Boston Globe Online / Magazine

'); //-->

Sox Doc | Continued

Page 1 | Page 2
Single-page view

he players liked Morgan, but it was still Pappas's show. Widely respected as a godfather of sports medicine, Pappas was also something of a local legend. While Sox players came and went, he never went anywhere. For 25 years, Sox fans who picked up their morning paper invariably read some reference to Pappas. Usually, they were basic medical updates (so-and-so has some tightness in his shoulder), but increasingly the story became about him.

In 1995, then Sox second baseman Marty Barrett won a $1.7 million malpractice suit against Pappas for misdiagnosing a 1990 knee injury. In the late 1990s, Butch Henry, Tim Naehring, Lou Merloni, and Brian Rose all complained that Pappas misdiagnosed their injuries. And in 1999, an unusually vocal scene erupted in the Sox clubhouse when pitcher Tom Gordon announced to teammates that the torn ligament in his elbow was not improving. While Pappas had said the tear was healing, a renowned orthopedic surgeon, James Andrews, disagreed and recommended an MRI. Players joked loudly about the medical care they received from Pappas, and when manager Jimy Williams limped through the clubhouse with an injured foot, one player suggested he get it checked out. "I know who you shouldn't let look at it," another player said, referring to Pappas.

While Pappas has devoted supporters -- including Morgan, many orthopedic doctors, and current and former Red Sox players and professional athletes -- his small ownership stake in the team provided the appearance to some of a conflict of interest. Several players wondered whether they were being rushed back to service because Pappas was more worried about wins and losses than their health. Pappas has always denied this allegation.

There have been no similar charges against Morgan since he took over for Pappas two years ago. "Everyone on the team likes him," says infielder Millar. "The fact that guys on this team asked that he stay as doctor is a testament to how much people respect him. You just trust the guy."

Morgan has endeared himself to the players by following what he says is a simple philosophy: "I treat the players like my patients first and as employees of the organization second. These guys move around so much, many don't have primary care physicians. So I take care of them, I take care of their families. Mostly, I try to treat them like I would any other patient."

But it's not quite that simple. Most of Morgan's other patients aren't worth millions of dollars, nor are their employers obsessed with their MRI results. After all, team doctors report to management. Still, Morgan says that he's only required to reveal what would negatively affect a player's performance on the field. For example, if a player were to test positive for HIV when the test is offered each spring, Morgan says that information would stay between him and the player. "HIV doesn't impact on their ability to do their job," he says. "Fortunately, we haven't had that situation come up." The same confidentiality goes for a player on steroids. "If I suspect a player, I will take him aside and have a conversation about the downsides of the drug," he says. "The remainder of the discussion is based on the honesty that ensues. But I'm not going to lecture him. The fact is that these guys are professional athletes looking for any edge to be the best they can be. Fortunately, if I look around this team and think about who I might suspect, I would say the percentage of players on steroids is very low."

Morgan says that he must be increasingly careful about what he tells the press. In May, strict new Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act guidelines made it illegal for doctors to reveal any medical information without getting the permission of the patient. "A few weeks ago, if a writer came to me and asked, 'How's Nomar's wrist?' I would say, 'Well, it's doing well. We did this, we did that,' " Morgan says. "But now, because of HIPAA, players have to sign a form that says I can talk to the press. In the past, I would never talk to the media anyway without running it by the player first, but this just makes it more complicated, and I can say a lot less. My general philosophy is to say very little. I'm not sure who that upsets more: the press or the hard-core fantasy-league guys who spend their spare time reading injury reports."

Bill Morgan at Fenway Park. Though he was never much good at baseball, the physician has always been fascinated by the game. (Photo / Christopher Churchill)

edro Martinez strolls into the Red Sox training room wearing blue spandex shorts, a red long-sleeve shirt, a white bandana, red socks, and blue flip-flops. It's the bottom of the fourth inning on a February-like Friday night in May, and Martinez, who is coming off a stellar outing in a 12-3 blowout of the Texas Rangers, is in a good mood.

"Everyone is getting hot at the same time," the pitcher says, taking his shirt off and sitting on the training table. Morgan has three body parts on the agenda tonight: Martinez's right shoulder, which is arguably watched more closely than any right shoulder in the history of the world; his left knee, which is emitting some sort of popping sound; and his right groin muscle, which he pulled two starts ago.

Martinez likes Morgan enough to let me sit in on this checkup, which is normally off-limits to anyone who has ever written for a living. Martinez rarely speaks to the media, which only adds to the endless intrigue surrounding his health. But he loves talking about Morgan, and in a prior conversation, he told me why so many Sox players trust their doctor. "He looks you in the eye, he's honest, and he's one of the best in the business," Martinez said. "He takes time to explain everything, so you understand the options. He respects you as a person. With my shoulder, he was looking at every option except surgery."

Morgan usually examines Martinez the day after his starts. Today, he stands behind Martinez and orders him to raise his arms. As he runs through several exercises to test his strength and fluidity of motion, Morgan playfully compliments Martinez on his shoulder. "Look at that muscle mass," Morgan says, although, unlike with Pesky, he isn't kidding. Martinez has bulked up considerably during the last year, and his upper body (particularly his shoulders) looks healthy and strong. Martinez smiles and flexes his muscles.

With his shoulder in the clear, Morgan moves on to Martinez's left knee. "It pops," Martinez says. Morgan suspects it's a simple case of synovial plica (a thickening of the lining of the joint), but he extends the knee and puts pressure on it to check that there isn't any torn cartilage. There isn't. Finally, it's on to Martinez's groin, which he complains is still sore. Morgan tells Martinez to lie on his back, stretching his right leg out to the side. Morgan says he's palpating the muscle, looking for any tears. "Cough real loud," Morgan says. Martinez coughs real loud. "Does that hurt?" Morgan asks him, pulling Martinez's leg out to the side again. Martinez says it doesn't. Later, Morgan tells me that he's checking to make sure the soreness isn't actually a hernia. "I just wanted to be sure we weren't missing the boat," he says.

With the pulling and stretching done, Martinez sits up, and we all watch the Sox game on the training-room television. "Hey Doc, weren't you in that list of top doctors that Boston Magazine does?" Martinez asks out of the blue. Morgan says he isn't sure. "You should be," Martinez says. "You're name comes up all the time as one of the best."

"Well, there's no accounting for taste," Morgan says, exhibiting his occasionally self-deprecating sense of humor. Morgan smiles, but he looks tired.

A self-described workaholic who leaves his house in Boylston at 5 a.m. and doesn't return until midnight after night games, Morgan knows he has traded a social life for the chance to take care of the Red Sox. He says it's not a difficult choice, and only partly because being the team doctor of a Major League club does wonders for a career. "There's no doubt that the perception out there is that if you're good enough to take care of Nomar and the Red Sox, then you must be good enough to take care of Joe Blow," Morgan says. "Having your name in the paper all the time keeps the phones ringing, and it does wonders for [my practice] at St. Elizabeth's. But that's not what it's about for me. I do this because the chance to take care of elite athletes is just too exciting to pass up. What these guys can do is really superhuman, and being around that and helping them perform at their peak isn't really work to me."

The players notice Morgan's dedication. "The doc probably should try to get out more," jokes Millar. "He's here all the time."

On a frigid May night at Fenway, Morgan says he "wouldn't have it any other way. If my other option tonight was sitting at home with a beer watching the tube, I'd rather be doing this."

Benoit Denizet-Lewis also writes for The New York Times Magazine and teaches nonfiction writing at Emerson College and Tufts University.

Page 1 | Page 2
Single-page view