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| 1997 Collector's Choice Mini-Standee Jeff Blake |
As with not making the high school team, I was realistic about my own ability, yet knew that I could contribute in a couple of areas in which others struggled while fully acknowledging that there was a gap in terms of ability that made others more worthy of being the full-time options. With the benefit of perspective, there is a part of me that feels like a bullet was dodged in terms of not being on some of these teams. Between the poor and often negative coaching at the high school that caused some of my peers to lose their love for the sport, and the fact that I really never felt that I was included by the better athletes in my graduating class (I was young for my grade and played with kids one grade below me in school for most of my youth career), I do not know if playing for RHS or the Nighthawks would have been healthy experiences. The season that I spent on the freshman team certainly was not.
Setting aside worthiness, status, and any of that nonsense, most of all I just wanted to play. There simply was no convenient or available outlet, no 18-U Babe Ruth program that exists now, no random batting cage that was putting together a motley crew of kids from eight different towns. As such, I began coaching - but still wanted to play.
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Despite getting into a few rather strong universities, the entire college-application process confused me (and still does as I consider grad school options), leading me to opt to spend my first semester out of high school attending nearby Western Connecticut State University. Besides being able to live at home and keep my job, this also afforded me the opportunity to seek out opportunities to stay involved in activities that I would have likely bypassed had I gone to school elsewhere. When a notice for a fall 18-U baseball league appeared in the sports section of one of the local papers, it was exactly what I was looking to see. Unfortunately, Ridgefield was still lagging behind other towns when it came to fielding older teams, as they only had squads in the 15-U and younger levels, but Danbury was putting together a team and anyone was welcome.
Despite being extremely reticent to jump into a foreign setting given my issues with new environments and people that I mentioned in an earlier post, I decided to bite the bullet and sign up to play. Our first practice was on a sunny Saturday afternoon at Rogers Park in Danbury, a nice field that plays host to summer league games that feature a plethora of Division I ballplayers. While the head coach seemed to be a bit blustery and a few of the players had an edge to them, there were others who gladly offered to throw with me and the assistant coaches seemed enthusiastic. The practice itself was largely enjoyable and I was able to quickly shake off the rust, seemingly making a good impression in the process. While the other players were impressive athletes, most of whom I was told had been contributors at Danbury High School as juniors, I did not feel terribly out of place, which was a huge relief.
When we got to batting practice, it now seems unusual that the coach was pitching without the aid of an l-screen, as he instead opted to throw at a pretty consistent speed from the mound itself. Whichever player was in the hole was designated to collect balls that were thrown in near the mound area and place them in a nearby bucket for the coach, which led to the players shagging balls in the outfield to make a game out of keeping score of how many times each could hit the bucket or the player collecting the baseballs. This continued until it was my turn to fill that role, with my worries being more on not embarrassing myself at the plate than getting hit by throws from the outfield. However, as the balls collected around my feet, I nearly tripped while taking a step back and indicated to the coach that I needed a second in order to clear the area. To the best of my recollection, he acknowledged what I said. As such, I briefly turned around, bent down to reach for the first of many balls in the area, and immediately heard the "Ping!" of a metal bat. I turned my head to the left to look toward the plate. That did not work out terribly well.
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In past recollections of this story, I have often been asked what it felt like to get drilled in the temple by a line drive. The answer, at least on this occasion, was that I really did not immediately *feel* anything, whether it be nausea or pain. I definitely heard something, as there was a distinct ringing that remains unlike anything that I have ever experienced during any of my, unfortunately, many other concussive episodes. I also saw something, which, no joke, is the card of Jeff Blake pictured above. If anyone can determine why that image popped into my head at that moment, congratulations, you may have solved a puzzle more complex than deciphering the meaning of life. Perhaps it is nothing more intriguing than that my brain operates differently enough as it is and really did not need to be struck by a baseball in order to produce unexpected results. Probably.
Remarkably, I did not lose consciousness and actually asked to rejoin practice after resting for a few minutes. While coaching now, this would certainly not be something that I would permit my players to do and I tend to err on the side of caution with even more minor injury concerns. The head coach of this team, however, um, did not exercise caution. Several minutes later, I was taking balls in left field and working on my crow hop to maximize what passes for arm strength. Then my head began to hurt. Badly. And my stomach felt worse than my head, which was truly a feat. I had to be helped off the field, as simply taking steps felt like the most laborious task ever conceived.
