Following are two, true stories about High School baseball pre-game: Specifically about warming up the starting Pitcher. In fact, the stories represent the last two High School baseball games that I have attended. These stories are important to Pitchers, Parents, Coaches, and any others who look inside the games. The stories are re-told with as much accuracy as I can recreate.

There are two premises important to understand as you prepare to read these stories. First, we (the game-attending public) prefer to assume that High School varsity baseball coaches know what they are doing. We want to believe they know the game in relation to player development. Or, at least kind of know what they are doing, to a certain degree of overall baseball sophistication. The second premise in these two stories is: We are dealing with excellent young pitchers; really good pitchers. One pitcher (Luke), I personally took to the scouting offices of the Florida Marlins for an introduction. The second pitcher (Jacob) is a small ag-town phenom, throwing in the low 90’s, scouted, been to major college workouts. Both players are wonderful kids: polite, humble, hungry to learn, etc. Here’s the stories – pay attention – share the stories with others, as this may be going on across the country.

Story #1 – Luke: I met Luke in Jupiter, FL, March 2010. I again attended Spring training to attempt to pick-up small or even minute coaching tips, and that Spring to work with the Hoger family and their friend Luke from Iowa. I had coached with and been friends with the family for years, having previously worked with their oldest son, and now working with the youngest son, Mitch. Both Luke and Mitch are good kids, both tall (6’ 4” +), eager, coach-abuse prepped. Luke was broad shouldered, about 210 lbs. a lengthy Andy Petite type lefty, just like the pros like them.

I knew Luke was a star pitcher in the Des Moines area, but we basically worked on hitting, fielding, game issues for the first 4 days. The first Florida sun for us upper Midwest folks melted into us with the re-arise, the reality of another baseball season, right around the corner. We all worked hard, including Mitch’s dad (Hoger, the event sponsor). We all got dirty, tired, sunned-up, and we talked baseball: Hitting mechanics, game situations, stuff, baseball stuff, integrated with the red dirt of the Florida infield. We went through pitching mechanics, but didn’t really pitch. One reason was because I had heard about Luke’s big arm, and “I” wasn’t going to catch him – I wanted my knees, ankles and body parts to survive. But, on the final day of our workouts, I put Luke on the mound. No one volunteered to catch, so I put a plastic bucket (which previously had held the baseballs) about three feet behind home plate, open end to Luke. Luke warmed up with just a few pitches, as we had been working out for a couple hours, so he was good to go, Then Luke took a pitching pose, on the rubber, seeming to gain personal opposition to the innocent gray bucket 63’ 6” before him.

Luke rocked, leg kicked, came through with his first pitch: the red stitched white rocket went drop-dead in the open center of the bucket, which previously was capable of containing things, and flat blew the bottom off of my perfectly good bucket. Another, Wooooo-Nelly moment. Bucket now in pieces, I gathered coaching composure!

(OK, reader – If you are Coach Fox, what do you do now? Review the situation: what next? Here’s what I did: I said, Luke, Luke Ole Boy: Big Lefty Throwin Hard Guy, get your big butt up in the parking lot, in my Camaro – We are going to go talk to the Florida Marlins scouting office. And we did.)

Fast forward to late June, 2010; I was in Des Moines on Coach Fox book business, and was contacted by the Hogers, who explained that that evening, the team with Luke and Mitch, was to play their first game of the regional tournament, in a small town about 23 miles away. And thus, off we went.

It was very warm for late June. I guess about 85 degrees in the sultry early evening, the sun not yet considering being set for the eventual night time. We knew Luke would be the starting pitcher, against a division rival, whose season record was 27-0, playing at home. Gulp. Obviously a match-up requiring some special coach strategic game knowledge, or at least one would think so. The Hogers and I drove our merry way to the town and the ball park, and parked on the country road, across from the school parking lot that was next to the field. And here is what happened. (I was so struck by the tragedy of the situation; I can’t even recall what the Hogers were doing.)

