Sensory Aversion, Part I - Touch

With two outs in the 7th inning of my team's game on Sunday morning, I was called upon to pinch-run for a teammate who had tweaked a muscle earlier in the contest. Given that I was currently in the game as a relief pitcher on a surprisingly muggy day, attempting a steal was neither a realistic nor a wise option - and that was setting aside the possibility of running our team out of the inning. Nonetheless, the opposing pitcher threw over to first multiple times, perhaps as much to try to get me to expend additional energy as he was aiming to prevent a potential stolen base. He was a fairly clever sort, that one.

I typically run the bases with my batting gloves balled up in my hands, but, having not reached base as a result of a time at bat, I forgot to do so on this occasion. As a result, the dives back into first base that I had to make coated my hands and wrists with dirt. A few pitches later, a groundout would end the frame, sending me back out to the hill. However, before that would happen, I had to deal with the dirt on my hands. It simply had to go.

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My first memory of experiencing the sensory aversion related to the manner in which substances and textures contacting my skin cause me to experience distress came when I was in first grade in Portugal. At one point in the school year, painting - particularly finger painting - was perfectly fine. Then came one day in which we were creating a class banner that would be adorned with handprints of all of the members of the class. After dipping my hand in the paint basin that was set on the back steps of the school, I was overcome by an extreme feeling of discomfort and unease. I actually do not think that I cried, but I most certainly ran to the bathroom to copiously wash off as much of the paint as I possibly could.

1992 Upper Deck - Will Clark

Not to worry, though, as I had plenty of other occasions in which bothersome touch-related sensory concerns caused me to truly lose it. Most notable, for sure, was in the lead-up to our second grade presentation of the Wizard of Oz. Save for the handful of students selected to have actual roles in the play, the remainder of the students were split into groups of munchkins and flying monkeys to effectively just stand around for a short period of time. Given my, ahem, relative lack of height, I was placed in the former group, which really did not mean terribly much in terms of activity within the play. Again, we were in second grade. Merely successfully walking on and off the stage would constitute a win.

However, on the night of the play itself, things for me took a turn for the worse. As we gathered in our respective classrooms, parent volunteers were tasked with making sure that all costumes and makeup were set prior to the presentation. Apparently since the students depicting flying monkeys were having their faces painted blue/silver in line with those of the characters in the movie, the brilliant decision was made to have all of the munchkins wear green paint on their face and hands - despite the fact that the munchkins in the film most certainly did not have green skin. The moment that the first daub of paint hit my hand, I lost it. In an effort to assure me that things were fine, one of my classmate's mother brought my classmate over to me, saying that it was fine given that my classmate was perfectly okay with her face and hands completely painted. Commence Level I Meltdown. My crying caused the plan to have the munchkins be painted green to be scrapped, but it was hard to have such a conniption and not be able to articulate why I was reacting as I was.

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It is hard to explain things like sensory aversion to others who do not experience the same level of discomfort when in contact with things that bother me. When I was asked a few years back by a fellow coach to dig into containers of dirt for use in rubbing up baseball, I declined, which led to a response that was could best be described as stunned and disbelieving. I mean, who has a problem with dirt?

The thing about bothersome textures is that their effects are not limited to the physical discomfort that they cause. Touching a knife blade or a hot stove will, of course, be painful, but their effects are fairly universal in the pain that they inflict. Bizarrely, I can handle a burn or a cut more readily than I can residual dirt and paint, as well as the manner in which shirt tags and clothing material feel when they contact my skin. At least for me, there is a sort of cognitive obsessiveness attached to the latter that works in conjunction with the physical problems that these textures cause. Yes, the paint on my hand and the tag rubbing against my neck do not yield pleasurable feelings, but it is the preoccupation with their negative physical effects combined with the constant awareness of their existence that is the most troubling issue. Just like with the dirt that I acquired when diving back into first base on Sunday, so many of the tags on my shirts simply had to go. Wool and polyester clothing? Ideally gone. Painting? I will pass, thank you. Unfortunately, just like with my painting experience when in first grade, these texture-related issues are not always constant. I wore jeans for years, yet now find the manner in which they feel on my legs to be borderline abrasive. As noted, it is neither an easy thing to describe nor simple to understand - even on a personal level.

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As with so many things that involve different experiences from those in the so-called "mainstream," it has long felt as though the issues that I and others have with sensory touch concerns were largely dismissed as being overplayed or even nonexistent. Given how even the thought of applying face/hand paint causing me to physically cringe and emotionally tense up, I would beg to differ when it comes to the legitimacy of these concerns. Thankfully, many clothing manufacturers have started to become more aware of the sensory woes that their products can cause, which has resulted in many shirts being produced without tags and clothing materials being more sensory-friendly. I recall there being some initial pushback to those changes, as there is to seemingly everything given the volume of petty individuals in the world, yet allowing more people to be comfortable without truly causing any issue for others seems to be a pretty simple idea to accept. Then again, plenty of folks seem to enjoy manners of teasing that involve causing others to become physically uncomfortable, which has often been hard for me to truly grasp.

