Grief and Goodbyes
March 23, 2023 | Season 1, Issue 2
Tap. Tap.
"Thoms wants to see you in his office."
I turn around in my chair, looking up to see Mike Calitri, our bench coach. Usually smiling, Cal has a different look I've seen a few times before; he is solemn.
A roster move is coming.
The first time I experienced this was when I was optioned in 2022, a few weeks after making my debut. And again, when I was optioned at the Trade Deadline in 2022 after the Phillies traded for David Robertson and Noah Syndergaard.
I've learned to accept it when it comes. It's just a reality of the game. When I was on the Big League roster last season, I was the last man in the bullpen. So, I would be the first one gone when someone came off the IL or else. Sure, my goal has always been to earn a role and stick in the Big Leagues, but doing the MLB/AAA shuffle is something I've seen countless players do before me and countless will do after me.
And this spring, being a non-roster invitee, I knew being reassigned to minor league camp at some point was not just likely, but expected. Especially after my poor performance the last few games of spring when my elbow was becoming re-inflamed. Velocity was down. Walks were up. This is how reassignments happen.
I follow Cal to the manager's office. Walking in, I shake hands with Rob Thomson, Dave Dombrowski, Sam Fuld, and Caleb Cotham. Cal sits down. I sit down.
Then Dave speaks:
"Mark, we are going to release you."
The move itself, from a baseball perspective, isn't a shocking one, per se. Like I said, I wasn't feeling or playing great this spring.
But hearing those words quickly whipped up a cocktail of emotions looking something like this:
3 parts Sadness
2 parts Gratitude
1 part Pain
1 part Joy
A splash of Grief
Shaken; served over Anxiety
Garnish with Fear and Hope
And the result? Shock.
How can I feel all these things at once? How do I express myself in a situation like this? What do I say?
Sadness I get. Pain, for sure. But Gratitude and Joy? That makes no sense. Anxiety, Grief, and Fear are more like it. And how'd Hope get in there?
Honestly, I didn't understand it in the moment and I don't think I needed to. Sometimes, just allowing myself to feel what I feel is the only thing I can do.
Don't suppress it. Let it come.
"We simply don't have a roster spot for you in AAA. But we want you to know how much we appreciate everything you did for us last year. You are all class and we wish you the best."
"Also, we will figure out how to get you that NL championship ring you earned."
I muster enough energy to hold back tears, saying my thank yous and goodbyes. Then, I walk out of the room. Cal follows.
"You know I love ya, kid," says Cal. "If you ever need anything, I'll be there for you."
Gratitude
Looking back, I wish I could've sat on Rob Thomson's couch for a few moments longer to open my heart and let these men know the depths of my gratitude. But, I was still in shock. So I only shook hands, hugged them, and told them how honored I was to be a part of this team. That was a brief expression of what I hope to fully convey right now...
Rob Thomson is my first and only big league manager. I hope to have another one someday, but there is only one "first." Thoms has an incredible knack of making everyone feel like they belong. He cares about the person, not just the player. And that goes a long way. The Phillies will have a great clubhouse while Thoms is steering the ship and he deserves all the praise. I ride with Philly Rob. Thoms, thank you for making my first Big League experience truly unforgettable.
Cal and I clicked from the first time we met. His love for his players is felt by his calming demeanor and encouraging words. Every time Cal came to get me because bad news was coming, he always uplifted me (especially on Monday), letting me know how valued I am. And I doubt I am the only one to experience his support. He knows how hard we work and honors our efforts for the team. Cal, I love you too. Thank you for believing in me.
Dave is a genius. His reputation precedes himself, and rightfully so. The team constructed in Philadelphia is top-notch and I know the Phillies will be contenders for years to come. And despite his lofty position, he is kind and always says hello when given the chance. Even when he delivers hard news, he is brutally honest, yet compassionate. A rare needle to thread. Dave, thank you for giving me a chance to make my dreams come true in 2022.