As we got out of the Hoger’s truck, I saw Luke in the Bull-Pen throwing (“throwing” being different from pitching), supposedly warming-up. I noticed immediately he was throwing hard; big-arm hard. The Hogers and I walked casually to and then across the school parking lot, while Luke was still throwing hard – No Coaches. We got across the parking lot, paid to get through the gate to the field, and Luke was laboring, throwing hard. (85 degrees, humid corn-growing country, late afternoon full sun) We got through the gate and I headed over to Luke to say hello, and Luke was in a complete drenched sweat, throwing hard. At this point I see that his all-important regional tournament pitching start, will be a disaster. No Coach working with him. (One kind-of, pretend coach was watching, but it was Luke’s dad.) I shook Luke’s sweat drenched hand, and asked him how many pitches he had already thrown; He proudly said quite a few, a bunch, “he enjoyed throwing in the heat”. He had to have thrown 30+ pitches, full speed, maybe more, just while I had been watching.

Luke got through the first inning, actually pretty good, and Luke’s team scored a run in the top of the second, for a short-lived 1-0 lead. In the bottom of the third, by which time Luke had already thrown around 80-90 summer-heat pitches, against a 27-0 team, on the road, New Orleans type drooly-hot temperature – Luke had spent his wad, gas extinguished, arm and shoulder toast, stick-a-fork time, and the other team woke up to play, and hit Luke hard, as if off a tee. I have no idea what the final score was, but it was ugly – my guess is about 18 to 1.

I don’t think the parents/fans knew what happened. I don’t even know for sure that Luke knew what happened. I saw him after the game, and he just shrugged as if he just didn’t have it that particular day. The Hogers knew what happened, because I sat with them. Luke’s arm was OK beyond the game, probably because of the heat. It’s his head that we need to work on.

And where was the uniformed, puppet coach in the pre-game? What coach let’s any pitcher lose a game, 20 minutes before the first pitch. What is there for a coach to do that is more important than making sure the star, starting pitcher is properly prepared to represent the school, players, parents and fans of that school. I saw the coach work that game: he was a pompous, strutting, imposter. No more thoughtful of leadership of a baseball contest than the weathered light post.

Following is a similar story, Story #2, similar to a point, but tragically different at the end.

Story # 2 – Jacob: Jacob is from a local small town, in EC Illinois farm country, very close to my home area. In fact, I have been friends with Jacob’s father for decades, but had not known Jacob, who is now a High School Senior. But I had heard of him, as being another, the next HS pitching phenom, and heard it from reliable athletic sources. Jacob was represented as a hard-thrower, low 90’s, with huge major college or pro potential, lightning reality for a small farm town: a city-son in the making thing. Kind of like you read about in the old days, a rural Oklahoma Mickey Mantle type story. Or at least it could be revved up and exaggerated in that exciting hype. It’s March 18, mid-Illinois, near Champaign, traditionally very cool and windy on March 18. It is the very beginning of the H. S. season, the first home game, and local fans were eager to see young Jacob pitch. I was asked by several local friends to go see him and was happy and eager to do so, and did.

A 4:30 pm game time, I wanted to go early, watch Jacob warm-up, understand his mechanics, and even introduce myself and see his dad, and we did all of that. Oh, I’ll add, and I told a few shared friends that I was sure I could help him, and they said, probably not: after all, he’s becoming famous, pitched for several major colleges in camps across the country, and has pretty much been “schooled”. Ok, tres bonne – I’ll just go watch, and shut-up.

What I will now explain is tragic, libelous, destructive, worse than ignorant. And, it happened just like this:
I entered the field area down the left field line, and immediately noticed on the other side of the field, way down the right field line, Jacob was warming up. It was 3:55, for a 4:30 game time. I noticed how hard Jacob was throwing, and at the same time realized my under shirt, hooded sweat shirt and moderately heavy coat was not going to be enough for this cold, windy, (about 48 degrees) Midwest, early-season day. And I moseyed along the left field fence, all attention to the deep right field bull-pen, as Jacob threw more 90+ pitches, firing, high hard ones out of the strike zone, high and often wild.

