the world. I finish my year with Team USA undefeated (7–0), with a 3.35 earned run average. I am proud to have won a medal in the Olympics for my country.
On the other hand, I am sick that the medal isn’t gold and the national anthem that’s being played isn’t “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I pack up my stuff and my swirling emotions and head back to Nashville, and wait for my agent to hammer out a deal with the Rangers so I can start my new life as a professional pitcher.
ACCORDING TO Lloyd’s of London, I have a million-dollar arm. That’s how much I have it insured for during my sophomore and junior year in college, just in case I get hurt and don’t have a pro career. I get the policy at the suggestion of the coaches at Tennessee, where guys like Peyton Manning and Todd Helton and other top athletes were buying themselves protection. The premium is roughly $30,000, but Lloyd’s is good about it and lets me defer the payments until some money comes in, which shouldn’t be long now. Mark Rodgers, my agent (recommended to me by a friend), and Doug Melvin, the general manager of the Texas Rangers, go back and forth in their negotiation, and Doug finally pushes his signing bonus offer to $810,000. I am not micromanaging this with Mark and don’t talk to him six times a day to get the updates. I want to do well, of course, but I never want to break the bank. I just want what is fair. He says it is, and I accept.
I say a prayer of thanks to God and begin planning my first expenditures—Anne’s ring, Lloyd’s premiums, and something special for my mother and sister, Jane.
The thought of the money is mind-boggling. I’m a guy who started life with cockroaches, my mom’s lemon of a Vega, and the Western Sizzlin flatware. Now I am on the verge of being 81 percent of the way to the millionaire club, less commission and expenses. I try to fathom what it’s going to be like to sign that contract with my name and that number on it, and I can’t, but the bigger thrill, honestly, is what is attached to the money. And what is attached to it is the beginning of my professional baseball career.
Mark and I fly down to Arlington so I can take the obligatory physical and sign the contract. The Rangers want me to meet Nolan Ryan and throw out the first pitch at the game that night. The whole flight down, I am mesmerized by the thought of standing on the mound in the Ballpark, with Ryan in the wings and tens of thousands of people cheering.
It’s going to be one of the greatest moments of my life. There is no other way to think about it.
When we get to Texas, I go straight to the office of the team orthopedist, Dr. John Conway. The doctor knows about me already, from the Olympics and Danny Wheat, the Rangers’ trainer. In the clubhouse one day, Wheat sees the Baseball America where I’m standing, sideways, with the other Team USA starters. Wheat points the photo out to Conway.
His arm kind of looks like it’s hanging at a weird angle, doesn’t it? Wheat says. This kid is our number one draft choice and he already looks like he’s got elbow problems.
The other pitchers’ right arms are hanging straighter than mine, which has more of a bend at the elbow.
Conway agrees it looks a bit odd. He files it away.
I am in his office for an hour, contorting my arm in various directions.
This guy’s being thorough, but I guess that’s what happens when this kind of money is involved.
Everything proceeds fine. As far as I know. The last test Conway administers is called the Valgus stress test. He places my arm in a snug-fitting apparatus, then has me twist my wrist back and forth as an X-ray machine above films what’s going on inside. When the test is finished, we go back to the doctor’s office. He puts the X-ray on an X-ray illuminator. I am looking at the infrastructure of my right elbow. It looks a lot like an elbow to me.
You have a couple of millimeters of extra laxity in there, Conway says.
What does that
On the other hand, I am sick that the medal isn’t gold and the national anthem that’s being played isn’t “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I pack up my stuff and my swirling emotions and head back to Nashville, and wait for my agent to hammer out a deal with the Rangers so I can start my new life as a professional pitcher.
ACCORDING TO Lloyd’s of London, I have a million-dollar arm. That’s how much I have it insured for during my sophomore and junior year in college, just in case I get hurt and don’t have a pro career. I get the policy at the suggestion of the coaches at Tennessee, where guys like Peyton Manning and Todd Helton and other top athletes were buying themselves protection. The premium is roughly $30,000, but Lloyd’s is good about it and lets me defer the payments until some money comes in, which shouldn’t be long now. Mark Rodgers, my agent (recommended to me by a friend), and Doug Melvin, the general manager of the Texas Rangers, go back and forth in their negotiation, and Doug finally pushes his signing bonus offer to $810,000. I am not micromanaging this with Mark and don’t talk to him six times a day to get the updates. I want to do well, of course, but I never want to break the bank. I just want what is fair. He says it is, and I accept.
I say a prayer of thanks to God and begin planning my first expenditures—Anne’s ring, Lloyd’s premiums, and something special for my mother and sister, Jane.
The thought of the money is mind-boggling. I’m a guy who started life with cockroaches, my mom’s lemon of a Vega, and the Western Sizzlin flatware. Now I am on the verge of being 81 percent of the way to the millionaire club, less commission and expenses. I try to fathom what it’s going to be like to sign that contract with my name and that number on it, and I can’t, but the bigger thrill, honestly, is what is attached to the money. And what is attached to it is the beginning of my professional baseball career.
Mark and I fly down to Arlington so I can take the obligatory physical and sign the contract. The Rangers want me to meet Nolan Ryan and throw out the first pitch at the game that night. The whole flight down, I am mesmerized by the thought of standing on the mound in the Ballpark, with Ryan in the wings and tens of thousands of people cheering.
It’s going to be one of the greatest moments of my life. There is no other way to think about it.
When we get to Texas, I go straight to the office of the team orthopedist, Dr. John Conway. The doctor knows about me already, from the Olympics and Danny Wheat, the Rangers’ trainer. In the clubhouse one day, Wheat sees the Baseball America where I’m standing, sideways, with the other Team USA starters. Wheat points the photo out to Conway.
His arm kind of looks like it’s hanging at a weird angle, doesn’t it? Wheat says. This kid is our number one draft choice and he already looks like he’s got elbow problems.
The other pitchers’ right arms are hanging straighter than mine, which has more of a bend at the elbow.
Conway agrees it looks a bit odd. He files it away.
I am in his office for an hour, contorting my arm in various directions.
This guy’s being thorough, but I guess that’s what happens when this kind of money is involved.
Everything proceeds fine. As far as I know. The last test Conway administers is called the Valgus stress test. He places my arm in a snug-fitting apparatus, then has me twist my wrist back and forth as an X-ray machine above films what’s going on inside. When the test is finished, we go back to the doctor’s office. He puts the X-ray on an X-ray illuminator. I am looking at the infrastructure of my right elbow. It looks a lot like an elbow to me.
You have a couple of millimeters of extra laxity in there, Conway says.
What does that
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