Comeback

Comeback

Dave Dravecky

with Tim Stafford

Copyright

Comeback

Copyright © 1990, 1999 by Dave Dravecky

Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2012 by Bondfire Books, LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

See full line of eBook originals at www.bondfirebooks.com.

Author is represented by Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard St., Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

Electronic edition published 2012 by Bondfire Books LLC, Colorado.

ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795326257

To Janice

To be blessed with the most precious

of all gems is truly a gift from God.

You are the wind beneath my wings.

Contents

Chronology of Events

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1 Between the Lines

2 In Preparation

3 Good Dreams

4 Sore Shoulder

5 Field of Dreams

6 Preparing for the Worst, Hoping for the Best

7 In Barranquilla and Amarillo

8 Making It to the Big Leagues

9 Diagnosis

10 Under the Knife

11 The Aftermath

12 In the Dungeon

13 Comeback?

14 Hitting the Wall

15 Air It Out

16 Up Through the Minor Leagues

17 Pack Your Bags

18 August 10

19 The Pitch

20 Changing My Focus

21 A Second Comeback?

22 The Playoffs

23 Earthquake

24 The Tumor Is Back

25 Was It Worth It?

Postscript

Afterword

Chronology of Events

June 1978. Dave Dravecky graduates from Youngstown State University and is drafted by the Pittsburgh Pirates in the twenty-first round.

October 7, 1978. Dravecky marries Janice Roh.

April 1979. Dravecky is sent by the Pittsburgh Pirates to the Double-A Buffalo Bisons, where he plays for the next two seasons.

December 1979. Dave and Janice leave Barranquilla, Colombia, after two months of winter ball.

October 1980. Dravecky returns to Barranquilla, Colombia, for another season of winter ball.

April 1981. Traded to the San Diego Padres’ organization, Dravecky is sent to Amarillo, Texas, for his third year in Double-A baseball.

June 6, 1982. Tiffany Dravecky is born in Honolulu, Hawaii, where Dave Dravecky is pitching for San Diego’s Triple-A team. Two days later the San Diego Padres call up Dravecky to the major leagues.

July 6, 1983. Dravecky is chosen to represent the National League in the All-Star game, and pitches two scoreless innings.

October 1984. Dravecky makes five relief appearances for the San Diego Padres in the National League championships and the World Series, pitching ten and two-thirds scoreless innings.

January 8, 1985. Jonathan Dravecky is born in San Diego, California.

July 4, 1987. Dravecky is traded to the San Francisco Giants along with Kevin Mitchell and Craig Lefferts.

October 7, 1987. Dravecky pitches in the National League championship series against the St. Louis Cardinals, and wins 5-0.

January 26, 1988. Tests indicate that a lump on Dravecky’s left arm is probably benign.

April 4, 1988. Dravecky pitches opening day against the Los Angeles Dodgers, winning 5-1.

June 11, 1988. Arthroscopic surgery on Dravecky’s left shoulder puts him on the disabled list for the rest of the 1988 season.

September 19, 1988. Dr. George Muschler of the Cleveland Clinic indicates that Dravecky’s lump may be cancerous, and a biopsy is needed.

October 7, 1988. Surgery removes one-half of the deltoid muscle in Dravecky’s pitching arm. To kill all cancerous cells, part of the humerus bone is frozen.

January 9, 1989. Doctors at the Cleveland Clinic give the okay for throwing a football, and plan a rehabilitation schedule that could bring Dravecky back to pitch by midsummer.

May 1989. Because Dravecky’s shoulder is hurting and he has hit the wall, he is put on total rest for one month.

July 8, 1989. In St. Louis, Dravecky pitches his first simulated game.

July 23, 1989. Dravecky pitches for the Class-A San Jose Giants in Stockton, California, before 4,200 fans. He pitches a complete game and wins 2-0.

July 28, 1989. Pitching again for San Jose, Dravecky wins a complete game in Reno, 7-3.

August 4, 1989. Moving to Triple-A Phoenix, Dravecky leads the Firebirds over Tucson, 3-2, in a complete-game seven-hitter.

August 10, 1989. Dravecky pitches his first major league game in more than a year going for eight innings against the Cincinnati Reds, and winning 4—3.

August 15, 1989. While pitching in Montreal, Dravecky’s humerus bone snaps.

October 9, 1989. While celebrating victory in the National League championship series, Dravecky’s arm is broken again.

