The Futility Infielder

Very little of the baseball I saw this weekend -- watching the Yanks' lackluster showing in Boston or attending Sunday's latest Met debacle as they were swept by the Pirates -- was any good for the home team. But none of that meant anything to me compared to my own good news. To accompany a gorgeous weekend with sunshine and weather in the 70s, I did something I haven't done in over ten months: I broke out my mitt and played catch.

It was the middle of last June when a moment of idiotic swimming pool-related horseplay -- never ever dive onto a flotation mat in the middle of a pool, kids -- left me clutching my right shoulder and writhing in agony. As I'd hit the mat, my arm had slipped laterally, pinning my elbow in the vicinity of my sternum while I felt a sickening pop in my shoulder. Hours later, in an attempt to gauge just how badly off I was, I tried throwing a baseball to Andra, only to find I couldn't push the ball more than about 20 feet. Throwing like a girl would have been an improvement; my shoulder felt as though the wind had been knocked out of it. Not good at all.

A belligerent primary care physician, travel, and my own optimism delayed a proper diagnosis on my injury until I went to see an orthopedic surgeon in the middle of July. To make a long story short, I had torn my labrum, the ring of cartilage that holds the shoulder in its socket. Three months of physical therapy failed to alleviate the problem and cost me a lot of sleep (waking up several times a night to avoid certain positions), and so last November I underwent arthroscopic surgery; in fact, it was five months ago Monday. I spent a full month wearing a sling, then began physical therapy. At first I struggled to lift even two- and three-pound weights, feeling estranged from my own muscles and wondering if I had reinjured myself in my rehab. Progress was agonizingly slow; during one exercise my therapist had to remind me of the proper mechanics about two-thirds of the time. But I had been told it would be six months before I could return to a full level of activity, and I was being paced accordingly.

As the therapy went on I got to do some ball-related exercises in addition to the weightlifting. Mostly it was stuff like throwing a weighted ball into a diagonally-positioned trampoline six feet away, then letting it bounce back into my hand while cushioning the impact, or bouncing that ball above a door frame with the same purpose. But as baseball season approached and my shoulder continued to heal, I began practicing my throwing motion on my own time. In one of my desk drawers I rediscovered an old foam ball, roughly two thirds the size of a baseball, a replica of a globe dating to my time designing for the World Almanac Group. When nobody else was around, I began tossing that ball off of the walls in my apartment, once in awhile sort of letting loose and hearing it smack the wall with a satsifying thunk. Watching games, I would take a baseball -- the forbidden fruit -- out of my closet and either practice my grip or just spin the it in my hands. I felt like a kid on a rainy day, bummed that I couldn't just go outside to do exactly what I yearned to do.

Finally, about ten days ago I asked my therapist if it would be OK for me to play some catch; he cleared me with the caveat that I shouldn't throw very far. With last weekend cold and drab, I decided to wait for a nicer day, and this sunny Saturday felt divinely delivered. My pal Nick and I took our mitts to nearby Tompkins Square Park and tossed the ball around at about 20 paces for about fifteen minutes. While I had no trouble throwing it that distance, I quickly became self-conscious of my mechanics, noticing when I was occasionally wrist-snapping the ball back to Nick or stopping a short of a total follow-through. I spent a lot of time watching my feet, making sure to throw off of my left foot rather than resorting to my old flat-footed infielder peg.

I took a break as Andra, who'd wandered over to the park without her mitt, took over mine and continued tossing the ball with Nick. She can hold her own; no throwing like a girl for her. After she threw for about 10 minutes, I reclaimed my mitt and resumed tossing the ball. I was beginning to feel some stiffness below my shoulder blade, but enjoying myself too much to stop; Dusty Baker would have been proud. I'd be lying if I said that the inside of my shoulder joint feels the same as it did pre-mischief or pre-surgery, or that it's anywhere close to normal yet. But two days after throwing I'm happy to report that my body felt no worse than it does after any of my PT workouts, and my soul feels a whole lot better now that I can pick up my mitt and throw the ball any damn time I want.

* * *

The Yankees' soul, on the other hand, was MIA this weekend in Boston as they lost three out of four games to the Red Sox to drop below .500 (6-7). Alex Rodriguez had a weekend from hell, getting a deserved earful from Sox fans while going 0-for-16 until he finally singled in the ninth inning of Monday's game. Too little, too late. A-Rod is parked well below the Mendoza Line, hitting an anemic .160/.263/.280, but he's not alone in his futility; the team as a whole is hitting .217/.334/.381 and scoring 4.3 runs a game. So much for scoring 1000 runs. Aside from Jorge Posada's .256/.375/.692 line, the only positive to point to for the Yankee hitters is that they're drawing walks, one for every 6.4 at bats, 66 in all.

The team's starting pitching, aside from Kevin Brown, is a bit more worrisome, posting a 5.06 ERA so far. Brown wasn't as sharp on Monday as against Tampa Bay, but then three outings against a perennial doormat might lull one into a false sense of security. Javier Vazquez, after dazzling in his Yankee debut, got knocked around on Friday night, though the Yankee defense didn't do him any favors either. Mike Mussina continues to sputter, with a 7.52 ERA and a 1-3 record after four starts; some of his velocity has gone missing, likely due to the Yanks' abbreviated time in Florida rather than any injury. Jose Contreras is even worse, with a 9.39 ERA and only 7.2 innings in his two starts. Staked to a 7-1 lead on Sunday, Contreras couldn't even show Joe Torre enough to get himself out of a jam in the third inning. As if that wasn't bad enough, substitute fifth starter Jorge De Paula was placed on the DL with what's been called a "sprained elbow" and is headed to visit Dr. James Andrews. More than likely, that spells Tommy John surgery and a lost season. Rookie Alex Graman will make his major league debut on Tuesday starting against the Chicago White Sox, and assuming he keeps his head above water, would draw another start against the Red Sox next weekend. Gulp.

The brightest spot at this point has been the revamped bullpen, which has posted a 3.38 ERA thus far. Take away Felix Heredia -- please -- and that drops to 2.10 (Heredia was placed on the DL this weekend). Mariano Rivera's been his cool self, Tom Gordon, Paul Quantrill, and Gabe White have combined for 20 appearances in 13 games, and even Donovan Osborne, who did mop-up duty on Saturday, has been getting hitters out. Monday was not a good day for that troupe, however, as they allowed Brown's fourth and tying run to come around from first and then gave up the winning run in the eighth. It happens.

What should make the Yanks kick themselves (or give Boston fans hope) is that the Sox did this all without Nomar Garciaparra, Trot Nixon, or Pedro Martinez, and with a leadoff hitter who looks like he escaped from Lynyrd Skynyrd. Monday's lineup featured David McCarty batting sixth and playing first base, Cesar Crespo batting seventh and playing second, and number nine hitter Pokey Reese getting two hits and scoring the aforementioned tying run. Eeuch. Sooner or later the Sox are going to get reinforcements and they'll be even tougher to beat than they were this weekend.

But nobody in Yankeeland should press any panic buttons yet. Fifteen or 20 years ago, the Yanks' 6-7 start and key early-season loss to the Sox would have spilled managerial blood, but with George Steinbrenner having just extended Joe Torre's contract for three years, that possibility seems remote. Torre and company will remain calm, A-Rod and the rest of the Yankee hitters will come around, as will the pitching staff. Here's a rule of thumb: if the IRS hasn't processed your tax return yet, it's too early to worry.