CHAPTER 11

A CRAZY FIVE MINUTES

10 P.M.

Cubs Lead, 5–1

You’ve got to be kidding me.”

That was the G-rated version of what I said to myself five minutes after I entered Game Seven of the World Series as a defensive replacement to catch Jon Lester out of the bullpen. Starter Kyle Hendricks was lifted having thrown just 63 pitches when he walked Carlos Santana on a 3-2 count with two outs.

With a four-run lead at 5–1 and needing one out to end the inning, we liked our chances with Lester on the mound. The left-hander—even in relief for the first time in nine years—was a good matchup for us against Cleveland’s Jason Kipnis. Kipnis, the Indians’ left-handed number-two hitter, had been held in check by Lester in the Series.

Lester had a 2-2 count on Kipnis when he hit a dribbler in front of the plate. I fielded the ball, turned to first, and let it rip.

Shit.

The ball sailed to the side of Anthony Rizzo, well out of his reach at first base for an error. Santana raced to third and Kipnis advanced to second. I was upset with myself because I didn’t have a good grip on the ball, rushed the throw, and almost got Rizzo killed as it went down the right-field line in foul territory.

Still, despite my throwing error, we still had two outs with the chance to close out a clean inning on the scoreboard.

Right-handed-hitting Francisco Lindor, who was 4-for-9 with three strikeouts in his career against Lester, was up next. After a first-pitch strike, Jon spiked a curveball in front of the plate that bounced off the dirt and struck the front of my mask. The ball ricocheted to my right toward our dugout on the first base line and the on-deck circle.

Everything happened in a split second. I stumbled to my left, away from the ball, and used my glove hand to brace my fall. I took off my mask with my right hand in the same motion. By the time I got to the ball near our dugout—sliding to pick it up and throwing back to Lester covering the plate—both runs had scored on the wild pitch. Kipnis never hesitated on the play from second base, and he made a nice slide under Jon’s sweeping tag.

It was one of those moments where the game sped up on me. I was in for only a few minutes and… how the hell had these two plays happened? Suddenly I did feel like a grandpa—the old man who tripped over his own two feet. I was supposed to be the guy who prevented runs. They didn’t put me in for my offense.

I was pissed with myself, but I got my emotions in check and reminded myself we still had the lead. Now our job was limiting the damage.

Lester struck out Lindor on a 3-2 count to end the inning. But the Indians sliced our margin to 5–3 and had new life.

I found out later how bad the wild pitch looked when that ball, after it bounced in front of the plate, hit off my mask and I went back down. It looked as if I had gotten my bell rung. I couldn’t figure out why reporters kept asking me after the game if I was all right. Of course I’m all right, we just won the World Series. Little did everyone know I just tripped over my own two feet. Due to my history with concussions, they were just concerned for me. When I finally got to watch it, I saw what they were talking about.

This time it wasn’t about my noggin, though.

DAVID’S iPHONE JOURNAL

5/11/16

“Hopefully we can look up at the end of the year and have earned what people said about us.”

—Theo Epstein

I suffered multiple concussions during my fifteen-year career in the major leagues, most coming from repeated foul tips off my face mask. But what’s even more startling was how uneducated I was about concussions, including symptoms, detection, and the long-term effects. There are different types of concussions, and the medical field is still learning about the dangers of a single concussion and the multiplier of repeated concussions.

When you think of baseball, you probably don’t think of concussions. Baseball is considered a noncontact sport, especially when you compare it to football, hockey, boxing, basketball, and wrestling. Still, there are collisions and injuries in baseball and most times they are unavoidable. Let’s not also forget that many pitchers are throwing 100 mph these days, and a helmet will provide a hitter only so much protection. What makes concussions scary, no matter the sport, is that they can’t be seen on Xrays and attempts to prevent them have been difficult. Concussions, I’ve heard, are the most difficult injuries physicians have to treat. Of course, it doesn’t help that so many of us athletes feel like we can push through anything. I’ve learned that’s not the case, even when you’re conflicted emotionally because you don’t want to let down your teammates.