Sam was my first call when I wanted to come back in 2021. We talked for 15-20 minutes on that phone call in November 2020. We mostly reminisced on our separate experiences playing for legendary Stanford coach, Mark Marquess. But he also was excited to get me plugged back into the lines of communication so I could attempt this crazy and unlikely comeback. Sam is both smart and approachable, the qualities that make a great GM. Sam, thank you for letting me come back to the Phillies. I am forever a Phillie because of your support.
Caleb is one of the brightest guys I know in the game. He has a clear passion for coaching pitchers. It isn't just the knowledge he has, but the ability to communicate clearly and in a way that actually helps. I came into spring training and he helped me develop a cutter. It's a pitch I saw get better each time out. I can't wait to keep working on it. Caleb, the level of care you showed me and the things you taught me this spring will make me better. Thank you.
Note: I'll keep my public thanks to these five for brevity's sake. But the list of the people I am truly grateful for goes on and on. And they will each know the extents of my gratitude in due time. The Phillies have the highest class of people working for them.
My mind is racing. And my heart is haywire.
"I'm no longer a Phillie," I realize.
It hits me as I walk back into the locker room. Around me, everything is normal. Rhys is getting dressed for the game. Nick is listening to music. Scott and Jake are eating lunch at the same table Cal summoned me from just a few minutes ago.
A few minutes ago. Just a few minutes ago...
But now, everything is different.
"What do I even do?" Questions race through my mind. "Should I continue with my work for the day? Can I still sit in the bullpen at the game? Do I just start packing my stuff?"
There's no guidebook for this.
I default to "work," walking back into the training room. "At the very least, I should finish what I need for my elbow," I convince myself.
Alex, still treating a player, looks at me and says, "Give me about 15 minutes."
"Perfect," I think. "Just enough time for a good cry."
Grief
To explain how grief works is an exercise in futility. One person cries. The next puts on a brave face. Another gets angry. And the last might search for laughter. Why people react differently is a mystery to me. One isn't better than any other.
One thing I do know is that I feel grief when I've lost something or someone. In fact, that is a pretty good definition for it:
Grief is the natural response to loss in life.
But it doesn't come from losing anything. It's the response to losing what I deeply love, what I'm incredibly grateful for. I never shed a tear when my socks wear holes.
But what about losing my team, my family? What about losing some of my closest relationships? What about losing the opportunity to do what I love with the people I love? What about losing the future hopes and dreams of being part of another potential World Series run?
And what if losing all those things happened because I didn't perform? What if it was my fault?
Is grief appropriate then? And if so, how much?
As I leave the training room, I start to wonder. "Is there even a good place to cry at work? Laundry room? Bathroom stall? An empty closet somewhere? What about my car? Yeah, I guess my car could work..."
Grabbing my keys, I navigate the clubhouse hallways, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone and everyone. Once outside, I walk to the parking lot.
Unlock. Open door. Get in. Close door. Lock. Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Don't suppress it. Let it come."
Then...
Relief and Shame
It's a strange thing to weep in your car at work when you're a 6-foot 5-inch, 240 pound, 31-year-old pro athlete, but there I was.
In many ways, crying provided relief.
Relief because there really is nothing like a good cry. It gets that weight of your chest, even if only for a moment. Feeling sadness when sad things happen is part of being a whole and healthy human. In some strange way, knowing I can still cry is validation that my heart and soul are nourished.
But after the tears dried up, I felt shame. For two main reasons.
First, because I'm a man. I'm strong. I've played baseball in front of tens of thousands of people, unfazed. I'm supposed to be stoic, holding my head high in moments of loss and defeat. Tears won't change anything. I should continue moving forward, never looking back.
And second, because my loss isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. I still have opportunities. I still have food on my table and a bed to sleep in. I still have a pretty great life, in all honesty. Countless others have loved more, lost more, and been through much worse. Heck, I've been through much worse.
