YankeeFan
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Bob Ojeda authors an article on "The Glory and the Pain of Pitching" in the Times:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/27/sports/baseball/the-former-met-bob-ojeda-relives-both-glory-and-pain.html?_r=1&ref=sports&pagewanted=all
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/27/sports/baseball/the-former-met-bob-ojeda-relives-both-glory-and-pain.html?_r=1&ref=sports&pagewanted=all
I’d lived with pain in my left arm since I was 12, when my dad would have me ice it after a Little League outing. My dad, who had pitched in the Army, was something of a pioneer in caring for young arms. Besides, he told me, Sandy Koufax iced his arm
“Right, Dad,” I said. “Let’s ice it.”
But this time, the pain was brutal, and, well, I wasn’t in Little League anymore. It was 1986, and I was set to start Game 6 of the National League Championship Series against the Astros in Houston. I’d won 18 games in my first season with the Mets. I’d pitched a complete game in a 5-1 victory over the Astros in Game 2.
But damn. I mean, it hurt. Like a screwdriver was stuck in it. So, after years of ice, pain medicine, massage and sleeping in long-sleeved shirts to keep my left arm warm and safe, the team doctor said I had only one option left — to stick something in it. Like a needle. With something powerful in the vial.
Bad break, though: the team doctor was in Washington. I was in New York. The game was in Houston. So the team trainer called and told me to meet him at Shea Stadium. I went into the trainer’s room, and he gave me two needles and two vials: one with a numbing agent and the other with cortisone. I stuffed them in my leather jacket, grabbed a cab over to La Guardia Airport and hopped the shuttle down to Washington.
I met the doctor at the hotel, where he was attending a conference. He probed my elbow because, for the best result, he needed to hit the spot where it hurt most. The numbing agent, something of a misnomer, stung. The cortisone, though, burned like hell. But I thanked him and headed back to New York, and then on to Houston.
On Oct. 15, I went to the bullpen and started to throw. It was not going well. It felt like I had two sandbags stuffed in my elbow. I was in trouble, I remember thinking, but I figured I had to try. I gave up three runs in the first inning. Davey Johnson, the manager, stayed with me. A big deal. For him. For me. For my elbow, from which the sand had started, grain by grain, to run out. I went five innings. We won in 16.
My left arm and I were going to the World Series.