The Arm (20 page)

Eleven months of patience wore out in mid-May, when Coffey finally deviated from the script. He wasn't supposed to know how hard he was throwing. ElAttrache told him it wasn't important. Coffey needed to know if his body was lying to him, though, and some sort of quantification would give him that peace. He told himself at the beginning of his recovery that if his fastball hovered around 88 to 90 miles per hour, he would retire. “I don't want to be that guy who holds on too long and doesn't see when he's done,” Coffey said.

The gun arrived May 17, and immediately Coffey took it outside and aimed it at cars driving by. “Had one going forty-two in a twenty,” he said. Like Yogi Young, he knew the radar gun would tell him a truth neither his eyes nor his body could discern. One or two miles per hour makes the difference between a major league pitcher and one stuck in Triple-A.

On the first day, Coffey sprinkled a few 87s in with pitches mostly 88 to 89. His pitches sat at 89 the next time out, and he spiked a 90 the time after that, and up they went into the low 90s, each day stronger, every time better, all waiting for the adrenaline kick of a game, which he trusted would add another mile or two. Trusting his arm was dangerous, especially with its duplicitous track record, but Coffey believed. He started to consider the possibilities. Maybe a major league deal instead of having to scrape back through Triple-A. And if it were a big league deal, a team might want to talk about an option for the 2014 season, since there's little sense in bringing a post–Tommy John guy back for just a couple of months.

“All depends on what team it is,” Coffey said. “One-point-two-five million to start. I would actually start at one point five
and meet around one point two-five, one point three. They would start at a million. Meet in the middle. That would be simple and easy to do.”

Relentless optimism fueled Coffey. He just needed to get to his showcase in June healthy, and perform, and the rest would take care of itself. He would be a big leaguer again because that's where he belonged, and Jennifer and Declan and some special guests would be there to see it.

From the day he found out Donor ID 101079556's semitendinosus was holding together his elbow, Coffey wanted to show gratitude to the man's family. For his first game back in the big leagues, Coffey said he would fly the donor's parents or wife or whoever he was closest to into the city where he was playing. First he needed to establish contact, so on March 12, 2013, Jennifer wrote a letter on Coffey's behalf that RTI sent to the donor's next of kin. It talked about who he was and why he was writing and how thankful he was and what a gift he was given.

In July 2012, I needed Tommy John surgery in order to repair a torn ligament in my right elbow. I play baseball for a living and as a pitcher my job depends on the use of that particular ligament. My options were to not repair my elbow and end my playing career or proceed with surgery and have a chance at returning to baseball.

I have been fortunate to be in a profession I highly enjoy and love, especially when it comes to my kids. I have three kids from a previous marriage (12, 9, and 4) who have had the pleasure of growing up watching their father play and will have fond memories of those years. One of my biggest “thank yous” comes from the fact that my wife and I had our first child in October. I wanted to be able to come back from my injury and play so that our son will be able to share in the same experiences and have those same memories.

I cannot thank you enough for a second chance an opportunity that might not have been if it were not for you and your loved one. My family and I will always remember your act of selflessness and utmost generosity.

Wishing you all the best,

Todd

June 3, 2013

On the day before Daniel Hudson blew out for a second time, Todd Coffey decided to “let it eat.” This is a favorite phrase of his, one of those colloquialisms that exist only in baseball's weird, insular ecosystem. Like, when somebody is mad, he's not just mad. He's “got the ass.” And if somebody's trying to look like he's hustling but isn't, it's not false hustle. It's “eyewash.” “Letting it eat” has nothing to do with food. It's about going full tilt, free of care and consequence, and it applies in all facets of life. For example, Drew Storen, a teammate in Washington, once observed about Coffey: “He's a huge paisley fan, and he was not afraid to let it eat a little bit on the outfits.”