So, what gives me the right to grieve like this? What gives me the right to grieve at all?
The Anti-Grief Culture
After the loss of her dad, followed by two miscarriages in the span of 7 months, Anglican priest Tish Harrison Warren has earned a voice in the grief conversation. In her book, Prayer in the Night, she acknowledges that her experience, as difficult as it is, is the reality for an untold number of people who have lost their parents. Or babies. Or loved ones. Or all the above.
As she is questioning her own right to grieve, she says this:
"I thought that the goodness of my life deemed me unqualified to say much about grief. 'It could be worse' was a family mantra..." (Prayer in the Night, pg. 38)
In her season of grief, she acknowledged all she was thankful for, all that she still had: her family and friends, her church, food and shelter. She still had a good life. The only people that have the right to mourn, in her mind, are those that are dealing with unspeakable tragedies, not something as commonplace as losing her dad or having a miscarriage.
But that ultimately didn't sit right. She knew she was justified in her grief, despite the other good things in her life.
Warren grew up in the South, which taught her a form of "Stoic" Christianity. It teaches its followers to believe in God, but don't let suffering overcome you with grief. Follow Jesus, but don't bring him your pain or sorrow. Hold your head high in the storm.
She goes on to say:
“I don’t think this (Stoic mentality) is bad at all. In a culture that’s increasingly committed to nursing every grievance, there’s deep wisdom in being able to name what is right and whole about life, to keep moving forward despite obstacles, to have a wider perspective, to look hardship in the eye and laugh.
But the dark side of this resistance to grief is that we do not learn to grieve ordinary suffering and loss—the commonplace but nonetheless heavy burden we each carry.”
What if grief should be a regular part of life? What if I start seeing grief as I do joy: a part of the normal rhythms of being human? What if I stop resisting grief? What if I see grief as the cost of being emotionally and spiritually alive?
Twenty minutes later, my arm is in the ice bath. I'm finishing my treatment for the day, looking at my phone, just waiting to see the announcement on Twitter. Then, it comes:
"The Phillies have released Mark Appel."
With a towel over my head, in the corner of the hydrotherapy room, tears come flooding back. Reality sets in again and again.
"Well, no hiding it anymore," I think.
Going back to the locker room, I shower and pack my bags. As I am clearing out my locker, my teammates assume I am being reassigned to minor league camp. So when I tell them I've been released, they show the same expression of shock I'm sure I had when I found out.
We don't get to say, "See you later."
Now it's, "Goodbye. And good luck. With everything."
An hour later, all attention is on the game happening in the stadium. The clubhouse is empty. And quiet. Eerie and serene.
I pick up my red bags, filled with my red shoes, shorts, shirts, and jerseys, and start walking. I walk down the long hallway I've walked many times before. I walk to my car and load my bags. I hop in, start the engine and drive away.
One last time.
So, What's Next?
I love playing baseball. Ever since I came back to the game in 2021, being in the clubhouse and competing at the highest level possible has been a joy. It's not only something I want to keep doing, but is something I know I can. I know I can help a team win.
So, the first thing I'll do is work. I'll go back home to Houston and continue to rehab, throw, and do everything I need to be ready when an opportunity arises. Getting released doesn't mean the work stops.
Second, I will choose gratitude. Yes, the future is wildly uncertain. But this is where the rubber meets the road. On Sunday, I wrote about choosing gratitude over anxiety. Now it's time to practice what I preach. I want to be a man who holds my head high, being proud of all I have accomplished in my career. I have much to be thankful for and will choose to be grateful for all the gifts in my life.
Lastly, I will grieve. When loss comes, I want to recognize it as loss. And though small and ordinary compared to tragedies around the world, this loss is real and it’s mine. And I know I have experienced loss because I have loved deeply. So, as I grieve, I will let any sadness, anger, fear, or regret that rises to the top come out. And I will give my soul the space and time it needs to heal.
Don't suppress it. Let it come.
