Conquering the Change Up Strike Out

I played a lot of ball growing up.  I was raised with brothers and a strong affinity for Cubs baseball.  I joined my first team at the age of 7 when I played on the ever famous Glen Ellyn Northerns T ball team in the western suburbs of Chicago.  I can remember the opposing coach bringing the infield in when I came up to bat, well at first anyway.  I was the chubby kid and I was a girl, in fact,the only girl on the team.  I think the perception carried further when they realized my dad was actually the coach.  In hindsight, it was the late70's, and I think they probably felt my dad coaching was the only way one of two girls in the league could play.   It took a couple of at bats for them to realize I could hit the ball like the boys and moving in was probably not necessary.  From there, I would go on to play softball for the next ten years.  Although my childhood obesity would keep me from being the stolen base queen, certainly learning to get my weight behind the ball would lead to the nickname my brothers gave me in junior high,"Big Tomahawk."  To this day, I can almost feel the aluminum bat in my hands as the bat meets the ball in the sweet spot with the perfect ping sending a line drive out to center field.  It was the perfect swing, with the perfect strike and the sweetest reward.

Over time, the pitches would get faster and faster, making that sweet reward a little tougher to come by, but oh when it did.....I suppose that begins to explain my desperation at times to toss my Dad's age old advice,"Amy, stop swinging for the fences."  He was forever telling me to slow down, swing clean, not jerky and take the ball for a ride.  It was this very struggle that often times in high school I would routinely find myself with an 0 and 2 count against one of our league's only 70 mile an hour pitcher.  In my desperation to hit the hardest pitcher in the league, I would find myself swinging for the fences as the ball came hurdling toward me two pitches in a row.  Not to worry.  I was ready for pitch 3.  Square up, elbow up, half swing and focus.  I would watch the pitchers arm fly around fast pitch style under hand, release, and swing.  Wait a minute.  Where was the ball?  It was not even half way to the plate yet.  What the hell just happened?  The change up.  That's what.  A seemingly lightning fast pitch watching the release, but in reality was all smoke and mirrors as the pitch actually was floating in at slow pitch speed perfectly placed over the plate for that third strike long after my swing was over.  It was in these moments where I found myself confused and frustrated with my inability to see it coming and knowing that if I had, and been a wee bit patient I could once again hit the sweet spot and taken that ball deep into the outfield.  Instead, I found myself slinking away from the plate with absolute defeat. 

I suppose as an adult this is what happens with the multifaceted trials of life.  We suddenly see life hurdling at us faster than it ever has before and we spend our time  swinging at it with such ineffective vengeance that we find ourselves on the verge of complete strike out.  Just as we reach that point, another wrinkle, another change, something we were completely unprepared for.  Admittedly, the last 10 months have been like that for me, between the sudden death of my mother and unexpected serious illnesses among the people I love.  Not to mention, I was branching out from Spartan Racing to other actual flat out distance running events this year and somehow could not seem to master endurance running with any sort of proficiency.  I was out of gas quickly, and could not run the speed I thought I should be able to no matter how hard I tried.

With so many challenges all at once, I began to realize that really I spent a lot of time desperately swinging for the fences when the challenges, despite their volume, were no hurdling fast pitches, they were really one large change up that really required something different entirely.  They required extended quiet reflection and patience as I allowed them to change the way I look at things and develop a new normal. 

As I slowed my mind and tried to deal with the issues at hand, I was also advised by a trainer to slow my running paces down.  Although it seemed like such a step backwards, I did it anyway because clearly what I was doing was getting me exactly nowhere.  Plus she is a distance runner and seemed to be reasonably sure I could be one too, at that point in December I was just glad someone was.  Since that time, I have slowly learned how to maneuver my life again and yes, even the running has gotten so much better.  Today, I found myself doing three separate distance challenges.  A ten minute, a five minute and a 2.5 minute.  I found myself calculating from the minute the 3,2,1 countdown began for the first one.  What pace I would start at, when I would increase and what I would end up at.  Little by little I chipped away at each distance.  I did not have any of my usual workout crew there, so I had no need to worry about anyone else.  Just me versus me.

When I finished I realized something.  I had run with patience and control and conquered so much distance at speeds that even surprised me.  I didn't cough or wheeze like I did when I was in junior high as the hecklers laughed.  I didn't walk because I had tried to reach the speed my pride felt I should be at and gone too hard out of the gate. 

I had finally seen the change up life had lobbed at me for what it was, a long trial initially disguised as a 70 mph fast ball, that did not require a swing for the fences hack, instead a simple quiet focus so that I could finally hit the sweet spot, hear the ping and send it for a ride.  Today was finally the day I got to set aside my insecurities about childhood gym class bullying, or my adult insecurities about not being the fastest, and take my 2.2 mile run in those blocks and wear it with pride as it was done with  patience and control, two things I had lost while I was busy swinging for the fences.  I suppose now I better stop referring to myself as a "Spartan Racing Non Distance Runner" and revel in the things I am learning as I progress in endurance running.

I must say, at 85 years old, my dad is still my dad, full of the wisdom only dads have,  and I am thankful for the lessons he has taught me even if sometimes I need a little reminder.  Thanks Dad for always being there to remind me that no matter what life tosses at me, the best is yet to come.