October 17, 1989. An earthquake stops the World Series.

October 27, 1989. Doctors at the Cleveland Clinic tell Dravecky that cancer has probably recurred in his arm.

November 13, 1989. Dravecky announces his retirement from baseball.

Foreword

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s immortal words gave birth to the hymn our forebears sang on July 4, 1837, at the completion of the battle monument in Concord. I have stood at the Old Concord Bridge and mentally replayed that epochal moment. All who have done so can almost hear the initial blast of gunpowder and see the burst of fire explode from the farmer’s musket. Little did the unnamed hero realize the far-reaching impact his shot would make when he took aim and squeezed the trigger. Nothing would ever be the same. What was to him merely his duty as a patriot has become the point on which our country’s history pivots. His was indeed the shot heard round the world.

The book you are about to read is the true account of another history-making event… not brought about by guns and soldiers, but quietly modeled in the life of a man whose name is now well-known because of his courageous faith. Dave Dravecky’s story is not just another athlete’s story, because Dave is not just another athlete. His major struggles have not been limited to locker rooms and pitcher’s mounds. And though he has known the thrill of playing a vital role on a championship major league baseball team, his greatest victories have not been won in public ballparks. His most significant conquests have come deep within his own life as he refused to surrender to the same enemies that plague us all: fear and disappointment, pain and death.

A curious swelling no larger than a quarter on Dave’s pitching arm was diagnosed as a malignant tumor. Yet his determination mixed with optimism following surgery and therapy got him back into the game. The whole sports world watched in amazement as the all-star hurler returned to the mound, confident and sure as ever. Many called it a miracle as he was reunited with his team, the San Francisco Giants. In early August of ’89, amid repeated, thunderous applause, he earned a decisive win against the Cincinnati Reds. As he lifted his cap for a final bow following that incredible achievement, he received his twelfth standing ovation of the day. Everybody who was anybody in the world of news had his name on their lips. Dave Dravecky was suddenly a synonym for comeback.

His next game was in Montreal. Excitement was at an all-time high. Throwing with a strange tingling sensation in his arm, Dave pitched well enough through five innings to be ahead 3-0, a nice cushion to enjoy. In the bottom of the sixth, he faced a tough hitter at the plate, Tim Raines. Dave took his set, stared at first base to restrain a runner, pivoted, and, kicking high, he pushed off the rubber and let fly. He didn’t realize it would be the last pitch of his life. A dull, sickening crack could be heard across the unusually quiet stadium. The humerus bone in his pitching arm literally snapped as he delivered with full force. In Dave’s own words, My arm felt like I’d been hit with a meat axe. He grabbed his arm to keep it from flying toward home plate as he screamed, tumbling headfirst to the ground.

It was enough to devastate the strongest of the strong. Not Dave Dravecky. Remarkable though it may seem today, his thoughts were not full of bitterness or self-pity. Rather, he found himself overflowing with gratitude, confident that God was writing another chapter in his life. Something more, something amazing was about to be revealed. At the time he had no idea what it was. Little did he realize, as he writhed in pain upon the ground, that he had delivered the pitch heard round the world.

Now he does. And that’s why Comeback has been written.

Chuck Swindoll

Pastor

Acknowledgments

Writing a book has been a completely new experience for me, one I could never have managed without others’ help. My literary agents, Sealy Yates and Rick Christian, came into my life as a godsend, relieving pressure on me over the decision about publishers. Sealy, in particular, has become a close friend—someone I look to for advice, someone whose wisdom I trust. The staff of Zondervan Publishing House, particularly John Sloan, my editor, and Scott Bolinder, my publisher, have been tremendously helpful. I am especially grateful for the superb writing assistance of Tim Stafford, who helped me bring my experiences to life in the following pages. I believe God put together a team of friends to make this book possible.

In addition to thanking those who helped me put this book together, I’d like to acknowledge those who helped me in the comeback this book is all about. I particularly want to thank my teammates on the San Francisco Giants, whose support and encouragement I could count on every day. Manager Roger Craig and his coaching staff, trainers Mark Letendre and Greg Lynn, and many others in the Giants organization stood behind me, rooting for me and helping me. The Giants’ front office, led by Bob Lurie and Al Rosen, offered me complete freedom to work at my own pace, and an unending willingness to help in any way they could. Pat and Joan Gallagher were particularly involved in introducing me to Alex Vlahos, adding a caring dimension to the business of baseball. Special thanks also to the Giants’ chapel coordinator, Pat Richie, and his wife Nico for their spiritual encouragement.

