By Austin Matsoff

“God, please help.”

That was the sentence I wanted to scream while lying on my back in a hospital bed, unable to move, in extreme pain, just weeks before the start of my senior season of high school baseball. 

I had no clue what was to come in the next year, semester, or even week at that point. 

As someone who had always strived for complete control over my life, I found myself in the furthest scenario I could from that. 

This was my rock bottom. 

This was pure vulnerability.

I still remember my first baseball season. I was nine years old playing in the local little

league. In my first at-bat of the season, I walked up to the plate just as I had seen the other

players on my team do. I got in the box and took a huge hack at the ball, fouling it straight back to the backstop. Hearing my family in the stands cheering, I knew this was where I belonged. That high ended two pitches later when I struck out. I struck out the next at-bat too. . . and the next one. I actually struck out nearly every single at-bat that season, and those I did not strike out in, I walked. That foul ball was the only time I made contact in my entire first season of baseball.

Even though I was little, I understood that if I wanted to play better, I needed to work

for it. That summer, my dad bought a training tool called the “hit-a-way.”

It was essentially a pole with a baseball attached by strings. I would go out in my backyard and take 200 swings every day. 

I was not one of the kids who was pushed by their parents to practice every day; 

I did this because I wanted to.

In my first at-bat of the next season, I hit a ball in the gap for a triple: my first hit ever. That first taste of work paying off was something that stuck with me, and it became the main factor leading to every bit of success I had in the future.

I continued my journey in baseball, going through the little league to high school, always

trying to outwork everyone else to make up for my lack of athleticism. I had one focus; I wanted to play college baseball. 

I was working towards that goal every day, and when that window looked smaller and smaller, I kept pushing myself harder and harder. 

I was in the gym two to three times every day during my junior and senior years. I was lifting weights, throwing, running, and doing whatever else I could to make myself into the best baseball player I could be.

Whenever a coach turned me down, I kept working. 

Whenever doors shut in my face, I kept pushing. 

Finally, after years of nothing, a glimmer of hope appeared. Will Morris, an old friend of mine, reached out to me and asked if I was still looking for a place to play.

I had met Will at summer camp years before this. He was a year older than me and was

playing at MidAmerica Nazarene University. It was a small school in Kansas, and they were

looking to recruit some more pitchers.

He put me in contact with one of the coaches there who asked me to send over some film. He liked what he saw, and right before the end of the fall semester of my senior year, I signed with MNU.

I accomplished what I had been working so hard for. Signing my letter of intent, I thought I had made it, but I could not have been more wrong.

I was on cloud nine for the next few days. I felt like nothing could touch me. That was,

however, until a routine visit with my cardiologist.

I did this every few months just to make sure everything with my heart was clear. My mom had serious heart problems, so she had my brothers and me go to the doctor on a regular basis to get checked out. The appointments usually did not take long because I was always healthy. 

This time was different.

I went in and did all the usual tests. After a few minutes, the doctor walked in. She had a

a different look on her face than I was used to. 

She always seemed happy and upbeat, but not today. She seemed much more serious, and as she started discussing my test results, it was obvious why. 

The doctor looked down at her notes, then up at me, and said, “Your pump function is down very low. We are going to need to get you scheduled for surgery as soon as possible.”

It felt as if time stopped. 

I did not hear anything else she said. 

All I heard was mumbling between the doctor and my mom.

I was too shocked to speak.

On the drive home, my mom, sensing my anxiety, started talking about what to expect with the procedure. As much as she tried her best to calm me down, I was too nervous. Those nerves worked up until the day of the surgery: December 26, 2019.

I woke up at five in the morning that day. I was starving because I had not been able to

enjoy my Christmas dinner the night before due to surgery preparation.

There were a few hours before I needed to leave but no chance of me getting back to sleep. 

My mind was racing from one horrible potential outcome to another. My body was tensing up and I started sweating. I reached to my bedside to grab some water. Without looking, I felt my hand cross the leather binding of my bible. 

I grabbed it, turned on the lamp by my bedside, and flipped to a random page. In bold letters, “James” was written on the top of the page. I started reading, and before long, I got to a verse that struck me.

“Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him.” –James 1:12

I read the verse over again; then again one more time. 

