“Lay down.” Our athletic trainer said.
She put two little sticky pads, about one inch wide by two inches long with rounded edges, on my elbow. One near the belly of my forearm, the other down on my tricep, just on the other side of the hinge of my elbow.
Elbow pain.
A deep, throbbing horrible-ness that was with me most days.
In practice.
In pregame.
On the mound as I stared down a hitter.
It needed to start getting better.
“I’m going to get you an ice bag. Hang tight.”
A few feet away, she tore off an ice bag from a roll that looked suspiciously similar to the ones in the grocery store produce section.
She dug the scoop into the ice machine and filled the bag about halfway up.
Then, she folded the open end of the bag over her fist and sucked the air out before spinning it, making a long twisted end that she tied into a knot near the top. She placed it between her palms and slid them back and forth, rolling the ice into a flat layer, like dough rolled out for cookies.
Shish-uh shish-uh shish-uh shish-uh was the sound it made as she flattened the bag.
A moment later, it was folded it around my elbow and the electrical stimulation treatment began. The pulses jumped through the muscles surrounding my aching elbow from one pad to the other, causing gentle spasms and increased blood flow in the area.
Would it help?
Get me back on the mound?
Allow me to go pitch?
Fix my elbow up?
Not really.
—
Seven years later I was living in a shared studio apartment halfway across the country. I slept in one of three twin beds splayed out in the living area, with one additional teammate sleeping on the couch. The ballclub had arranged these apartments for us, which operated like glorified dorm rooms.
My season had come to a screeching halt, but I was not yet ready to depart.
Elbow pain.
A second elbow surgery, a “revision” of the one I underwent in college a few seasons after that first ice bag. I would rehab with my team for six weeks, then clean out my locker and head home.
I knew the deal. I had done this before.
Liz, our trainer, had sent me home with a dozen ice bags, a roll of clear plastic tape and a pair of scissors. I’d grab more when I ran out. I didn’t need to ice at home, but I did need to shower.
“Tyree, can you help me tape this?”
I had stripped down to just my shorts and cut the bottom out of an ice bag. I slid it down my arm, which still looked awful.
Streaking black, blue and yellow bruising.
A four-inch scar, arching around the inside of my elbow.
A dozen or so black stitches and a thick scab line where it was healing and, occasionally, oozing.
My teammate walked over and drew a long piece of tape. I held my arm over my head. He carefully taped the bag at my wrist. He drew another piece and sealed the bag down near my armpit.
I thanked him and walked into the bathroom.
Closed the door.
Started the shower.
Scrubbed my body with my left while keeping my bagged right arm out of the water as best I could.
—
Four years later, it was opening day. My sixth professional season in seven years, with a gap year following that second surgery.
The alarm on my phone went off.
I reached over to turn it off.
Pain shot down my arm.
From my fingertips up to the front of my shoulder.
I shut the alarm off and sighed.
This was not good.
I was 30 years old. I was a respected relief pitcher, and my role was pitching the seventh inning in save situations. We had an excellent set-up man and closer behind me. I had been the set-up man the previous year with a different team, but was now pitching for the best team in that same league.
Game number one.
Everyone’s excited.
Everyone wants to do well.
Set the tone.
Strong push off the blocks.
My arm was a wreck.
In the fourth inning, the game was close. We were ahead. I walked from the bullpen to the dugout, then down the tunnel to the clubhouse. I found my locker, took off my jacket, jersey and black three-quarter sleeve dry-fit shirt.
I walked into the training room. No one in there but me.
I needed five items:
- A rubber glove
- Scissors
- The jar of Red Hot
- Tape
- An ice bag
I grabbed everything on my list and sat down on a training table.
Cut the bottom out of the ice bag and set it aside.
Put the rubber glove on my left hand.
Unscrewed the metal lid from the jar of Red Hot.
Plunged my fingers into the fiery orange-colored goop.
Red Hot is a thick petroleum-jelly based salve with capsaicin as the active ingredient—the chemical compound that makes peppers hot.
It 🔥 burns like the devil.
Most players opt for the milder Atomic Balm, which has a lower-dose blend of capsaicin and menthol, when they want to rub down a sore muscle.
I slathered my arm in Red Hot.
From the bottom of my forearm to the back of my shoulder.
Until my skin was stained like a carrot, slowly beginning to burn as the ointment soaked in.
I then took the ice bag and slid it over my arm, like a sleeve, pulling it all the way up to my armpit. I grabbed the roll of tape and taped the bag halfway down my forearm.
After putting my tools away, I went back to my locker and pulled my undershirt, jersey and jacket back on. The plastic bag beneath would act like a sauna suit, causing my arm to sweat and pull more of the capsaicin into my pores.
For the rest of the fourth and fifth, my arm burned so badly that I could barely focus on the game or hold a conversation.
But the chemical hot iron distracted me from my intense shoulder pain and would help me warm up faster when it was time.
In the sixth, our team still holding a narrow lead, it became clear that the seventh inning would be mine. Our pitching coach confirmed it.
I took off my jacket.
Peeled off the tape from my forearm.
Yanked the bag off my arm like a slimy, orange snakeskin.
And began to throw in the bullpen.
10 minutes later, I’d jog out between the white chalk lines and do my job.
Three up.
Three down.
Two strikeouts.
One game gone.
139 to go.
How am I ever going to make it 139 more?
—
In the famous baseball book Ball Four, author and MLB pitcher, Jim Bouton, described “the cool of the evening.”
When a pitcher pitched well and was removed from the game with a lead, he got to watch the rest of the game from the dugout with a sense of satisfaction.
He’d done his part.
Could now soak it in.
The sweet summer air.
The beauty of the ballgame.
The sun now set.
He could enjoy the cool of the evening.
Upon leaving the game, you’d sit down on the dugout bench. The trainer would come over. You’d remove your jersey and pull your throwing arm out of your undershirt.
“One bag or two?” They’d ask.
“Just one.” I’d say.
Usually it was my elbow. At the end, it was my shoulder. But it was rarely both.
The trainer would pull a pre-made ice bag from the rectangular orange cooler and, as I kept my eyes fixed on the game, fold it over my elbow and wrap it tightly, like a left over casserole, with a six-inch spool of plastic wrap.
“You’re good.” They’d say, tearing off the plastic wrap, setting me free to roam about.
I’d thank them and walk up the dugout steps to lean over the rail and watch the remainder of the game.
With my fingernails, I’d rip a tiny hole in the top of the ice bag. This would cause any remaining air to get pushed out by the tight wrap, making the ice cling even more tightly to my skin. It would burn for about five minutes before my skin went numb.
An inning or two later, I’d feel cold water slowing making its way down my arm. The knot always leaked.
The indicator that the last of my obligations were now complete.
I’d tear at the plastic wrap and toss the watery ice bag in the trash.
Throw my arm back down my three-quarter sleeve shirt.
Exhale. Happily.
Watch as my teammates finish it off.
The green grass glowing in the darkness.
As the cool of the evening dripped down my fingertips.
—
—
Enjoy this story? You’d like my memoir, Dear Baseball Gods.