One of the most violent collisions I was involved in occurred in August 2007, when I was with the Cincinnati Reds. San Diego’s Mike Cameron leveled me when he scored from second base on a single by Khalil Greene in the top of the third inning.

At the plate, Cameron, at six foot two and 210 pounds, flattened me and knocked the ball out of my glove. My head gear flew off and the back of my head hit the ground. I was knocked unconscious momentarily, and, quite honestly, I still can’t really remember that day. But, after the collision, I didn’t want to come out of the game no matter how I felt.

Our starting pitcher, Bronson Arroyo, struck out Rob Mackowiak for the third out. A few minutes later, I led off the bottom of the third inning with an infield single to first base off Jake Peavy. When I got to first base, our first base coach, Billy Hatcher, said “That a baby.” I replied, “Yeah, I’ll take a one-for-two with a walk.” The thing was, I had only been to the plate once that day. Hatch asked for time and called the trainers to come get me. The Reds trainers saw I was off-kilter and confused and Javier Valentin entered as a pinch runner and replaced me at catcher.

In the dugout, I repeatedly asked my teammates when I was scheduled to bat. I didn’t remember my at-bat from a few minutes earlier. I also went back and forth into the video room to watch a replay of the collision at home plate, not remembering I had watched it only moments earlier. When the team physician asked me what year it was, I said 2003 as a joke. But then I said, “No, no, just kidding, it is 2005,” and it wasn’t a joke anymore. I was sent to the hospital for testing. My wife, Hyla, and our infant daughter, Landri, did not attend the game but they met me there.

At the hospital, I recognized Hyla and Landri, but I couldn’t recall my daughter’s birth when asked. Later that night at our home, I repeatedly asked Hyla a series of questions. Ouch, my head hurts, what happened? She would tell me, then I would say, “Was the runner out?” “Did I hold on to the ball?” “Did we win?” She told me I asked those questions every five minutes and listened to her response as if I had never heard it explained.

When Hyla asked me, “Don’t you remember, I just told you?” I got irritated and agitated. It reached the point where Hyla had to walk outside to talk to the Reds’ trainer, family, and friends when they called to check on me. I know Hyla was scared, because I repeatedly told her I felt okay.

And she knew I wasn’t.

During the 2016 baseball season, I was one of eight players in Major League Baseball who went on the disabled list with a concussion. I missed five games and eight days before the July All-Star break after taking a foul ball off my face mask against the Cincinnati Reds. I also was placed on the seven-day disabled list in July 2015 during my first season in Chicago with a mild concussion after I took a couple of foul balls off the face mask against the New York Mets. I joked to sportswriters that I felt “a little off” for a couple of days, but “I’m probably always a little off. It’s hard to tell what’s normal for me.”

I explained the feeling to Hyla as one of fogginess. That feeling might be accompanied by a headache, but I just felt foggy, sluggish, tired. Hyla’s explanation was more heartfelt. She said I was “there, but not there” when she looked into my eyes. Again, as an athlete, there’s no visible signs of a concussion, so to the viewing public everything must be okay. I didn’t have a cast, and I didn’t need surgery. I could still throw a ball and swing a bat. I had my bell rung and I just needed to shake it off. No big deal. Right?

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I learned the seriousness of concussions during the 2013 season with the Red Sox. I lost more than two months to the most severe series of concussions in my career. It was a scary, dark time and I honestly thought my career might be over.

It was Saturday, May 11, 2013. We were playing Toronto at Fenway. I started at catcher and played nearly the entire game before being removed for a pinch hitter in the bottom of the ninth inning. I had taken several foul balls off my face mask during the game, including back-to-back foul tips near my forehead that sent paint chips flying off my mask.

Greg Gibson was the umpire that day and he asked me several times if I was all right. He told me he was behind the plate when Mike Matheney got his career-ending concussion and that it was nothing to mess with. Turns out Gibson had had his fair share, too.

Hyla watched the game from the children’s playroom at Fenway Park, where she held a party for our son Cole’s fourth birthday. On the walk to our apartment near Fenway Park following the game, Hyla sensed I wasn’t engaged in the conversation. She showed me photographs from the party, but I really wasn’t interested. She asked me if I was okay and, of course, I said I was fine.

