The Camelback Ranch training facility in Glendale, Arizona, was state of the art and loaded with amenities. It was a critical part of player development right down to a near exact replica of the Dodgers home field. The two-team facility served the Dodgers and the White Sox.
Bill and Jake were not concerned with the lake, immaculately landscaped grounds, the walking paths, or the orange grove. The place was minimally staffed during the off-season, which suited them just fine. Staff getting the place ready for spring training had their hands full and left the players working out alone.
At the moment, Jake was bent at the waist catching his breath, while staring at the thirty-inch box in front of him. He hated the box. Of all the drills he had in his tool kit, in his drive to remain a top catcher, he hated the box. It worked, but he hated it. The drill was to jump from the ground to the top of the thirty-inch-high box. He could do thirty reps three different times and it always left his legs burning. He hated them. He had just finished his third and final set for at least two days when he would start all over.
He looked up to see Bill grinning at him. Bill took off his hat and stared at the sky, the stands, the ground, just about anywhere except at Jake. Then he locked eyes with his friend, and cracked up laughing.
“Stuff it, Bill.”
Seconds later Bill was holding his stomach, working to catch his own breath, after laughing so hard. Jake was on the short side and jumping thirty inches straight up was a stretch to say the least. But he did it-every time.
“You’re in a pretty good mood for a cripple.”
Jake could be relentless when he needed to be, and his timing was always impeccable.
“I might be crippled, for a month or three but short lasts forever.”
It was Jake’s turn to laugh. He didn’t care that he was short anymore, like he had when he was young. When the right clothes, or an extra six inches in height defined you. When unenlightened kids, sometimes with cruel intent, taunted you.
Now he had the greatest job he ever imagined, playing major league baseball with some of the greatest athletes in the world.
“Bunting drill?” asked Bill.
“Why not,” answered Jake.
They spent twenty minutes working on bunts and Bill was happy throwing balls left, right or center as Jake exploded from his stance, throwing to first base, where one of the other players waited and practiced tagging out the imaginary runner.
“Alright, it’s time for the blocking drill,” announced Jake.
“Okay,” replied Bill and headed for the plate with a bag of baseballs. About halfway he stopped and started firing pitches at the home plate, drilling them into the dirt so Jake could drop and use his body to block them, an essential skill as a catcher. After just two dirt balls Jake was rounding his shoulders and bending into the ball as he should, using his body to deflect the ball down in front of him and close enough for control in a game. This drill was essential for improving quickness as well.
Bill threw pitches to the side, and breaking balls, which required Jake to be sure he was reading the pitch correctly and adjusting accordingly. The breaking balls could bounce over his head if he dropped on them too quick, possibly allowing a runner on base an easy steal.
They worked through several more training exercises. The single eye vision drill helped with depth perception, individual eyesight, and dynamic vision.
Then Bill grabbed a tennis racquet and a bag of tennis balls and hit them to Jake, who was using a batting glove to catch them with. It was one of the better drills for hand eye co-ordination.
The last drill for Jake was the quick feet drills. They were solo events in which Jake shifted, dropped, and did a shuffle on a ladder laid out on the ground. Done properly they made sure he was lined up optimally to throw the ball to a baseman. Bill watched him start and then went to the batting cage for a light practice until Jake finished. He wanted to make sure his batting average didn’t drop off.
When he saw Jake heading his way, Bill shut down the pitching machine.
“Great job, Jake,” Bill said as they toweled off under the Arizona sun.
“You look ready.”
“Thanks. Now it’s your turn. Let’s see some fastballs.”
Bill grabbed a black bag full of baseballs and started for the mound as another man joined them.
“Let’s see some half speed stuff, Bill and then work up to about seventy-five percent,” said Richard, one of team trainers. The man was a friend and had been showing up most afternoons, after his regular schedule, to work with Bill, offering support and advice.
Bill grinned. “It’s about time.”
Bill warmed up and stretched before he started throwing some easy pitches. Feeling comfortable he gradually increased his speed, so he was throwing around the seventy-five mile an hour mark.
After thirty minutes one of the spectators pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed.
“Hey, Doc, how’s our boy doing?” asked Coach Jackson after picking up the call.
“Better than expected but still rough. His windup looks good, and I don’t see him flinching from any pain. That’s the good news. But Parson’s is compensating so the accuracy is not there.”
“How fast is he throwing?”
“The readout behind the plate is pretty consistent at seventy-five miles an hour. He did let one fly a few minutes ago at eighty.”
“Really? And how was his windup stride?”
“Better than expected. I would say he’s about ninety percent of normal.”
“Today was his rest day, right?”
“Correct.”
“Okay, see how he does tomorrow and fill me in.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks for the report, Doc.”