Saying howdy to a few friends, I kept my attention to Jacob and immediately felt a potential tragedy. No coaches were in the warm-up area, all in the dugout, studiously contemplating their own uniformed posture. Jacob’s dad was strategically placing his folding chair for the game; he would be the first fan-chair, down the fence from the Visitor’s dugout. I moseyed faster, behind the scorer’s box and radio set-up, turned the corner to go toward the right field bull pen, and Jacob was winging-it, lettin her fly. I was sure I had never, ever seen such a High School arm. Surely he was nearing a 30 pitch count, not knowing how many he had thrown while I was still in my car, or walking into the field area.

I was finally on the fence, watching Jacob begin to destroy his arm, the catcher could not handle him, so I kept kind of participatory busy chasing down wild pitches. And Jacob threw more, high hard stuff: and not generally from a set pitching mechanical position, just steppin & throwing, as if an outfielder. Lordy-Mercy its March, his first game. No coat, just a short sleeve uniform shirt, no warm-up long sleeve, no nothing – just a great kid, throwing his arm away – coaches long gone, fussing with nothing around the dugout and home plate, hitting a rag-tag infield.

(Jacob used to throw hard – I had been back from Jupiter spring training for about 3 days, and saw no pitcher with the Cardinals or Marlins that could throw as hard as I saw Jacob throwing on that cold, windy, March afternoon. Yep, he sure used to throw hard, that good boy, the up and comer, making a name and map spot.)

Finally, the bull-pen torture (for me) was over, and Jacob took toward the mound, for the top of the first, with his unusual athletic cantor and confidence. But he didn’t go to the rubber and work with set delivery mechanics, as if in game situations – he was in the grass, ahead of the mound dirt, toward the plate – his tortured, innocent class-mate trying to make glove contact with more and more warm-up, blazing pitches. Unbelievable – This is a High School baseball program? And then it happened I saw each inch and expression of it, practically felt the tearing pain myself, having ruined my own arm 45 years before Jacob was born!

By now I have no idea the pre-game pitch-count, let alone having knowledge of what the game plan pitch-count would be, if there even was one, which I doubt. On the field, in the grass ahead of the mound, Jacob threw again, I don’t even know if it was to be his final warm-up throw, as he was yet to actually pitch from the rubber – I saw it – as the ball left his hand, lasered to a catcher on his heels now praying to survive – Jacob stood straight up, dropped his glove immediately, and reached his left hand to his right elbow. He was hurt, I thought hurt bad. In fact, I immediately thought he may never pitch again. Finally the coaches noticed, and Dad Williams elevated from the lawn chair and post-haste to the dugout, where a bent over Jacob was obviously in serious anguish; physically and mentally.

The air left the ball field, I can only imagine the relief in the opposing line-up whom had measured their day by hoping for a glimpse of pitches to soon arrive. Surrounded by his Dad, pretend coaches, and assorted teammates, Jacob sat bent over, holding his golden arm. I think they prayed.

I caught Mr. Williams as he and Jacob left the dugout for the hospital and we had a few unpleasant words – unpleasant because I was furious, he was scared, and the whole game-day was now a nightmare. Jacob and Dad, heads down off to the hospital in Champaign as fans did their own shuffle of uneasiness and folding their fan chairs to go home. The cold spring air was immediately heavy, as the opposing team began to tee-off on a new pitcher that hadn’t the slightest idea how to pitch in a High School baseball game. I left in the second inning, 7-0 already.

Mr. Williams left a phone message for some of us a day later, explaining an elbow ligament tear, but not at the bone – thus avoiding the Tommy John thing. Mr. Williams, in his message professed that Jacob would pitch again, but I detected hollowness in the premature optimism.

Jacob may, or may not pitch again. An effort too soon would be disastrous. We can only wait and see how events for Jacob and family, with concerned friends, evolves. Personally, I wouldn’t have him pitch for months, and certainly would not have him pitch in that HS program, with those coaches, who are so ignorant of game fundamentals that they cannot even assist a starting pitcher through pre-game.