The finest manner in which a ballplayer can let it eat is with his fastball, and Coffey, nearly one year removed from his sur
gery, a few weeks from his showcase, finally arrived at that place where he trusted his elbow enough to do so. He cared not where the ball went. Letting it eat wasn't about pounding strikes. It was about pushing himself to a limit he didn't know he would see again.

Nobody near Rutherfordton would catch Coffey aside from a high schooler named David Mendez. So around one p.m. every day, Mendez left Thomas Jefferson Classical Academy, met up with Coffey, and strapped on gear. Michael Melton, Coffey's trainer, stood nearby with the radar gun. Every pitch registered above 90 miles per hour. When he let it eat on the last five pitches, they hovered between 92 and 94.

“I was watching a game last night,” Mendez said. “Man, they were throwing like eighty-eight, eighty-nine.”

“I know everyone says guys are throwing harder these days,” Coffey said, “but I'm telling you. I don't see it when I turn games on. What I did today, I would take into a game.”

June 15, 2013

The showcase date was set: July 1 in Phoenix. About two weeks beforehand, Coffey's fastball sat around 91 to 93, and topped out at 94 during a simulated game in which he threw to local high school hitters. His slider tilted like a pinball machine. He never bothered learning Trevor Hoffman's changeup, because he didn't think he needed it. Following the showcase, as major leaguers wound down until the All-Star break, Coffey would ramp up. By the July 31 trade deadline, he'd be ready to join whichever club would have him.

Everything else was great, except for that bit of soreness he felt after the sim game.

“The only place I was sore in the arm was the forearm and the biceps muscles,” Coffey said. “Nothing in the elbow. Nothing in the flexor. They said I had such great extension, my muscles were
like, ‘You haven't been there before. We're going to piss you off.' Not surgery-related sore. Sore from first time ever cranking on it.”

Melton wanted Coffey to cancel the showcase. He didn't like soreness.

June 17, 2013

“I made the decision to move my showcase back,” Coffey said. “There's really no difference between July first and July fifteenth. July first was a dream. I don't want to sit there and think about July first being so much that I don't listen to my arm or body. Your mind can tell your body to do things it shouldn't do. I want to be smart about this.”

July 18, 2013

He didn't make it back in twelve months. The anniversary of Coffey's surgery came and went, just like his scheduled showcases. He'd canceled the July 15 one, too, because the soreness crept into a troublesome spot.

“We were pushing it,” Coffey said. “We were trying to get back. And the flexor-pronator muscles flared up. It would take two or three days before it calmed down until I could throw again. Dr. ElAttrache didn't like that.”

Coffey went in for an X-ray, and the results were sent to ElAttrache. He saw nothing unusual beyond the scar tissue, inflammation, and general depletion of two-time Tommy John patients' elbows. No chips floating, no spurs hooking, no UCL shearing.

“I'm gonna let my arm dictate it,” Coffey said. “I was bummed out. I was bummed because the day had come, and the day had passed. I'm gonna listen to my arm now. I think this year is still doable.”

August 12, 2013

Six weeks after he was supposed to throw in a showcase, Coffey ditched the idea of returning for the 2013 season.

“I think a smarter decision is to wash it,” Coffey said. “I'll be ready September first, but straight to the big leagues without any minor league games? That's not gonna happen.”

After about ten days off, Coffey started tossing the ball again in late July. He was up to 80 percent effort. With a return in 2013 out of the question, Coffey considered his next move.

“I'm gonna go to winter ball,” he said.

Coffey had chatted with an old friend, Alonzo Powell, a hitting coach with the San Diego Padres who spent his offseasons coaching the Bravos de Margarita. The Venezuelan Professional Baseball League consisted mainly of Venezuelan major leaguers and young players trying to supplement measly minor league paychecks. Coffey couldn't stand the thought of throwing to high school kids anymore. He needed real baseball.

September 4, 2013

“I'm gonna have to go under the knife again.”

Todd Coffey said it so matter-of-factly—almost serenely. There was a bone chip floating inside his right elbow, dangerously close to his new UCL, exactly where his ulnar nerve would've been had ElAttrache and the hand doctor not tucked it under a blanket of muscle and fat.