I would also like to thank the San Diego Padres, including its staff and fans, for five and a half truly memorable, unforgettable years. Even though I eventually became a pitcher for the San Francisco Giants, I left a big chunk of my heart in San Diego.

So many people have played a part in my comeback that I could never mention all those I’d like to. But I want to mention those who have meant the most to me. My mom and dad, and my brothers, Rick, Frankie, Joe, and George, have loved me through thick and thin. Any time I needed help, day or night, I knew they would be there. Special thanks also to Janice’s brother Randy Roh and his wife Kim for their prayers and support during this time.

Dr. Mark Roh, Janice’s cousin, counseled Janice and me as we found our way through many confusing and difficult medical questions. We knew he would see that we were taken care of in the best possible way.

Dr. George Muschler, my doctor at the Cleveland Clinic, cared for me and Janice as though we were members of his own family. Dr. Murray Brennan and his staff have also provided critical care for me, and I know I can look to them with confidence in the days ahead. Other doctors and medical personnel also played crucial roles, particularly Dr. John Bergfeld and his staff, Dr. Gordon Campbell and his staff, and my physical therapists Larry Brown and Ken Johnson.

Long before my adventure with cancer began, Byron Ballard gave me the greatest gift one man can give another: he introduced me to Jesus, my Lord and my God. Myles Gentzkow and Larry Dean have been my spiritual mentors, helping me grow and mature. Many, many others have given themselves to me by caring, by taking the time to call, by sharing words of encouragement, by praying. The members of Tabernacle Evangelical Presbyterian Church particularly supported Janice and me.

I have been blessed with deep friendships, and I believe this book witnesses to their significance in my life. Here I would like merely to mention my deep love for three couples that mean the world to me: Atlee and Jenny Hammaker, Scott and Kathy Garrelts, and Bob and Teri Knepper.

All these people, and many more, have contributed to my life. I owe them more than I can say. To Jesus Christ be the glory.

Prologue

By looks, baseball is a nineteenth-century antique, what with its old-timey uniforms, complete with tiny caps. By feel, it has the slowness and gravity we imagine in our nation’s past. The game is over when it is over, whether it be two hours after the beginning or four. An inning can last five minutes or fifty.

So why does baseball survive? By look and feel it belongs with croquet, played occasionally for memory’s sake on picnics.

Baseball survives, and thrives, because it is a game in which we see ourselves. The players are not huge brutes, dressed like gladiators. They look to be of a normal size and strength. Their skill is not obvious, either. Hitting a baseball may be the most difficult athletic feat of all, but it does not look hard. Very rarely in baseball does somebody make a play that appears impossible for mortals. (It happens every day in basketball.)

In the imagination, then, baseball lets us live out our dreams. That is what gives the story in this book its special flavor. It is the story of a comeback, a comeback in baseball, a sport which has become a metaphor for the American dream.

Here is Dave Dravecky, standing on the pitcher’s mound, looking high into the stands mounting up to the sky filled with cheering, shouting, whistling, stomping ecstasy. What has he done to deserve this adoration? He has not yet thrown a pitch. The game has not even yet begun, and though this is mid-August, Dave Dravecky has not yet thrown in the major leagues this year.

What has he done to deserve such a welcome?

He has come back. He has heard the experts say he can never do it. Yet in spite of their doubts, he has come back.

The fans cheer for Dave Dravecky because they too face difficulty, and by all odds will not overcome it. Yet they cannot help hoping, and believing. What Dave Dravecky has done, before he even throws a pitch, is to validate their hope. Yes, it is possible. Yes, you can come back.

—Tim Stafford

1

Between the Lines

To fully understand baseball, you must pay attention to little things. Everyone knows it when Will Clark cranks a home run into the stands. That’s big and noisy and obvious. Yet often a game is decided because of a much quieter event: a two-out walk, for example, that barely stirs a ripple in the ranks of sprawling, sunbaked spectators. They paid their money to see home runs; they barely notice walks.

But players and coaches notice. They know too well how an insignificant walk can be the first tiny tear in the fabric of a close game, like a rip in the seam of a tightly stuffed pillow. Open the seam and, before you know it, stuffing is all over the place.