As I sat on the bench with my head in hands, desperately trying to block out as much light as possible, I was asked to provide my mom's cell phone number so that she could come get me. I am fairly certain that whatever number that I offered forth bore little resemblance to the cell number that we were trying to reach. It could have been our old house phone, my grandparent's phone number, or just some string of random digits. All that I know was that my mom had no clue as to what had happened until arriving at the scheduled end of practice. I am still not sure if I have ever seen her as angry as she was at the coach's half-baked explanation for how the events of the day had occurred, but, thankfully, going directly to the ER took priority over telling the coach how neglectful he had been. I do not remember most of what happened from the time that the pain set in; I just wanted to go to sleep.
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Further cementing the whole "my brain does odd things" notion, I blitzed through two of the cognitive tests administered at the ER, as recounting the alphabet backwards and subtracting units of seven from a starting base of 100 proved to be surprisingly easy for me even with a baseball-smacked brain that desperately wanted to rest. Of course, everything else clearly pointed to a concussion, with rest and consistent monitoring being paramount. For the next five days, simply standing up caused my head to feel like it was in the type of vise used to shake cans of paint. My boss at work was completely understanding. My college professors? Not so much. Despite the fact that I indicated that I was in such pain that getting up to write them an email was literally all that I could physically manage for the day, two professors refused to grant me any leniency when it came to due dates on papers. I was not a great self-advocate at the time and was too overwhelmed to push things to the administrative level when I felt better, resulting in me taking zeroes on papers in each of those courses, worsening my grades in the process. Given that I posted A's in literally every other course that I took in college, those marks stand out, but more for the inability of a pair of educators to care about the well-being of their students than any personal failure on my part. I still feel let down by them and never want anyone that I coach or teach to feel that way about me.
Perhaps foolishly, I made an attempt to return for the team's first games the following weekend. Modern concussion protocols exist to protect students in both the academic areas that I described as well as the athletic realm, but I was pretty much left to my own devices to determine if I was okay to play. I told the coach that I was comfortable playing the field, but did not want to hit, especially given that, as a right-handed batter, it is my left temple that faces the pitcher. He made a bit of a show about this being an issue, but ultimately relented. Why was it important that I hit when we had around 14 guys on hand? It is truly one of life's great mysteries.
After sitting out game one of our doubleheader and being treated to the constant aroma of marijuana that was being smoked by some individuals sitting in a nearby bush, I finally took to right field for game two of the twinbill. With a pretty dominant pitcher on the hill who had to have struck out double-digits in the contest, chances were rare. However, I caught the one routine flyball hit my way, ran down a ball in the gap, and relayed a ball hit to the wall that was then thrown to second to cut down a batter-runner trying to stretch his hit into a double. It was a pretty good game, all things considered, and I would have been happy to just play the field for the remainder of the fall. Those hopes were quickly dashed when the coach said that were shorthanded on Sunday, so I would get to hit, as though it was something for which I was hoping and not desperately avoiding. I began to again feel sick on the way home that night, although it was likely as much anxiety as anything else. I called the coach in the morning to note that I would not be there for their away game that afternoon - and did not play again for almost 19 years.
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As alluded to earlier, I have had the misfortune of accumulating plenty of other concussions over the years, too. A kid from Bridgeport flagrantly elbowed me in the face during a basketball game just months after the injury described above, causing another concussion while also breaking my nose. I was twice hit by baseballs while coaching in the following spring and have seen corners of tables pack a surprising punch. When I was younger, I joked that my head was the universe's punching bag due to the amount of times that I seemed to bump it on the top of a car door entrance or the overhang on my bed. That seemed to be shockingly prescient. Over time, I developed consistent headaches that need to be managed or else my concentration level becomes nonexistent. Given the complexity of the brain and the relative newness of concussion research, it has also been difficult to find doctors who are willing to legitimize and acknowledge the impact that concussions continue to have on my well-being. I do not expect a magic pill, but an attempt to understand would be cool.
In spite of this, I have still yearned to return to playing and this year finally worked up the nerve to do so.
While I have coached many, many teams over the past two decades, there is a world of difference between controlled on-field efforts geared toward instruction and those needed to react to plays occurring in a competitive atmosphere. I have still yet to feel comfortable at the plate, but have produced better results than I ever would have guessed, even if I will likely never be the type of hitter than I once was. Bizarrely, despite only throwing one inning off of a 60'6" mound in my youth career, I have logged nearly 40 IP on the hill so far this spring/summer. You can't predict baseball, I suppose. While we have not excelled record-wise, it has been a tremendously fun and welcoming experience that I truly needed.
On Sunday, our team plays at Rogers Park. While I have coached many games there since my injury, this will be my first time on the field as a player since that pair of Saturdays early in September of 2000. I will not fault my brain if it again randomly thinks of Jeff Blake throwing a football. After all, it still functions and I am again playing baseball.
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