When we got to the apartment, Hyla still was concerned—especially when I started to cry for no reason as I looked at Cole’s birthday photos. Hyla had seen enough. She didn’t have the telephone numbers to Boston’s training staff in her telephone, so, unbeknownst to me, she headed up two floors to teammate Dustin Pedroia’s apartment. Dustin, a type A personality, followed Hyla down to our apartment to make sure I was okay. They came in the front and in true Peddy fashion, Dustin asked, “Hey, bro, your eggs scrambled?” I told both of them I was fine, but mind over matter doesn’t always work. The Red Sox placed me on the seven-day concussion disabled list the following day.

I returned to the team May 25 but I stunk for a good two to three weeks. Now, I’m used to having rough patches but this was even brutal for me. I struck out five times (four times swinging) in my first game back on the twenty-fifth, against the Indians. I’ve been known to strike out, but five times in one game? I went 3-for-22 but continued to play because I thought I was okay and getting better. I simply thought my timing was off at the plate.

But it was strange. I saw the ball out of the pitcher’s hand, but it kind of disappeared when I swung. I tried to make a few adjustments at the plate, but nothing worked. I watched film of one game where I went to throw a guy out at second base and instead heaved the ball clear into right field. I would slam two Red Bull energy drinks and a 5-hour Energy drink so I could bring my normal energy to the park every day. I felt energy was my responsibility as a catcher and I needed to do whatever was necessary to bring it. But I could never get to the level I needed. It also seemed like I had a headache every day, but I kept saying I wasn’t worried. I thought I’d wake up the next morning and it would be gone.

I continued to grind away and even took another foul tip off the face mask against Baltimore on June 14. I never told anyone, but the next day during batting practice in Baltimore, I threw up in between rounds. I would later learn that all of these episodes displayed classic concussion symptoms.

Hyla remained concerned because she saw a noticeable difference in me off the field. I was short with the kids, and they’d cry because of the way I looked at them. Hyla covered for me and told the kids I had a headache. Things came to a head one evening when we went out to dinner in Boston. We got to the restaurant but I didn’t eat much, complaining of all the noise and commotion around me. Then, during our drive back to our apartment, a guy cut me off in traffic. I completely lost it, and screamed at the guy at the top of my lungs. When we stopped at the red light, I was ready to get out of my car and beat the shit out of him. But Hyla grabbed my shirt and wouldn’t let go. The kids were crying and it was a bad scene.

Upset, Hyla told me she planned to reach out to the team’s medical director, Dr. Larry Ronan, if I didn’t do so first. So before our home game against Tampa Bay on June 18, I talked to Larry. Of course, I told Larry I felt fine and was only following Hyla’s request. But Larry didn’t believe me, and he telephoned Hyla. Hyla told Larry everything that had happened, and she felt so bad because she thought she threw me under the bus. I was emotional because I didn’t want my teammates to think I was bowing out on them and letting everyone down. I wasn’t swinging the bat well and if my teammates thought I just didn’t want to be out there because I wasn’t playing well, that would have killed me. I knew how uneducated I was about concussions and figured most players were the same.

The Red Sox pulled me off the bench prior to our game and placed me back on the DL.

On June 18, the Red Sox contacted Dr. Micky Collins, a concussion specialist at UPMC/University of Pittsburgh Schools of Health Sciences in Pittsburgh.

I should have known I’d hit it off with Micky. He’s a huge Boston Red Sox fan and was a former baseball player, too. He played for the University of Southern Maine in the 1989 Division III College World Series.

The trip to Pittsburgh was the first step in my road to recovery.

When I first met Micky, however, I still tried to put a positive spin on my health. I wanted to do anything I could not to be sick. I wanted to get back to Boston and my teammates. My plan didn’t work. Micky quickly realized once he started to ask me questions that I had multiple issues. He’s good at what he does. About fifteen minutes into his evaluation, Micky could see I was not doing well. I was light sensitive, tired, and had headaches. I even vomited during the testing. It was obvious my brain wasn’t working the way it should.

