Fear, Pain, and One Quiet Inning in Gary, Indiana

What last night taught me about listening to my body—and talking to younger guys about theirs and their career.

I came into a lopsided game last night for the Chicago Dogs—one of those spots where your job is simple: compete, eat an inning, and keep everyone else fresh for tomorrow.

I warmed up with three things barking at me at once: a shoulder that felt pinched at certain angles, a glute/side that wouldn’t quite switch on, and that familiar, annoying rib sensation that makes you wonder if an oblique is whispering. 

Ten years ago, that cocktail would’ve spiked my fear. 

I would’ve tightened up, guarded the shoulder, changed my slot, and tried to be someone else on the mound.

Last night, I did something different. I ran my little map → activate → test loop.

• Mapped what I was feeling without dramatizing it.

• Hit some quick activations I trust—shoulder stability work, some plyo movements, and activating my feet and toes that help “turn on” my glute.

• Focused on breath and trunk control between every throw and rib cage location.

Then I pitched. Nothing heroic—just strikes, a couple of good ones when I needed them, and a clean exit back to the dugout. The win was less about the line and more about my relationship to the sensations. I didn’t pretend they weren’t there, and I didn’t hand them the steering wheel either.

After the game I talked with one of my teammates, a young arm from New Jersey who had a tough start. I know that feeling—when you’re sure everyone can see what you felt on the mound. We talked less about mechanics and more about meaning, his thought process and his physical state: what do you decide pain means in the moment? If you label every twinge as disaster, your body hears you. If you pretend nothing’s wrong, your body hears that too. The trick is the middle: respect the signal, adjust the pattern, then compete.

I told him what I’m still learning at 35:

• Fear is loud, but it isn’t a fact. It’s just a forecast.

• Pain is data. Figure out whether it’s a positioning problem, a workload problem, or a tissue problem.

• Over‑thinking can cripple you. Creating made-up scenarios or “what-ifs” almost never work in your favor.

• You can get better at this. Muscle IQ, breath, activation—these are trainable skills, not personality traits. 

• Being a good teammate matters. Doing the little things, especially as a starting pitchers matter a lot to the guys that are playing defense behind you. Showing up early, being social, and having good energy in clubhouse can translate positively on the field.

None of this has been a solo journey. 

I’m grateful for people who’ve poured real expertise into me and a lot of other athletes over the years and even recently as I start this journey again—great MLB organizations that gave me endless opportunities to pursue a dream, incredible teammates and individuals like Robbie Bolton at Evolve Physical Therapy, Anna and Corey Couture at Trifecta, and Rob Blanc, whose app‑based breakdowns and mobility work meet me where I actually live: on buses, in clubhouses, and on hotel carpets at 10:30 p.m. Even the guys at LSU Baseball, Jamie Tutko and Chris Martin— willing to help me out with mechanics and pitch design before their work day started.

Before I throw, I’m not searching YouTube for miracles. I’m running a short list they helped me build.

I don’t know where this season goes. 

What I do know: I love the game differently now. Not in a louder way, just in a steadier way. I’m not trying to feel nothing on the mound. I’m trying to feel the right things—and let the wrong ones pass through without rewriting who I am.

If you’re 25 and chasing this dream, or 45 coaching the next wave, maybe the takeaway is simple: don’t let fear do your scouting report. Build a tiny toolkit, earn some wins with it, and keep learning. The game will meet you there.

— AR

PS: I’ll post the specific mobility/activation list I’m using once I tidy it up and add links. If you’re a young pitcher and this resonates, send me your questions—I’ll weave them into a follow‑up.