the Futures League, and who could forget the two Adult League State Championships with the Tri-Town Trojans.

Towards the end of the Futures League season at a night game in Torrington, we had just finished up a game (whether we won or lost I do not remember it was too tragic of a night) and I went back to the area in front of our dugout where we all laid down our gloves and Pam 1.0 was nowhere to be found. In a full panic I asked everyone to check their bags and look all over the place for it, but no one had it and ballplayers just don’t usually take their teammates equipment 1) because it’s broken in for their teammate and not in a way they want it specifically and 2) that’s a quick way to upset the baseball gods if you ask me and you don’t want to do that. I can’t confirm it for sure, but to this day I still believe this crazy fan girl from Torrington took it (if you’re read this or the real person who took my glove reads this, show yourself you coward!)

I would be remiss if I did not bring up the first one, arguably the greatest glove to grace any baseball field on God’s green earth, my first true love, sigh, her name was Regina. What a glove she was, I first got her when I was 8 years old in 2004. She was once so fresh, nothing but the future ahead of her, before her many rips and repairs. She was with me through many epic Little League battles both representing Sharon and the Mid-County All-Star team, along with my beginning Team Connecticut years and my first two years of high school ball at Housatonic. I used Regina all the way until the end of fall ball in 2012, right around my 17th birthday.

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An old picture of Regina my sophomore year after a a few serious surgeries to the palm and the web.

Just as I had received Pam 1.0 for my birthday that year, Regina took a hard line drive right to the web and the ball and the web ventured out to left field while I stood at third wondering what would have happened if that had been hit right at my face. The end story with Regina is a sad one, as my Dad did repair her after that incident just so I could bring her to UConn and play light catch with her on an occasion. I went to my cubby in “The Barn”, our hitting facility at UConn, where Regina always was, incase I ever wanted to use her. Coach Hourigan one day had gone through the cubby areas at the end of fall ball early in my sophomore year to clean out what he thought was “garbage”. After looking everywhere for Regina in full panic mode, it had been confirmed that he threw Regina in the trash (moment of silence, Regina Rawlings April 2004-October 2015).

Yes I know, I’m psychotic, hell I just wrote three pages about baseball gloves that I’ve come to know and love over the years. That’s the type of mental state I’m in right now after recently retiring my girl Pam, but that’s how attached to our game-items us ballplayers can get. There are a few like myself, but when something is working well for me, a glove, a bat, a long sleeve undershirt, etc., I stick with it until the bitter end. I like to think that it’s part of my respect for the game, the respect for the tools I use each day that lead to success. Since I started at UConn every bat I’ve used has had a name (I just broke Bianca Birch over in Ft. Myers against the Red Sox, she was a great bat), I have taken all of these bats on the bus with me on road trips because it gets cold down underneath the bus for an aluminum or wood bat, and occasionally I will buckle the bats up in the seats to make sure they have a safe and comfortable ride. Just more weird and crazy things you’ll see out of baseball players, we’re a strange bunch.

But on that note we welcome my newest glove to the family, a pretty blonde glove with my name on the thumb (I know it’s way too nice I will get it dirty in no time don’t worry). Her name is Penny, welcome to the family Penny, but I will always love you Pam.

Pilot: A New Beginning

March 13, 2018

Pilot: A New Beginning

And we’re back. The excitement, the yearly expectations, the dreams for every player and every team, another baseball season is upon us. An offseason at UConn brought a good work environment, while providing some relaxation (I’ll spare you those details) after a grind of a season down in Sarasota in the Gulf Coast League (GCL). It was a bittersweet dynamic watching my former teammates and coaches at UConn prepare vigorously as a unit, while their season approached much sooner than my own. In the meantime, all members of the Orioles were scattered across the U.S. and the world (the Caribbean, Czech Republic, China, etc.) preparing themselves on their own with whatever resources they are lucky enough to possess. It was a beautiful sight seeing how many former players, other than myself, that the UConn coaching staff allowed to come back and share their resources with even after our time of wearing UConn across our chests’ expired. I would argue we all just wanted to come back and watch Coach MacDonald playfully shred the freshman, as he did with us all before in his twisted but mostly successful strategy to make us more comfortable (or just for the sake of ripping us, I give him the benefit of the doubt).