Micky wanted me to think about the brain as an egg yolk inside an eggshell. And no matter what kind of helmet a player is wearing around his head, even if it’s great protective equipment when it comes to catching, if you get a foul tip hard enough, the egg yolk will move inside the shell. It’s an injury that needs time and rest to heal properly.

He said there are six types of concussions, identified by the symptoms they exhibit: vestibular (balance issues), ocular (vision problems), mood, anxiety, migraine headaches, and cervical (problems with the neck). He said most concussion sufferers exhibit several of these symptoms, but one or two symptoms tend to predominate. Unfortunately, I hit the concussion lotto. He didn’t tell me this until I was better. He just kept stressing the plan for recovery and that my career wasn’t going to be over. Micky said I showed symptoms of all six. When you think of those six different types of concussions as interlocking circles, he explained how this injury can affect a person in a pretty robust way.

Micky explained the vestibular system is one people take for granted. It’s a system that allows us to interpret movement and motion, to balance, and to stabilize our vision when we move our head. It allows us to exercise and not feel anything. And when the system is decompensated from the injury, patients have a sense of fogginess.

Micky said 60 to 70 percent of our brain is devoted to our ocular movements—vision. This kind of concussion can lead to problems with focusing on your vision and eye movement. That’s not good when a player is in the batter’s box trying to hit a 95 mph heater or a spinning curveball. The remaining concussions listed above are self-explanatory but none of them are good.

Micky promised me three things during that initial visit. As an athlete who was accustomed to following a plan, I was encouraged. He promised me that he’d get me better and back on the field if I did everything they asked of me—and did it correctly. Despite the number of issues I experienced, he said each of them was treatable. He promised he wouldn’t put me back on the field until I was healthy and it was safe to do so. And he promised he wouldn’t hold me out a day longer than I needed to be held out because he understood how important it was for me to return to my team.

Collins and his clinicians have devised a number of tests, including one called VOMS (vestibular ocular motor screening), to diagnose and treat concussions. I had to place my thumb in front of my eyes and track it with my eyes as I moved it back and forth. I underwent a series of balance and movement tests, stuff I should have been able to do in my sleep. Stuff I took for granted when I played, like starting in a catcher’s crouch and moving laterally while looking side to side and up and down. I still used these tests when I got a good foul ball to the mask to make sure I was symptom-free. The first time I tried it with Micky, I became so nauseated that I threw up.

After my seven-hour visit with Micky and his team that first day, I was so drained that I could barely lift my head when Hyla and I got to Pittsburgh International Airport for our flight home.

Once my diagnosis was clear and I understood that the symptoms were treatable, I felt a huge sense of relief. I know there was concern I might not return to the team in 2013, but Micky felt confident I would.

But healing would take months, and not weeks.

DAVID’S iPHONE JOURNAL

5/13/16

It’s been awhile! Haha. So much has gone on!! The first month has been amazing, we are rolling. We are 19-6, having fun, kicking everyone’s ass. I got to catch Jake’s no-hitter, that was a blast. I am off to a decent start. Got two homers!! Got two nights with O’Flaherty when Braves were in town. Had a rainout so had some good hang time. Went to dinner at Chicago Cut. Miggy got hurt so I have been playing a little more. Fed is up, he had a great game tonight. If my body holds up I think I’ll have a good year. I am enjoying playing. Kind of a long stretch away from family. They are coming in this weekend at home. I can’t wait to hang with them. They are so busy at home. I think Hyla could use a break, too. Can’t wait until they are here all summer. Really want to play with my kids.

Micky decided it was best for my recovery if I returned home to Tallahassee rather than rejoin the team in Boston. He wanted me away from that environment to focus on my rehab.

I underwent a three-part therapy regimen. Micky treated my vestibular problems with vestibular therapy. It’s not by rest, but by exposure and stressing the system. A second therapy was vision therapy. I had to retrain my eyes to work together again. And the third included certain movements that would help recalibrate both the vestibular and ocular systems. I also was prescribed medication to help in my recovery.

By the All-Star break in July, I actually felt a lot better—so good, in fact, that Hyla, the kids, and I went to Orange Beach in the Florida Panhandle to meet Tim Hudson, my former teammate at Auburn and with the Braves, and his family for a day of boating and tubing.

