I woke up this morning feeling like telling a couple of stories. You should gather by now that I’m not a doctor, so don’t browse for medical advice in this post. I’m simply sharing a few of the things that came up over the course of my professional baseball career. Hopefully you can extract a takeaway or two.

I received an earful of medical recommendations during my MLB days. Most of it was spot on. On a few occasions, however, I was led comically astray. Those particular experiences still entertain me.  I quickly learned that neither the doctors nor my teammates were the ideal predictors for how I would progress.

Through my travels from club to club, I endured my fair share of bumps and bruises. From a full rupture of my Achilles tendon to a piece of metal lodged in my eyeball during my first professional season, I visited the team trainer as much as the next player.

In September of 2008, I tore my latissimus dorsi, the large muscle behind the right shoulder, attempting to throw a runner out at the plate. I was told immediately after that I’d miss the rest of the season and the playoffs. That turned out to be accurate. What followed was less so.

Our Milwaukee Brewers team doctor, William G. Raasch, presented two options for recovery.

First, he could perform surgery to repair the muscle and reattach it where it ripped away. The surgery would primarily be cosmetic – my right (throwing) side and my left (pretty) side would be symmetrical. This way, I would look normal when I flexed shamelessly in the mirror.

I fully and lightheartedly support flexing in front of the mirror, but this attractive art project had its downside. Dr. Raasch told me that I wouldn’t throw well again and would be a worse baseball player if I selected this route.

No chance; on to the second option.

He could leave my lat alone. I would go through a tough rehab process, strengthen back up and, ideally, I could get back to the same level of throwing (or close to it) the following season. Great, I thought, I’ll be the deformed baseball guy. How cool. I checked this box.

My teammate at the time, the fabulously supportive Ben Sheets, had the same injury a few years prior. It only made sense to lean on him for advice as I dredged through the arduous rehab process. His first bit of dark wisdom was direct.

“Kap,” Sheeter said, “You know all those pull-ups you do? You’ll never do them again.”

Sheets was my man. I love the dude, we played fantasy football together, but this was not music to my ears. I dig my pull-ups.

“I can’t even do one,” he later bragged.

Remember my earlier thought on the advice from teammates? Never let even well-meaning advice guide your personal limitations. I still remember the day a year or so later that I performed 5 pull-ups with a 100 pound dumbbell dangling between my legs (did I just say that?).

Myth busted, Sheeter. Take that.

My second tale is slightly more shocking because the advice I received came from as reputable a back doctor as exists in the country. His name will be concealed. I wouldn’t want one of my 6 devoted fans (I’m talking to you, Aunt Judy) to put a hit out on the poor chap.

In 2004, after celebrating in a bath of champagne with my Boston Red Sox teammates, I made the strange career decision to go acquire life experience through playing professional baseball in Japan. In fact, I turned down a two year contract offer from the Sox to do so. Living in Hiro, a neighborhood in Tokyo, would provide me with such culture. What a bonehead.

I had back pain often during that 2005 season with the Yomiuri Giants and at some point (the time bleeds together) in the mid 2000s I found myself in a famous doctor’s office reviewing x-rays of my spine.

I had Spondylolisthesis, a condition in which a vertebra in the spine slips out of the proper position onto the one below it. At the same time, the doc informed me of his second finding.  Spondylosis refers to degeneration of the spine. As with many other terms to describe spinal problems, spondylosis is more of a descriptive term than diagnosis. The doctor suggested that these conditions were not a result of running into a wall or diving for a ball. Rather, it may have been an old injury. Perhaps over time or during my adolescence, the “small fracture” simply appeared.

“Well,” he coldly stated without the slightest hint of emotion, “There’s nothing you can do short of spinal fusion surgery that will fix your issue. If you do that, you’ll have far less range of motion and won’t play baseball well again.”

No surgery. That’s not an option.

“Otherwise, you’ll need to strengthen the muscles around your spine though physical therapy but you’ll likely still encounter some degree of pain. You can live with this and play through the discomfort.”

Okay, I’ve played through pain before. I can handle this. It’s time to find out what this means for the rest of my life.

“I’m a weightlifter. What can’t I do?”

“Don’t do any load bearing exercises. No more squats. They may be part of this equation.”

Well, he is the doctor. He’s highly respected and has a lot more education than I do.  I stopped squatting after that visit. I did all the “functional” work and lots of physical therapy. One legged this, bosu ball that, I did it all. My pain didn’t improve.

Years later, I returned to heavy squats and dead lifts. Oddly (yes, that’s sarcasm) the muscles around my spine became pretty damn strong. I asked them to support several hundred pounds; they had no choice but to get tougher. Now, a decade later, my back feels better than when I walked into the doctor’s office.

Now, I’m not suggesting I cured any of my conditions. I haven’t had a recent X-ray, nor do I plan to. I trust my body and my instincts, and frankly, I don’t want to hear “it.” At any moment, I could fold up like an accordion, and the back doc would have the last maniacal laugh. I take a calculated approach; if I stay strong now and train intelligently today, my body will be well tomorrow.

Again, these are just anecdotes, not science. I just wanted to tell some stories.

Wait, that’s not enough? You were expecting to hear about the metal? Well, I might have exaggerated slightly.

In 1995 in Jamestown, NY while playing for the “Jammers,” I strolled into my morning workout at the local Y. The dumbbells were archaic. Aging whiskey is good. Aging weight room equipment, not so much.

I grabbed the 110 pounders (oooooh!) and laid flat to press.  Up and down, I completed my first rep on the bench. At some point during this set, I clanked the weights together at extension. A microscopic chunk of metal floated down into my right eyeball, nesting safely away from my pupil. I played 5 more NY-Penn League games before my eye began to swell enough to visit the hospital. Here, I got some truly sound advice from a doctor.

“We should remove that,” he said. I agreed, and we did.