At least it explained everything: the pain and the decreased velocity and all the issues hampering Coffey during his throwing sessions. He had played catch, building up to a week earlier, when he threw a bullpen session at 80 percent. It hurt. He tried again two days later. “It feels like I'm going ninety over a speed bump,” Coffey said.

Lucky for him, Neal ElAttrache was at Duke University with his daughter Nicole, a standout volleyball player on a recruit
ing visit. Coffey drove about three hours from Rutherfordton to Durham, met with ElAttrache, and jumped into an MRI tube. The scan showed a chunk of scar tissue chiseled off by the daily throwing. During a thirty- to sixty-minute procedure, ElAttrache would remove the loose body, smooth out the scar tissue, and shave down a bone spur on the back of his elbow.

“Six to eight weeks, and then I'll start throwing again,” Coffey said. “Dr. ElAttrache said I should be facing hitters in December. It's not going to affect anything as far as this upcoming season.”

Winter ball was out. January was the new showcase target, and the prospect of landing a major league contract after nearly two full seasons away from the big leagues looked grim, meaning that Coffey would need to pitch his way onto a team's roster during spring training via a nonguaranteed minor league deal.

“I ain't worried about that,” Coffey said. “If I'm healthy it's a no-brainer.”

September 20, 2013

ElAttrache removed the bone chip from Coffey's right elbow. The surgery was a success. Coffey found a tape measure and laid the arrowhead-shaped chip across it. It was more than 1.5 centimeters long, a monster. Coffey took a picture with his cell phone and texted it to friends. He was proud of it.

“Finally,” he said, “my arm's as good as new.”

A
BOUT A WEEK AFTER DANIEL
Hudson's second surgery, a nauseating smell started to permeate his house. Hudson figured it was some funky garbage, so he emptied every trash can and bombarded them with Febreze. When that didn't work, he wondered if he ran over a rabbit or some varmint with his car, so he wedged himself between the ground and his Infiniti, a flashlight in his good hand, a cast inhibiting his other. Nothing in the chassis,
either. The smell in the garage was unbearable, and as her husband's legs stuck out from under the car like the Wicked Witch's from Dorothy's house, Sara finally realized what was causing it.

“I don't want to tell you,” she said. Sara was embarrassed, for one, but she also knew of Hudson's fragility, how he invariably traced bad things back to his arm. A few days earlier, she had picked up a couple of blocks of meat scraps that a local butcher saves for dogs. She'd thrown them in the trunk of the car and forgotten about them. The June air—the hottest June on record in Arizona—had turned the meat rotten. It festered for seventy-two hours before Hudson popped the trunk. He ran out of the garage and started to dry heave in the driveway.

Not even the highest-grade industrial solvent could rid the car of the smell, so Hudson started looking at new cars. He wasn't sure what to get. He refused to spend money frivolously just to uphold some stereotype about athletes driving certain types of vehicles. While he was making $518,000 that season, he couldn't say whether the Diamondbacks would bring him back for another, even if GM Kevin Towers and manager Kirk Gibson loved him.

“I don't know what's going to happen next year,” he said. “It's getting toward the end of the year. My contract situation is up. I've been thinking about a lot of stuff that could've been. I did turn down a significant amount of money.”

The $15 million he rejected was life-changing money, generational wealth if Hudson handled it properly. In the same month Hudson turned down the Diamondbacks' offer, the San Diego Padres signed a pitcher named Cory Luebke to a deal with a guaranteed $12 million. His left elbow blew out two months later. Before he returned to the mound, it snapped again and required a revision. Even if he never threw another pitch, Luebke was a millionaire many times over.

Sara had leaned toward taking the contract. Lowenthal tried to explain the downside. Another season like 2011 and Hudson could get triple the offer. And even if he did get hurt, so did Jaime
Garcia, a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals, and they gave him $27 million despite a Tommy John surgery on his résumé. Sara relented. If Dan believed in himself, so did she.