While the relative efficacy of eye black as a means of reducing glare on sunny days has been debated, its use is now prevalent in more sports than just baseball. For some athletes, the application of eye black is less about worrying about sunlight than it is a ritual that permits them to focus prior to the game. I will not deny that it also tends to look pretty cool [see: nearly all of Will Clark's photogenic cards during his run as a Giant]. Obviously, eye black has always been a no-go for me. However, just as I am cool with avoiding it, seeing others use it as a means of getting amped up to play is similarly good by me. Differences are good and acceptance valuable, after all. If the eye black tube could remain capped after use, though, that would be ideal. ;)

You Are Not Ready

My second year playing baseball was defined far less by competition than it was by the positive environment that was fostered to help grow my love for the sport. One can argue that there really need to not be a score kept in a league in which eight-and-nine-year-olds are hitting off of a pitching machine and, given the cast of characters that were on our roster, there was truly not much need to worry about whether we would come out on top. My neighbor Ryan kept our bench area neatly organized and seemed to have every one of his best games impacted by some unfortunate comebacker by an opposing batter deflecting off of the machine to hit him as he played the "position" of "pitcher's helper." We had twin girls on the roster who were good athletes, yet rarely on hand at the same time, which made it hard to conclusively determine who was who. There was also one player who struggled to make contact to such a degree that we devised a plan to place his bat in the plane of the pitches coming toward the plate. While he only made contact a few times and put just one pitch into fair territory, his lone hit of the campaign was arguably the moment of the season.

1995 Collector's Choice
Álex Rodríguez (checklist)

It was our coaching staff that really made the experience so enjoyable. My friend's father, Frank, managed the team, might have loved collecting baseball cards more than I did, and consistently made the game fun. All members of the team were encouraged to get better without there being pressure to succeed or, more aptly, avoid failure, with end-of-practice competitions for baseball cards and ice cream being more than enough incentive for me to focus on every ball that was thrown my way. Phil was an ideal assistant coach, as his focus was on the team having fun and staying loose. He was not a "baseball guy," as his background was in running and his sons all excelled in track in high school. However, knowing that there was always someone there to deliver praise was invaluable to someone like me who was prone to breaking down when I believed that I had let down my team. Rounding out the coaching staff was my mom, whose dedication to being a constant presence at practices despite juggling a trio of young children while we were going through some tough times at home is even more remarkable in retrospect than it was in the present. I believe that my mom was the only female coach in the league, which was surely not easy, but I had many teammates remark that it was cool that she was involved.

While our team, the Ridgefield Supply "Red Sox" (none of the teams' uniforms in any way reflected their nicknames, which was odd) did not win many games, it was still an awesome season. Despite being the shortest player on the team, I logged most of the innings at first base and somehow hit a homerun (the left fielder must have been sleeping) while only having two major crying jags. Success! Heading into my nine-year-old season, I felt nervous about making the jump to AAA and facing live pitching, but had also built up enough confidence to think that I could handle it. At tryouts, I recall my mom speaking with Frank and Jeff, the father of a family that was new to town who was pairing up with Frank to run a AAA team. I assumed that the plan set from the previous season was intact, as my mom hoped to continue coaching and I hoped to again be on Frank's team. As I played with Frank's son, Mike, after our tryout slots in the middle school gym at which the tryouts were conducted, we were met by Jeff's son, Dash - an exceptionally talented player who was being fast-tracked despite being just eight years old. In excitedly introducing myself, I surely rambled about having been on Mike's team the year before and wanting to play together again. The first words of out Dash's mouth: "My dad says that you are not ready."

That assessment stung. It was also correct.

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Drafted first overall out of high school in the 1993 MLB Draft, Álex Rodríguez impressively blitzed through the Seattle Mariners' minor league system and made his major league debut on July 8, 1994 while still just 18 years of age. A-Rod would go on to strike out in 20 of his 59 PA in 1994 while posting a .204/.241/.204 triple-slash, one that was barely bettered in his age-19 season of 1995 (.232/.264/.408) as he largely rode the bench during the Mariners' brilliant September comeback that stunned the Angels and eventually took the club all the way to the ALCS. Rodríguez was not ready to excel in the big leagues as a teenager, yet exploded in 1996 (.358/.414/.631, 54 2B, 36 HR, 123 RBI, 141 R, 9.4 WAR) and was a bitter Seattle voter away from netting a well-deserved MVP award. 3115 hits, 696 homers, 3 MVP awards, and 117.8 WAR later, it is safe to say that A-Rod figured it out.

