As I mentioned in last week’s column, Thursday night was the first time I’ve faced live batters since my season ended just after the Labour Day Weekend. It is essential that I have the opportunity to face live hitting before I hit the tryout camp in Florida because throwing a bullpen session to a catcher is completely different when a batter is at the plate trying to deposit my best offerings into the stratosphere.
(Bonus for me: the session was completed in a hitting tunnel, so any contact made by the batter, no matter how solid, would be harmlessly caught in the netting. Thus, I could slough off any hard hits as meaningless contact that would invariably be caught by a fielder. These are the types of mental tricks pitchers need to maintain confidence in their stuff).
There is a certain intensity and sharpness missing when I’m just throwing to a catcher. If I get lazy in my delivery and let pitches drift clumsily to the plate, it’s not a huge deal as there are little repercussions. However, a batter would lace such a mistake pitch back at me with such velocity that my life would flash before my eyes and a girlish scream would undoubtedly escape my lips.
Plus, without a hitter, pitches that miss the corners and end up in the batter’s box won’t hit anyone. With hitters digging in at the dish, there is a very real possibility of plunking someone. Now, I’m definitely not averse to throwing a little chin music in games. It’s a necessary tool as a pitcher to throw inside. It shows the batter you aren’t afraid of him.
However, these are only offseason throwing sessions and the batters are teammates of mine. They are doing me a favour by coming out late on a Thursday night to help me get ready for tryouts. The last thing I want to do is run a fastball in on their ribs as my way of showing appreciation for their help.
I faced two hitters for the equivalent of nine at-bats and I was extremely pleased with the results. My fastball had a lot of life, my curveball was diving into the strike zone with a good amount of break and my command and control were the best they’ve been since the fall.
The mechanical struggles I’ve had since the elongated Christmas break seem to be working themselves out. All of the hard work I’ve put in trying to decipher the complex code that is my delivery over the past few weeks appears to be paying dividends. Basically, I’m a tweed jacket away from being Professor Robert Langdon.
An odd quirk to Thursday’s session was that every batter I faced was right-handed. And I requested it be that way.
Most left-handed pitchers prefer facing left-handed batters because of the advantage gained by a left-handed pitcher’s arm releasing the ball right on top of lefty hitters. I am the complete opposite. I prefer facing righties over lefties because I feel like I have better stuff and command with right-handed hitters.
There’s nothing I hate more than seeing a left-handed hitter leading off the game. I find it tough to get into a groove against lefties; once I do, I’m fine, but it takes me awhile to get there. I’m hopeful the next few throwing sessions will rid me of this strange affliction.
That’s why I didn’t want to face a lefty on Thursday. I needed a session of throwing to right-handed batters to get comfortable with pitching to hitters again. I passed that test, so now the training wheels are coming off, I’m stepping up to the big boy potty, and I’m throwing to a mix of righties and lefties tomorrow.
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