“At the time, it just wasn't the right number,” Hudson said. “This is karma coming back to bite me in the ass.”

This was just another defeat in Hudson's mind, another bad decision, another dereliction of duty. For the first twenty-five years of his life, everything went right. He was smart, good-looking, talented, personable. He loved playing baseball and was good at it. He married a beautiful, funny, bright, supportive girl. And ever since he turned down the contract—the son of an IT guy and a nurse, spitting at millions of dollars—he found himself spiraling in a fashion he was ill-equipped to handle. He knew it had been the right choice. That didn't mean he could forgive himself for making it.

“I broke down last week,” Hudson said. “I feel worthless.”

He was back on the couch in his living room, doing his best to avoid leaving home even if inside felt just as hellish as outside, staring at the same tools as eleven months earlier—the Digi-Flex, the rubber web, the Eggsercizer. “The gamut of stuff,” Hudson said, “that makes me want to stab my eyes out with a lead pencil.”

Hudson still tried to be good at the part of his life he could control. For his birthday, Sara set up a treasure hunt, and he played along, even though he knew the present, because he had a sixth sense for guessing her gifts. They went to concerts on occasion, and to the sporadic party down the street—anything to fake normalcy. She could sense some withdrawal from him, and she understood it.

“Some days, I'll come home, and the trash is full, the dishwasher is still loaded,” Sara said. “‘What have you been doing?' ‘Oh, nothing.' I know he's been playing video games for three or four hours. It's easy to burrow yourself in your room and play video games and hate the world when you hurt yourself twice.”

Sara said no golf this time around, and he didn't argue. She told
him she wanted the whole, unvarnished truth about his health, and he promised it. When Hudson bitched about the first surgery, it was the frustration of someone hooked on success who'd never been injured. This was different. Hudson wanted to separate himself from his injury, to not be the poor bastard who blew out back-to-back. Not just because those guys' careers end, but because it defines them, a weakness nobody knows how to solve.

“I don't like being like this,” Hudson said. “I was one way for, like, twenty-five years, and this can just turn you into a different person. And I know I was one in three hundred and all that, but I'm trying. I just need to see something now to make me understand why this is worth it.”

Hudson thought about seeing the Diamondbacks' psychologist. He never could bring himself to do it. He unburdened himself on Sara, angry and apologetic. They didn't get as low of a rate as he wanted when they refinanced their house. He drank more than usual. She tried not to judge. All the downtime, and he couldn't even give Sara the one thing she really wanted.

“It's funny,” Hudson said. “Eric Chavez, when I went on the DL for the first time, was like, ‘Don't have a baby.' He's like, ‘I went on the DL three times and I had three children.'”

Everything he tried felt like it failed. C. J. Wilson was wrong. It wasn't just your arm that lied to you. It was your mind. Hudson's injury rendered a secure man vulnerable. Little things, stupid things, bothered him. After a weekend away with Sara, he joined the team at Chase Field for a home stand. He arrived at the stadium before anyone, his rehab work early in the day, and relaxed in the clubhouse as his teammates arrived. “Everyone rolls in: ‘How you feelin'?'” Hudson said. “What do you think? How am I supposed to answer this twenty-five times? It's not their fault. I'm just so sick of everybody asking me how my arm is. You know how it is. I don't need anybody to ask me anymore.”

The dynamic inside the Diamondbacks' clubhouse was changing. At the trade deadline in July, Arizona traded starting pitcher Ian Ken
nedy, Hudson's closest friend on the team. Not even three full seasons in Arizona, and Hudson was the third-most-tenured Diamondback. Nobody wanted to hear his issues. And it's not like he could walk into Gibson's office and share his pain. At one point during his rehab, Hudson was summoned by Gibson, who told him he couldn't wait for Hudson to return to a pitching staff that lacked the toughness the manager expected. “Everyone in here is a bunch of cunts,” Gibson said.