About a week ago, a problem arose for me. That problem was baseball practice. Or rather, what occurred during baseball practice. And that, namely, was taking a line drive to the face.
There were only about six players at the practice, and only three outfielders, so one was catching the throws coming in, and the other two were fielding. But the coach kept it to a quick tempo, so I would have time to sprint up and field the ball, throw it in, turn around, sprint back to where I started from, turn around, and the coach would hit the next one to me.
All this rapidity was tiring, which generally is not a problem except that I lose my focus a little bit when I am getting exhausted. This generally just means that eventually I might misplay a ball. Which is what happened, but with severer consequences this time. The coach hit a line shot deep behind me and to my right. I sprinted back for it, looking that I would probably have to jump to make the play. But I was a little faster than I had anticipated, and did not adjust like I usually would have, still jumping when I could have just lifted my glove higher. As it was, it went just under my glove, and because I was looking directly back for the ball, it hit me square, just above my mouth.
I went down for a second, mainly concerned because I remembered one player's account of how he had gotten hit in the face by a throw and had broken his nose, and not noticed anything except his face being numb, and had kept practicing until his nose started shooting blood.
My face was pretty numb as well, and one of the players ran over to me, concerned.
"Are you alright Tomas?" he asked.
"I'm good."
"He's good!" he said to the coach, as the coach walked over.
"You need to go wash the blood off," he said.
I looked down at my shirt and there was a good amount of blood on it.
I went into the dugout, where there was a sink, and washed my mouth out. I had gotten hit to the left on my upper lip, and had gotten cut there by the laces, which is what had been bleeding the most. What was also bleeding though was inside my mouth, where the entire upper and lower parts of the left side of the inside of my mouth were torn up by my teeth. I was lucky that it had not hit me right in the teeth or nose, but this did not feel great either.
And this ended up being the problem. The cut on the outside caused swelling, but after two days the swelling was almost entirely gone, and all that was left was a mark from the laces of the ball. In my mouth however, just as the swelling went down, the inside of my mouth started to hurt. And by hurt, I mean that any movement of my mouth, my tongue, etc., caused excruciating pain, to the point of doubling over every time I smiled.
Naturally, that made eating or drinking a challenge. But I was able to find a solution.
Tea tree oil is something that is quite expensive, but is very good at healing cuts and sores. I figured that I may as well try it in my mouth and see if it helped. So I applied some to the sores, and in about thirty seconds, I could barely feel anything, and I could talk, laugh, drink, etc., without any discomfort.
So what I ended up doing was putting tea tree oil in my mouth before I ate. I did this for about five days, until my mouth finally got better.
And then my coach did a little "Knockout" style competition at practice, whoever missed a ball was out.
"As long as I don't actually have to get knocked out during it," I said.
"Yes, you don't have to get knocked out to win it Tomas," the coach said.
"I wish I had known that earlier."
And of course, I ended up almost winning the infield knockout drill.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Friday, October 19, 2012
Week 7 Profile
He stands, an authoritative figure, and looks down into the dugout at the player. The player was a new one, who all of the others proclaimed a "Crazy kid," who they all liked however.
"One question Coach," the player asked, "Did he go?"
A rhetorical question such as this required careful thinking, the coach knew. He stood staring at the player for a minute. Then, he moves his arms in a 'safe' motion.
"No he did not."
The coach came up from Pennsylvania, where he had played college baseball as a pitcher. One thing that he always seemed conscious of, to the people around him, was that he was young. He was starting a new college baseball program, which is a difficult task for anyone, let alone that he was 23.
It is hard to be an authoritative figure when some of the players on your team are older than you, but he accomplished it, by always being mindful of his role as a figurehead for the players. He rarely unbent too much, though would talk about his music preferences and such. Otherwise, he volunteered no personal information except when asked about it. The players viewed him as a bit of a mystery, and a very good coach. It was difficult for them not to be a little bit in awe of him, as a group. His heavy brow, and highly confident air put himself apart from anyone else.
But he cared a lot about his players. One time, a player at a practice ran back on a line drive, leapt in the air for it, and it went just under their glove and hit them in the face. He was right there to diagnose it, and lead them to the bathroom to wash the blood off of their face and out of their mouth. From his experience, he could tell that it probably would not need stitches, though it was still bleeding heavily.
He also showed faith in his players. Unlike many coaches, he was almost reluctant to take a struggling pitcher out of the game. He just always said "Come on babe." Sometimes it hurt his team, as he would let the pitcher walk the bases loaded with a one run lead with two innings left before making a change. But sometimes, this would work out for him, as once, after a player walked two batters in a row and gave up two hits, he left them in, and they pitched another two innings without giving up a hit, run or a walk.
He was not just a manager, he tried to make the players as good as possible. When he saw an unorthodox or improper stance, for throwing or for hitting, he helped them out. He would open up their stance, work on them snapping their wrist better in throwing. He would work individually with each player, and tell them what they needed to work on to be a better player, to play more, to help the team more. He was always there to help his players with anything he needed, if they could get past his foreboding appearance.
And he found, in just two semesters, the pieces to put together a good baseball team. Good enough to beat the reigning champions of the division, and to make the playoffs. Which for a first year team, was pretty impressive. And a good part of it was purely because of his coaching.
"One question Coach," the player asked, "Did he go?"
A rhetorical question such as this required careful thinking, the coach knew. He stood staring at the player for a minute. Then, he moves his arms in a 'safe' motion.