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My first year in AAA was one largely defined by struggles, on and off the field. Fourth grade was the first occasion in which I did not consistently love going to school and our move across town cemented the fact that I would no longer be attending the elementary school that I adored. Meeting new people was/is always difficult for me and we were now living in an apartment complex full of exceptionally different personalities, which was tricky arena in which to be placed.

1988 Topps - Greg Maddux

On the field, the dynamic of facing a live pitcher was scary, to the point that most of my trips to the plate were effectively giveaways. I loved to bunt, yet the league strangely only permitted bunting in the championship game, which took away pretty much my only reliable method of reaching base save for hoping to draw a walk. I had just two hits on the season, one of which I remember clearly due to it being a "swinging bunt" off the end of the bat that rolled down the third base line only to hug the chalk, infuriating the pitcher. I was sheepish about reaching via such a meager swing, but was hardly in position to turn down a rare hit. My fielding remained solid, as it would usually be throughout my playing career, with an unassisted double play turned after snaring a line drive against one of the league's best teams marking the lone time that my name appeared in the local newspaper during recaps of our games.

While Jeff was not a bad coach, he brought a competitive edge that really did not resonate with me. Neither he nor Frank nor my mom could fix my struggles at the plate and I was not great at accepting criticism, which usually resulted in me getting more tense and failing to a greater degree. As my personal struggles continued and the team resided at the bottom of the standings, my level of self-worth plummeted. I recall one of our team leaders, Brian, bringing in food to celebrate his birthday and me turning him down due to have made an error in the game, justifying the decision by saying that I did not deserve to be rewarded after playing so poorly. The ultimate shame of the season having such a pall cast over it was that it introduced me to several kids who remained friends all the through high school and beyond. This included Dash, with whom I had many enjoyable sleepovers that included playing wiffleball, facing off in video games, and watching Disney films. I still thought about his Jeff's words on some of those occasions, though, which indicates how hard it was/is for me to let go of things.

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Drafted in the second round of the 1984 MLB Draft out of high school, Greg Maddux impressively blitzed through the Chicago Cubs' minor league system and made his major league debut on September 2, 1986 while just 20 years of age. Maddux would get torched for a 5.52 ERA during six September appearances in 1986 and was battered to the tune of a 5.61 ERA in 1987 as he served up 17 homers in 155.2 IP while posting an ugly 101/74 K/BB ratio. Maddux was not ready to excel in the big leagues right away, yet made his first all-star team in 1988 (18-8, 140/81 K/BB, 13 HRA in 249 IP, 5.2 WAR) before turning into one of the game's premier pitchers with uncanny command. 355 wins, 3371 strikeouts, 4 straight Cy Young awards from 1992-95, and 106.6 WAR later, it is safe to say that Maddux figured it out.

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That summer, I literally walked on to the all-star team, as I mistakenly believed that the practices being held at the field near my house were for the open friendship league. The AAA all-stars apparently needed players, though, so rather than being sent home, I got to stay. Despite playing for coaches that I had never previously met and who were not shy about letting you know if you made a mistake, my play improved in marked fashion. Being told by Frank, Jeff, and my mom that I was stepping in the bucket when hitting had always caused me to tense up, yet I was able to channel these coaches' analysis and instruction into positive results. Stealing bases in AAA was typically beyond easy, leading me to attempt a straight steal of second base without having been given the steal sign by the coach. I was out by 10 feet. Rather than melting down, I listened as the coach noted that all-star catchers are ready to throw out baserunners and that it was wiser to follow the signs. After getting two hits in a full regular season, I had notched three by the end of our second all-star game and continued to play well as the summer progressed. Something clicked. I might have never been Greg Maddux or Álex Rodríguez, but I was ready nonetheless.

The following season, my mom opted to not coach, although Frank and Jeff said that they would try to pick me in the draft. I was stunned to get a phone call from the coach of another AAA team to note that I had instead been picked by his squad. I was equal parts confused and hurt. However, while draft results were supposed to remain under wraps, Frank made a point to call to say that I had been picked prior to his team being able to select me. This was heartening to me both in knowing that Frank cared enough about me as a person to reach out to express regret over not having me on his team, as well as a sign that I had improved enough to stand on my own two feet. Our team, Marine Corps, was a fun group coached by another terrific individual and I was entrusted with a leadership role as the team improved following a tough start to the season. While Frank's team was much stronger than ours, it was actually us that reached the title game by pulling out a series of close wins while they lost in the league semifinals on the other side of the draw. One year after feeling that I was not worthy of being on the field, I was a consistent presence atop the lineup and on the mound for a team that reached a championship game. Finally permitted to bunt in game action, I squeezed in the game-tying run in the 3rd inning of the title contest, although we would ultimately fall 10-2. Getting to play all-stars for Dave Scott, with whom I would later coach over two decades later, was another treat and cemented the season as an unmitigated success. I finally had a bit of confidence and felt ready for future challenges. That was good, as they were most definitely on the horizon.