January 28, 7:30 a.m.: En route to see neurologist Dr. Phillip O’Carroll at the Newport Beach Medical Plaza to discuss results from my recent Cervical MRI and CAT scan taken at Hoag Hospital’s Advanced Technology Pavilion.

I only had one goal in mind that morning: get answers. For months now, I have been set on having disc replacement surgery, troubled with the notion that the operating table is my last possible option. I’ve gone through 387 chiropractors, 292 physical therapists, 210 massage therapists, 114 acupuncturists, 72 kinesiologists, two psychologists, and one cervical spine specialist at the world-renowned Mayo Clinic in picturesque Rochester, Minn., without even an ounce of luck. Sadly, the base of my skull still feels like its best friend is a pressurized Vise-Grip.

Good news is I trust my new Irish doc and his no-nonsense approach to medicine. My headaches have subsided, I’ve only resorted to Treximet once in the last 21 days, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like there will be a 24-hour span in my future that doesn’t involve lying on the floor with my feet up trying to relieve the pressure behind my eyes. And it might even come as a result of nerve-blocking cervical injections instead of invasive spinal surgery.

After leaving his office, in an effort to prolong my daily drive to Los Angeles, I decided to make a detour: the beach. A place I haven’t visited in months. A place where I used to spend three hours every single day. A place wonderful enough to warrant one-bedroom apartment leasing rates equal to four-bedroom homes with an acre lot and lake views in states that only border other states.

I keep trying to leave so we can have a decent-sized yard for a dog that doesn’t fit into a small handbag or require a sweater if the temperature drops below 70 degrees, but I can’t.

Note: I’m willing to admit how much a pint-size pup can grow on you, God rest his soul, so if we do in fact stay here, perhaps the petite grass nook out front will house Campbell’s little sister and she’ll enjoy the beach just down the road as much as her big brother.

The great surprise of the day came upon my arrival at Corona Del Mar State Beach. Getting out of their cars for the inaugural practice of 2010 were Jake Gibb and Sean Rosenthal. Miraculously, my Blackberry circumvented the stitched denim of my back pocket and appeared in my hand with text already dictated: “Got my column for next Friday: Rosie/Gibb, Day 1, 2010. See you tomorrow.” Sixty-minute drive averted, column in hand. It was turning into a perfect day.

After breaking the news to Jake and Sean, “Sorry fellas, but you’ve just inherited the front page next Friday; hope you showered this morning,” I grabbed my pen and cleared a spot on my forearm to take down notes. Fortunately 2009 AVP Rookie of the Year Jonathan Acosta and Gibb and Rosie’s mutual trainer, Dave Jurevich from CDM Fitness, showed up minutes later with a white Post-it notepad. I was officially ready.

Practice commenced with the usual pleasantries and post-holiday catch-up, but what came next no one on the planet could have predicted. Sean Rosenthal walked over and joined Miloslav Rousek in a session of beach yoga. Yes, yoga. Downward, upward and sideways dog yoga. On the beach. The only way that situation could have gotten better was if Gilad magically appeared out of the ocean and Big Corona became the set for “Bodies in Motion.”

If I didn’t join them next, in my jeans and white t-shirt, “Top Gun” style, this piece could have materialized sans personal embarrassment. My yoga skills are a joke. My muscles are as stiff as Popov on ice. Oddly enough, so are Rosie’s. Only, his ability to participate was hampered by an injury I had almost completely forgotten about. Rosenthal’s right wrist was wrapped with a small brace, forcing him to complete his yoga positions with only his left hand.

This revelation made Day 1 even more significant. It wasn’t just Jake and Rosie’s first practice of 2010; it was Rosie’s first touch of a ball since wrist surgery on Oct. 30. Every ounce of doubt crisscrossing Sean’s mind—how much progress he had made and how far he still had to go—was finally unsettled that day, and I was fortunate enough to show up at the perfect time to witness it.

As yoga culminated, practice moved to the volleyball court where Gibb, Jurevich and Jonathan Acosta were already running a setting triangle. That drill swiftly progressed into serving and passing and was followed by some light, open-net sideout. I joined Jurevich at the baseline with the task of float serving bullets to the left-side player as the right-side guy set Rosie so he could work on his footwork and left-arm spike motion. Let’s just say that more than once Rosie bounced a ball straight down on the five-foot line with his left hand. We shook our heads and silently blamed him for our own personal inadequacies. Especially when he decided to step in and pass perfect nails with his one-armed chicken wing.

Rosenthal's "one-armed chicken wing" pass gets the job done, for now.

After more reps than anyone cared to count, the guys called it a day. On the sand, that is. Next stop was CDM Fitness.

Jurevich ran Gibb, Rosenthal and Jon Acosta through a circuit of exercises built specifically for beach volleyball players, and more importantly, specifically for a guy that just had a lime green orthopedic cast removed after six weeks of protecting the four pins holding his wrist together.

Gibb has patiently waited for his partner of four years to return and isn’t about to begin pressuring him now to speed up the recovery.

“It’s a tough spot to be in but we just have to wait, because he doesn't want to come back too soon,” Gibb said. “That’s dangerous.”

In between sets of core exercises like planks and wood choppers, I snuck in a few difficult questions like, “Has it worried you at all that Sean might not come back 100 percent?”

His response was more insightful than I predicted: “I think of what happened to Lambo and how he was supposed to come back after surgery and still hasn’t been able to make it back,” Gibb said nervously.

“It continues to worry me,” he sustained. “I’m sticking with him no doubt about it, but surgery is scary.”

Would Jake continue to compete if Rosie wasn’t ready, and the possibility of winning tournaments was no longer realistic? No chance, he says. “I don’t play unless I think I can win every week. What’s the use in playing for a certain finish?”

After eagerly jotting down Jake’s response, I looked up to realize I had overstayed my welcome. Jurevich was staring through me like John Locke/MIB/smoke monster this past Tuesday on LOST, wondering why his star athlete was worrying more about getting a quote in next week’s paper than holding his body off the floor using only gymnastic-type straps hanging from the ceiling.

Gibb incorporates the plank into his strength training.

I took my hint and exited stage left. But not before grabbing Rosie for a last-chance conversation about his first day back on the job. Was he satisfied?

“It was alright. I didn’t hit many out, so that’s good, but I want to do more,” Sean continued, frustration evident in his voice. “I gotta be patient and know that I don’t need to be ready in March, I need to be ready in April.”

Who would have thought a simple errant dig in San Francisco could cause a partially torn ligament in a wrist? Certainly not Sean Rosenthal. “It’s given me perspective, for sure. And it’s been stressful not knowing what’s ahead, but it’s finally starting to feel good again, and I can’t wait to get back after it.”

To say I wasn’t jealous that day would be a colossal fabrication of the truth. And to see Sean emerge from a possible career-ending surgery unscathed is a breath of fresh pine forest air. Now, I only have one thing to do: schedule more appointments with the doc in the morning so I can stop by the beach to see who’s there. Who knows, maybe I’ll catch practice No. 20, when Rosie starts bouncing balls with his right hand again.