In 2003, for the fourth time in a game against the Angels, I was about to make an out on the ground. In modern statistics, my ground-ball rate for this particular game was 100%. It was good that I was using my speed, which felt extra fast that day, but line drives would have been better.
On the fourth one, something went seriously wrong. I felt this strange pop, and my steps became broken. It was like I was running with one leg in quicksand. I had never experienced anything like it in my life, let alone my career, and as a major leaguer, I had never spent a day on the injured list.
But this was different. I barely made it to first base and was immediately taken out of the game with help.
My manager, Buck Showalter, was trying to diagnose the injury while we were still on the field. He concluded that it was a strain and might require one stint on the injured list. That was encouraging since that would only mean about two weeks. But wait. What does the trainer say?
When I really thought about it, I suspected it was worse than two weeks. I have never been out for a major injury, so for me to need help off the field, something had to be pretty bad.
After an MRI came back and I saw how my hamstring tendon was now in two pieces, I knew that was not going to be a short stint at all. Unless I could somehow play with these two knots in my leg, which were sure to invite mounds of scar tissue.
The team doctor was brought in, and fortunately, he had the most experience of anyone in sports with this particular injury. He had treated a few players with it by ultimately being more aggressive because it presented like a pulled hamstring. In the not-so-distant past, many players with this injury did not bother getting the MRI, but he vowed to surgically remove the two pieces if he ever saw this complete tear again. After a second opinion, I opted for the surgery.