After months of preparation and repetitions with the UConn team, living at the Electric Zoo with the new assistant coach Jordan Tabakman, the voice of Huskies Chris Jones (Jonesy), and Nasty Nate, it was time to head down south. It worked out beautifully that the Huskies were playing in Atlanta that weekend and my Mom’s Aunt and Uncle, who are twins and live in Atlanta, were celebrating their 90th birthdays that weekend (here’s to them!). Thus my Mom and I made the trek in the old painters truck (Toyota Tacoma with the racks on the back) down to Georgia. Thanks to this perfect storm, my roommate Jonesy, the legendary voice of the Huskies, was nice enough to let me make a fool of myself on the UConn Baseball radio broadcast for their games against Kennesaw State and Georgia Tech with WHUS. After all that fun and doing everything in my power not to yell, clap, cheer, swear, etc. on air, I arrived to Sarasota on February 19th for my physical.

This was my second “first day” in minor league baseball, my first being the first day showing up for physicals before the GCL seasons started the summer before, but it’s not all too different from your first-day-of-school experiences (besides getting stabbed by needles twice and pissing in a cup). You migrate safely into the company of guys you played with the year before, talk to the coaches you recognize from the year before, meet and greet with some new guys and 1 minute later while still in conversation with them think, “Ah shit what’s their name again??” All the classic and awkward feelings from the first few days go off to the side and the physicals are finished and we get back onto the field.

“What’s that kid doing?” a random player asks another while pointing at me.

“Oh that’s Yahn, he’s just rolling around in the grass, he hasn’t seen green grass since October.”

I figured it’d be easier to explain my excitement of being warm and on a baseball field in this way than getting all cliché and descriptive on you. But yes, there’s nothing like going from the emotionally confusing weather climate of Connecticut to the perfectly warm, not a cloud in the sky, putting-green-esque grass environment that Florida in February features.

Quickly the days leading up to Minor League Spring Training games start to blend, in a good way, but they do blend together. Of course this is because Minor League Spring Training games start in the middle of March, as opposed to the Major League Spring Training games, which start in late February. Wake up at 7, get to the complex, eat at 7:30, lift or activate (a light lift) at 8, stretch at 9:30, throw, hit, condition, repeat.

NO, no, nono, NO I am not complaining at all. Are you serious? Me complain about baseball? I explain this to you because when you do this for 23 straight days preparing for your first at-bat or ground ball in a game against another uniform, well, it’s like a dog doing tricks for 23 straight days without his biscuit (at least for me).

At long last, tomorrow is the first day of Minor League Spring Training games. The chance I’ve been waiting for since the last game of the GCL season on September 2nd is finally upon us. The excitement in the locker room is there for sure, but I feel like there are few others who feel the way I feel about the first game. It’s not about proving to the organization that I have done everything in my power in the off-season to earn a spot on a full season team, as important as that is, no question. It’s the game; the game has been given back to me, the chance to Pete Rose dive into third as a stretch a double into a triple, the chance to show players who are most likely more talented than me that my focus and love for the best game in the world determines my reality.

Coach Penders up at UConn says it best, “Prepare like failure is inevitable, play like failure is impossible.” Many would scoff at that sentiment, thinking I should visualize success as I prepare, and understand in the game that failure happens and nobody’s perfect. That’s not how I roll, I can’t think like that. I can’t sit there while I prepare and feel satisfaction from something that isn’t happening in front of me, whether it is reminiscing on past successes or visualizing future ones, baseball is a game about the now where you need a short memory, you need to be where your feet are, and you need to focus on that rep at that moment whether in the gym or on the field. While in games I play like failure is impossible, as soon as you concede in any moment, thinking that getting out won’t put too much of a dent on your batting average or thinking one error isn’t that big of a deal, that’s when those negatives start to pile up. It’s partly an impossible pursuit of perfection that has gotten me to where I am, an instilled mindset from my parents and reiterated during my time at UConn that endless reps, putting your boots on and going to work, while being where your feet are, can make the impossible a reality.

But the other part that will stay with me until I leave this earth is a true love for the game. The preparation that goes into it and the feeling of success when it happens, baseball is really just too beautiful to put into words, it’s truly a gift. Let the games begin!