As I run onto the mound and begin my warm-up throws, I know that the opposing team is salivating at the chance to face me and my 70-mph fastball. They discuss how much of a joke I am and how easy it is to hit me. Once the first batter steps in, I have them right where I want them.

For a pitcher, the ultimate test of physical capabilities is the 100-mph fastball. It is achieved by few, even in the majors, but the allure of the power, the ability to blow your best pitch past even the best hitters, is one that has thousands of young ballplayers believing that they can be the next Nolan Ryan or Randy Johnson.

Never being a supreme athlete, I learned at an early age that speed was not everything. I grew up watching Greg Maddux dumbfound opposing batters without ever reaching 90 mph. With pinpoint control, movement, and changing speeds, Maddux has racked up over 300 wins and 3,000 strikeouts, only the ninth player to achieve the feat in Major League Baseball history.

Starting in Little League, I believed that the best pitchers were those who threw the hardest. Indeed, for kids 12 and under, a 65-mph fastball is basically unhittable. I could barely hit 50 mph, so I relied on a big curveball and good location. I had considerable success, but without an overpowering pitch, I fell victim to bloop hits and errors.

As I grew, I saw pitchers advance beyond me based on natural talent. I knew I had better control, and a better understanding of the game, but none of that could make my pitches go faster. Coaches appreciated my abilities, but trying to convince them that my style could have as much success as someone with 10 mph more than me was near impossible. Even when I would get batters out, batters and coaches reacted as if I had gotten lucky.

During my freshman year in high school, I was given few chances to pitch and it seemed like every chance I did get, the outcome of the game was already decided.

At the end of my freshman year, I began to contemplate quitting baseball. I had already given up hitting and now I was on the verge of being cut as a sophomore. One day, it hit me that baseball had been my life since birth and I could not live with myself if I had to give it up.

By sophomore year, I had developed enough control of my fastball, curveball, and changeup to make the junior varsity team, but I still had to gain the respect of my teammates and coaches. Even though I pitched well that year, I had only one more year to make a statement and perhaps draw the attention of college scouts.

Still unable to hit 70 mph, I realized my only hope to play college ball was to become a junkballer. A junkballer is a pitcher who throws off-speed and breaking balls, known as junk pitches. I had relied on those types of pitches throughout my career, but I knew that varsity batters would destroy me if I could not keep them off-balance.

After making the varsity team as one of eight pitchers, I was told by my coach that I would pitch, but that I should not expect to get very much playing time. I had worked extensively with a private pitching coach during the summer, so I was disappointed by my coach’s prediction. For the beginning part of the season, I pitched more than I expected but mostly in situations where nothing was at stake. Instead of pitching in games, I worked and conditioned with the pitching staff, gaining the respect of our pitching coach. Now, I had to gain the respect of the rest of the team.

During spring break, my team entered a tournament in which we faced Serra High School, ranked #1 in the state by many. To my surprise, my coach told me that I would start that game. I later learned the decision was made because Serra would destroy any of our other pitchers and my coach felt my junk was the only chance we had to keep the game close. Excited to finally make an important start, I also felt as though I was the sacrificial lamb for the team.

In the first innings, our left fielder robbed a home-run, which, looking back was the turning point of my season. I went on to allow only six hits and two runs in the complete game loss. I didn’t overpower the batters, but I threw strikes and let my movement and junk pitches do their work. Using a sidearm fastball I had learned earlier in the year, I was able to show the batters a different style that baffled the normally potent offense. Multiple times as I ran to cover first base, I heard the hitters curse at themselves, thus affirming my true goal. As my team’s confidence in me grew, my own confidence grew and the memory of that game served as a reminder that junkballers can have success.

Over my next few starts, I continued to succeed and the more the hitters became frustrated, the more my confidence grew. To have success, I need to be a methodical thinker on the mound, and nothing is more gratifying than when an opposing batter walks back to the dugout wondering how I got him out. Most of the time, the batter is convinced that the previous at bat was a fluke. They are often so convinced of their talent that they are unable to admit that I, a pitcher who can’t hit 75 mph, could ever get them out.

As the season approached its end, I suddenly found myself as the #2 starter, behind, of course, a pitcher whose fastball has reached 91 mph. At this point, however, I was not concerned with becoming the top starter because I had now become the pitcher that no opponent expects to lose to, and nothing is more fun than making them walk away wondering how they lost to a guy like me.

In a crucial game against Gunn, I managed to make it to the fifth
inning before throwing a fastball. Throwing only curves, changes and sidearm curves, I kept opposing batters off the bases and their own egos prevented them from adjusting to my style. In the final game of the regular season, I got the start and a win would put the team into the playoffs. Four months earlier, I was just one of the bullpen guys, and now I was the starting pitching in the biggest game of the year. Four hits and one run later, we had won and I had once again sent a team home baffled.

Finally, I understood how Maddux must feel every time he takes the hill. Of course, I have not received the recognition that Maddux has, nor should I, but I can now relate to the feeling of being able to succeed despite athletic limits, and it is hard to describe how satisfying that feeling is after all these years.

Unfortunately, most players and coaches still value and respect
speed over junk, but I now know that as long as I keep putting up wins, my style is just as valuable. As for those pitchers who I saw surpass me years ago, I am slowly passing them by as their speed becomes no longer enough to succeed.

I know I have a long way to go to reach my goal. I’ve only played one year of varsity, but the improvement in my talent and confidence from this past year is enough to keep me as motivated as ever. As for the 100-mph fastball, I find it more fun to strike someone out on a 50-mph sidearm curve.

Baseball is a team sport, but within the contours of the game lies 21 (27 in the majors) individual and separate one-on-one battles between the pitcher and the batter. To me, an at bat is a battle of wits, and once each participant makes his move, the rest is simply physical habit.

As I run off the mound and shake their hands, I know the opposing team is still baffled at how they couldn’t hit me. They thought I was a soft-throwing joke, and proving them wrong is the best feeling in the world.

I may never play baseball in college, and it may be because I
don’t throw hard enough, but after this year, I will never be ashamed to be called a junkballer again.