Expectations, biopsies and blood draws

Louis Giolito had much to distract him when he walked up to the mound yesterday to begin his major league career.  He was baseball's top prospect, the Nats ace-in-waiting, the focus of press speculation and fan obsession about when he would make the jump to the majors. And then there was June 8, 2010, Stephen Strasburg's major league debut, 14 strikeouts in seven dominant innings against the Pirates. Strasburg raised unreasonable expectations on that day that he has only just begun to meet and set a crazy high bar of success for the next new ace to come along.

Giolito had extra time to think about all that last night, waiting out an hour-long delay for a thunderstorm to pass. But none of it seemed to bother him. He came out throwing heaters, the Mets came up swinging, and while Giolito gave up a single to his first major league batter, most of the rest went quietly. At least from our perch behind third base, he looked like a veteran. Another passing storm ended his debut prematurely in the 4th: no runs, 1 hit, 1 strikeout, 2 walks. That storm also ended our night. Emma and I had a soggy but giddy walk back to the car and watched the rest of the game in a dry family room, a 5-0 win thanks to shutout work by the bullpen and a solid offensive performance against diminished Mets pitchers.  The Mets starter was Matt Harvey, who has been crushed this year by last year's stellar expectations.

I imagine Harvey will get his game back together, just as Strasburg did after a series of setbacks. But I really don't know how they do it. I understand how only a rarefied few are born with the physical gifts necessary to play professional sports. And I understand how only a few of those few have the competitive drive and work ethic necessary to make the most of their talents. But I have always been baffled by how they manage the last piece of it all, the mental strength required to tune out all the distractions, the chatter, the expectations of perfect performance and eternal success. Were I facing all that, I would be devastated by the inevitable failures.

So I manage expectations differently -- I generally expect to fail and am pleasantly surprised when I don't. Otherwise I could never get myself together enough to, for instance, fly up to Boston to enroll in a clinical trial that promises little but required the following on a breezy summer Monday:

• 10:45am Blood draw
• 11:30am CT prep
• 12:30pm CT scan
• 1:30pm EKG
• 2:00pm Consultation and consent with doctor
• 2:30pm Second blood draw
• 3:00pm Skin biopsy
• 4:00pm Retina scans and vision screening

I do not mean to whine; it was not that bad. The nurses were real pros, the doctors were exceedingly nice, the Dana-Farber Cancer Center is top-notch, the CT scan was far easier than that MRI, and the biopsy required only a tiny chunk of flesh and a single stitch that I may just pull out when it gets irritating. It is true that I emerged from the vision screening with watery eyes and blurry vision, barely able to see enough to summon an Uber to the airport, but no matter. I passed the initial screening tests, and I return to start treatment, if all goes well, late next week.

Of course I do not expect all to go well. Further screening tests could delay treatment, and even if I stay on schedule, I will not be surprised if the trial doesn't help much in the end. But there's always hope, and that is I suppose the difference with a professional athlete confident in his abilities (or perhaps just too young to know how quickly things can go south, although Giolito's Tommy John surgery surely demonstrated a little of that.)

Giolito does not have to rely on hope to get through a major league debut. In contrast, hope (and the loving support of family and friends) is pretty much what I've got left. And I actually find that liberating. The nice thing about low expectations is that even small victories are cause for celebration, and there's still always hope for a big win.