"No he did not."
The coach came up from Pennsylvania, where he had played college baseball as a pitcher. One thing that he always seemed conscious of, to the people around him, was that he was young. He was starting a new college baseball program, which is a difficult task for anyone, let alone that he was 23.
It is hard to be an authoritative figure when some of the players on your team are older than you, but he accomplished it, by always being mindful of his role as a figurehead for the players. He rarely unbent too much, though would talk about his music preferences and such. Otherwise, he volunteered no personal information except when asked about it. The players viewed him as a bit of a mystery, and a very good coach. It was difficult for them not to be a little bit in awe of him, as a group. His heavy brow, and highly confident air put himself apart from anyone else.
But he cared a lot about his players. One time, a player at a practice ran back on a line drive, leapt in the air for it, and it went just under their glove and hit them in the face. He was right there to diagnose it, and lead them to the bathroom to wash the blood off of their face and out of their mouth. From his experience, he could tell that it probably would not need stitches, though it was still bleeding heavily.
He also showed faith in his players. Unlike many coaches, he was almost reluctant to take a struggling pitcher out of the game. He just always said "Come on babe." Sometimes it hurt his team, as he would let the pitcher walk the bases loaded with a one run lead with two innings left before making a change. But sometimes, this would work out for him, as once, after a player walked two batters in a row and gave up two hits, he left them in, and they pitched another two innings without giving up a hit, run or a walk.
He was not just a manager, he tried to make the players as good as possible. When he saw an unorthodox or improper stance, for throwing or for hitting, he helped them out. He would open up their stance, work on them snapping their wrist better in throwing. He would work individually with each player, and tell them what they needed to work on to be a better player, to play more, to help the team more. He was always there to help his players with anything he needed, if they could get past his foreboding appearance.
And he found, in just two semesters, the pieces to put together a good baseball team. Good enough to beat the reigning champions of the division, and to make the playoffs. Which for a first year team, was pretty impressive. And a good part of it was purely because of his coaching.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Week 6 Autobiographical Slice
What I always thinks helps with life is not to take anything to seriously. Only get annoyed at the things that are seriously a problem, otherwise, take things lightly.
To take things lightly, it helps to have a sense of humor, and that is never something that I have lacked. For many years, I have always made jokes, often a play on words, such as one that my mother relates:
"Do kiwis come from North Kiwia or South Kiwia?"
When I was eight, I started turning my sense of humor into comics that I would write for myself. The main character was a dog named Shoegerhith. This even fit with my humor of words, as the name was a combination between the comics Shoe, Garfield, and Heathcliff. I originally experimented with Suegerhith, but I decided Shoegerhith fit him better.
Comics are especially useful for things that if they happened would be funny. Such as:
"Uncle Joe, why are we eating off the analog wall clocks?"
"No wonder it was so hard to see what time it was today!"
Sometimes I can just use humor in the comics, or I can just say them to people as I think of them. Often, things will strike my humor that other people might not notice or think of, such as commercials:
"We were Maine's first credit union," the advertisement said.
"Yes," I added, "We were Maine's first credit union, but before us Maine did have some credit confederates."
Sometimes humor on words can come unintentionally, like a baseball practice this year. It was pretty cold out, and all the players were wearing long sleeves except for me, as I can withstand cold well.
"Tomas," one of the players asked, "Why aren't you wearing long sleeves?"
"I don't need them."
"Aren't you cold?"
"No."
"How are you not cold? It's freezing out!"
"I never get cold."
"Why are you never cold Tomas?"
"Because I'm always hot."
At that the whole team cracked up.
"Can't argue with that logic," one player said.
But without a sense of humor, something falling over for example, could be much more of a big deal than it is if you are laid back enough to see the humor in the situation, and calmly remedy it, as I have attempted to do all my life.
To take things lightly, it helps to have a sense of humor, and that is never something that I have lacked. For many years, I have always made jokes, often a play on words, such as one that my mother relates:
"Do kiwis come from North Kiwia or South Kiwia?"
When I was eight, I started turning my sense of humor into comics that I would write for myself. The main character was a dog named Shoegerhith. This even fit with my humor of words, as the name was a combination between the comics Shoe, Garfield, and Heathcliff. I originally experimented with Suegerhith, but I decided Shoegerhith fit him better.
Comics are especially useful for things that if they happened would be funny. Such as:
"Uncle Joe, why are we eating off the analog wall clocks?"
"No wonder it was so hard to see what time it was today!"
Sometimes I can just use humor in the comics, or I can just say them to people as I think of them. Often, things will strike my humor that other people might not notice or think of, such as commercials:
"We were Maine's first credit union," the advertisement said.
"Yes," I added, "We were Maine's first credit union, but before us Maine did have some credit confederates."
Sometimes humor on words can come unintentionally, like a baseball practice this year. It was pretty cold out, and all the players were wearing long sleeves except for me, as I can withstand cold well.
"Tomas," one of the players asked, "Why aren't you wearing long sleeves?"
"I don't need them."
"Aren't you cold?"
"No."
"How are you not cold? It's freezing out!"
"I never get cold."
"Why are you never cold Tomas?"
"Because I'm always hot."
At that the whole team cracked up.
"Can't argue with that logic," one player said.
But without a sense of humor, something falling over for example, could be much more of a big deal than it is if you are laid back enough to see the humor in the situation, and calmly remedy it, as I have attempted to do all my life.
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