Hyla didn’t think the trip was a good idea—and, of course, she was right. It was like I went on a daylong bender that didn’t include booze, but I still ended up queasy and sick. That day of fun set me back in my recovery a few weeks, but by late July I was feeling healthy—and restless.

I needed to get back to Boston with my teammates. Micky agreed and the plan was to slowly reexpose me to that environment and baseball-related activities. Even that was a process. I could watch three innings, then I had to go home; four innings the next day and so on. I visited Micky’s office three more times, and that doesn’t include the hours Hyla and I talked to him on the telephone.

Finally, on August 18, 2013, I was cleared to rejoin the Red Sox. We know how that magic carpet ride ended—with a World Series championship over the St. Louis Cardinals behind a 6–1 victory in Game Six. I caught the final out in the ninth inning, Three months earlier, I couldn’t play with my children without getting dizzy.

I owe a ton of thanks to the Red Sox, Dr. Ronan, and especially Dr. Micky Collins. I don’t know what path my life would have taken if not for him. He saved my career and helped me to become a two-time World Series champ. Thanks, Mick!

In March 2011, Major League Baseball and the Major League Baseball Players Association adopted a new series of protocols under the new joint policy regarding concussions, including the creation of a seven-day disabled list.

The story on MLB.com detailed how “a committee of experts created the policy, which will oversee the manner in which concussions are diagnosed initially and will be used to determine when players and umpires can return to the field following a concussion.” The new policy went into effect on opening day that year. The biggest change the policy brought was the creation of a seven-day disabled list for concussions, which was aimed to allow suitable time for concussions to clear and prevent players from returning too early, according to the story. All four major professional sports leagues in the United States and Canada now have concussion policies.

The MLB concussion policy is a good thing. However, I would probably urge the league to continue tweaking the policy as the research is evolving.

I would urge every player to see a specialist, even if the incident in question felt minor. For me, the most dangerous thing was the second and third blows to the head. Seeing someone who deals in this field daily will also allow the player to become more educated and more self-aware.

When I first came back in 2013 after my time on the DL, they put me through a pretty tough, physical routine, which I got through easily. But that was because my issue was vestibular, and not really heart-rate stuff. The more I moved my head and the busier the environment was, the crazier things got for me. My eyes couldn’t really process things rapidly. I definitely think MLB can be a little better when it comes to testing all the different ways that a concussion can affect you. Right now they do some physical activities and memory testing and ask a lot of questions. But the test is vague about what a good response is. Is testing where it needs to be? Probably not yet, but I think MLB is moving in the right direction.

The seriousness of concussions hit home for me when Ryan Freel, a friend and a teammate from my time with the Reds, died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound on December 22, 2012, in Jacksonville, Florida. He was thirty-six. Ryan’s career in the major leagues was cut short after eight years due to head and other injuries.

Ryan and I had played together on a Junior Olympic team as teenagers. Ryan also attended Tallahassee Community College, so we had lots of mutual friends. In Cincinnati, we even lived next door to each other. He was one of those exciting players who play at 100 mph and do anything needed to win. He showed no fear on the field and gave up his body to make an out or otherwise help his team.

Nearly a year after his death, Freel was the first MLB player to be diagnosed with chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), according to researchers at the Boston University School of Medicine. CTE is a progressive degenerative disease found in people who have had a severe blow or repeated blows to the head.

Ryan’s death really hit me hard. As a player, sometimes you wonder what you are doing it for. You play the game because you love it. And when it’s over and it’s time to retire, you head home to enjoy the memories, kick back, and relax. But you do worry about what you put your body through, and I constantly think about it.

Sometimes if I fly off the handle at the kids, I wonder where that anger or snap comes from. The short temper I think we all have, but is that normal or is it not normal? Where’s my excuse? Can I blame it on having concussions, or do I simply need to learn to have more patience?

I am constantly fighting those battles in my head, trying to figure out where my reaction is coming from. I still get a little annoyed with traveling and busy environments, like airports. Loud, crowded spaces—they are tough for me to deal with.

Baseball has been good to me, except in this one area.