I knew then that God was trying to tell me something. I memorized that verse, and I just kept reciting it in my head. Throughout the drive to the hospital and getting checked in, I repeated that verse over and over.

It had a way of calming me down, something extremely rare in a time like this. I was terrified of this, but the more I repeated that verse, the calmer I felt.

The nurses checked my vitals and put my IV in.

Before I knew it, I was being wheeled back to the operating room. I get through the doors and

was immediately hit by the cold room. I looked around and saw the bright white walls covered

with dozens of stainless steel tools and devices, most of I did not know the name of. 

I laid down on the operating table and recited the verse one more time before slipping under the spell of anesthesia.

Before going under, I was told the surgery should take about an hour. I went into the

room at around 11:00. 

I woke up abruptly after getting moved into my room, pain shooting all throughout my body. 

I looked at the clock. 

It was 4:00 in the afternoon. 

My parents came in and explained to me the surgery had been much more complex than they had originally thought it would be. 

I was alive, and that was all that mattered.

I was not allowed to stand or even sit up until the next morning. I spent the next few

hours watching Netflix on my laptop, and picking at the driest chicken I had ever seen which

was provided by the hospital, while family members trickled in and out. 

Before long, everyone had left besides my mom. She went over to a place she could fall asleep and was out like a light.

It was just me now, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling of that hospital room. I had no idea what I was going to do. I did not know if I would be able to play this season. I did not know if my

scholarship offer would be taken away. I had no clue whether or not I would even be able to

touch the field again.

My head was filled with all kinds of uncertainty. 

I could feel my heart racing because of the anxiety I had of no longer being in control.

With all things spiraling away from me, I felt lost. I felt like I had hit rock bottom. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began to pray.

That prayer could only be described as pure vulnerability. 

I gave up control. 

I put everything in God’s hands because I knew he was the only one that would be able to get me through this. 

I remembered that verse, James 1:12. 

This was certainly a trial, and I was doing whatever I could to push through it. When I said “amen” to end the prayer, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. 

I felt relaxed, and I was finally able to fall asleep.

The next morning, I was woken up by my mom telling me I needed to try and stand up. I

maneuvered myself to the side of the bed and pulled myself onto my feet. My mom had me

walk up and down the hallway of the hospital, allowing me to find my balance again. I was only able to take very small steps, but it was something, and I was grateful for that. 

With each painful step, I knew that it would be a long recovery, but I was going to make it through. 

I was released later that day, and when I got home, I opened my bible to read James again.

In life, the only guarantee is trials.

There will always be something that tests one’s endurance.

This was not my only trial. In fact, I had two more heart surgeries in the next 10

months. I learned to control only what I could control. These setbacks never stopped me. I just kept working. 

The second I was able to start throwing again, I did.

I finished out my season, maintained my scholarship, then went out to school and continued to play. 

I will never forget the feeling of walking out to the mound in my first college game. We were playing under the lights of Rockhurst University. 

The walk from the bullpen to the field reminded me of the walk down the hallway of the hospital. 

Each step I took was a blessing. 

It would have been very easy for me to have given up before this. I very easily could have not made it this far, and nobody would have questioned me. I could have quit after that surgery and held on to that as my excuse for not making it to college baseball. 

Instead, I kept pushing forward. 

The only way I made it to that position was through extremely hard work and putting my faith in God to do the rest.

Before staring down the first hitter of my college career, I went to the back of the

mound and wrote “James 1:12” in the dirt with my index finger. I said a quick prayer, thanking

God for getting me here, then took the mound. I was extremely nervous before that first pitch. I questioned whether or not I belonged at this level. I took a deep breath and painted a fastball

on the outside corner. 

After a few more pitches, I got my first collegiate strikeout with a slider off the plate. I made it. I belonged here.

Those surgeries definitely made things more difficult for me at the time, but they proved to be great tests for my endurance. Having gone through these, I can now face trials head-on, knowing I can get through them. 

I play every game as if it was my last. 

Seeing how fast everything can go away makes me cherish every game, practice, and workout so much more.

This game is a privilege. 

Life is a privilege. 

Knowing that allows me to enjoy every bit of it so much more.