A two-out walk, or a pop fly that drops into a tiny open triangle of green that the second baseman, first baseman, and right fielder converge on just a second too late, or a tame ground ball that somehow maddeningly hops between the diving second baseman and the diving shortstop—each of these small events is like an open invitation: Chaos, come on in! Baseball players sit up and take note of little things. Often a close game is decided by one of those sneaky little insignificant happenings that set off a chain reaction.

I am what is called a finesse pitcher. I do not have overpowering stuff. My fastball rarely reaches ninety miles per hour, and my slider doesn’t break a foot. I get outs by surprising batters, by keeping them off balance, and by putting the ball within an inch or two of where I intend it. I use small distances, which make small differences in batters’ swings, which result in weak ground balls or pop flies. Finesse pitchers pay attention to little things. In fact, all real pitchers—as opposed to mere throwers—do.

CANCER came into my life as a small thing. I first noticed the lump in the fall of 1987.

When, exactly, I do not even know. Running my hand along my left arm, I found a firm, round shape under the skin on the upper arm, about the size of a quarter. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t show. And I paid it little attention. That lump, which was to create so much turmoil in my life, made almost no impression on me at all.

It was sometime in September. The regular season was almost over, and we had clinched the division title. The games went on, of course—we still had to play every day—but our thoughts were elsewhere. Roger Craig, the folksy, crafty manager of my team, the San Francisco Giants, was preparing the pitching rotation to face the St. Louis Cardinals in the playoffs. It was a time of intense but quiet anticipation, the pause before the carnival. We were making ready for what every baseball player works for, and most never experience: postseason play. That’s when baseball takes off its everyday work clothes and puts on a party outfit. The stands are draped in red-white-and-blue bunting, the Star Spangled Banner is sung by star musicians rather than ground out on an organ, and the regular print reporters rub shoulders with media stars like Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola. The colors are brighter in the postseason. The prices double yet fans feel blessed if they get a ticket.

So I had other things on my mind than a little, painless lump. As a matter of fact, my arm felt the best it had in years. During many of my six seasons with the San Diego Padres my elbow had been sore. Since coming to the Giants on July 4, along with Kevin Mitchell and Craig Lefferts, my arm had recovered. I was nearly pain-free. I felt on top of my game.

It was a curious little lump, unlike anything I had experienced before. In the training room one day, deep in the concrete bowels of Candlestick Park, I happened to think of it. It was quiet in the clubhouse, as it usually is. As I was going out the door, I approached our trainer, Mark Letendre.

Hey, Mark, take a look at this little lump. It doesn’t hurt, but I thought I should draw it to your attention.

Mark ran his fingers over my arm, kneading the flesh. Don’t worry about it, he said. And I didn’t.

THERE ARE many aspects of professional baseball I could happily live without. I hate the travel. To the bottom of my being I despise being separated from my family. For six months of the year you’re on the road exactly fifty percent of the time, and even when you’re home most of the games are at night. I generally leave for the ballpark at two in the afternoon, and arrive home after midnight. I get used to that schedule, but my kids don’t. While school is on they’re coming home about the time that I leave for work.

Then I take off with the team for two weeks of travel. When I get home from a long road trip, my kids often won’t speak to me. Tiffany is a beautiful little seven-year-old, and Jonathan, at four, looks like my carbon copy. I’ll come in the door and hold out my arms for a big hug, and for the first half hour they’ll act like I’m a repairman. It’s like they’re saying, You left me here with my love, and you didn’t come back for two weeks, and now you expect me to give you a hug and a kiss. Well, forget it.

They get over it, eventually, and decide to forgive me. But not before they’ve made their point.

My wife Janice, on the other hand, understands what I’m doing, and why. She’s always been very supportive. Nevertheless, she isn’t completely delighted with life as a single parent when I’m gone. She’s proud of my baseball career, but she could do happily without the life-style.

Yes, baseball offers fame and fortune. I’m thankful for it—I’m certainly glad to be able to provide well for my family while playing a game I love. But there’s a down side to it. Adulation and wealth help create an unreal atmosphere. Some players begin to think that baseball—and life—owes them everything. Athletes are no better than the rest of mankind, and the pressures and temptations athletes live with may be harder. A major league clubhouse is a long way from heaven. I’d give it up without a second thought. Even the fame and money—I’d give them up, and I really don’t think I’d regret it.

What I could not so easily give up is the game. That’s what I love. I love to walk between