I have always felt that self-expression is one of the most important (and academically underestimated) traits that writing can fulfill. With that in mind, here is One Last Fastball, a non-fiction piece written at a juncture in my life in which I thought I would benefit from a little first-person venting.

Thanks for reading.

One Last Fastball
By Ben Fouquette

 So last night I threw the last pitch of my life. Fittingly, it was a fastball--high and away. There was no violent pop or shredding tear in my shoulder, no sharp shooting pain in my elbow; just a dull and aching acceptance resonating in my mind.
It's been eleven months and one week since I first developed Thoracic Outlet Syndrome in my left shoulder. The surgery and treatments required to fix this malady are an ugly assortment of invasive procedures. Basically, some people can come back with the same strength in their arms, and some cannot. For eleven months and six days, I fervently fought the idea that I was a member of the latter group.
Then last night, after one last fastball, I realized it was over. I realized the pitches that used to snap, and dive and leave hitters befuddled just weren't there anymore. My arm wasn't the same arm it used to be. And after lying to my teammates, my coaches, and myself for three quarters of the season, I knew it was time to get over my own stubbornness--for the good of the team, and my own personal pride.
Pride. It's what made me fight this decision for so long in the first place and, oddly, now it's the reason I'm finally making the decision.
This may seem like a trivial matter to a lot of people. But to me, pitching has become an ingrained part of my identity. It was my release. It was the one extroverted characteristic, in what has become an otherwise introverted personality. I felt some of the strongest emotions I've ever felt in my life while I was on the mound. It brought out an inner fire that I rarely, if ever, display. I was a pitcher, a good pitcher. And I was damn proud of it.
I sat alone staring out at an empty baseball field after the game last night. I stared at the mound, knowing I'd never be back on top of it. It angered and hurt me. Then two little boys ran out onto the field and started playing catch. I smiled. For the life of me, I couldn't think of anything more simple and amazing than two little kids playing catch.
So last night I threw the last pitch of my life. And while it hurts, I'm thankful for every last one of them.