Shane Greene walks down a cold, busy hallway in Comerica Park, outside the entrance to the Detroit Tigers' clubhouse. He is wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off, the hood pulled over his head.
It is about six hours before the Tigers will play a night game, but he's already at the ballpark, getting ready and going through his pregame routine.
Here is the Tigers closer, a former starter who has overcome injuries and surgeries, demotions and doubts, not to mention a couple of cold, numb fingers _ a problem that still persists. Even when it's hot outside and sweat runs down his face, his fingers will turn cold like he's pitching in a snowstorm.
So he keeps a hand warmer in his pocket.
You cope and adjust.
"A lot of people would have probably given up," Greene says. "Once the door was open for me, it was this or nothing. I didn't have an education. Even when I was in school, I didn't know what I wanted to do. When the door was open, it was this or nothing."
So he became a relief pitcher, learning a routine through trial and error.
"The first day they put me in the pen, Justin Wilson came up to me and said, 'Do you know what you are going to do for your routine?'" Greene said.
"Dude, I have no idea."
Wilson _ now a pitcher with the New York Mets _ laughed, as Greene recalls, then said, "I don't give a crap what you do, but do something and do it every day."
"All right," Greene said. "That's a start."
You cope and adjust. So Greene, the American League's saves leader, is at the ballpark, roughly eight or nine hours before he might pitch, or might not, doing his routine, following Wilson's advice _ do something, and do it every day.
Blessing in disguise? Believe it
You want to know the best thing that ever happened to Greene? He blew out his elbow.
And his unusual, unsupervised rehab unlocked a major-league arm.
Greene suffered an elbow injury during his freshman season at the University of West Florida and had Tommy John surgery in May 2008. He lost his scholarship and was trying to do rehab with his roommate, Matt Collins, who also was recovering from the same surgery.
They enrolled at Daytona Beach Community College, even though they couldn't officially join the team because they were injured.
So they did their rehab on their own. "We had no coaches, no doctors, no nothing, telling us anything," Greene says. "It was all off of feel."
They would hop a fence and sneak onto a Little League field so that Greene could do long-toss in the outfield. They would throw in a parking lot outside their apartment, if there weren't a lot of cars. Or they would throw behind the apartment building by the edge of a lake. They would run, lift and throw some more without a real plan. They made it up as they went.
"Basically, wherever we could get it done," Greene says.
Sometimes, Greene felt a frightening pain while throwing and feared he had blown out his elbow again. "It's a scary kind of pain when you are rehabbing," Greene says. "You don't feel strong, your confidence isn't really there yet. There were multiple times when both of us said, 'Hey, let's try again tomorrow. Hopefully, I just didn't blow this thing out.'"
His work ethic came from a deep-seated paranoia _ he figured if he thought about working out and didn't do it, he would be punished for it, like he was giving up on himself. He refused to be outworked. He refused to give up on himself.
Before he was injured, he was throwing in the mid-80s.
But he started lifting weights for the first time in his life and his arm started to get stronger through his throwing program on the Little League field and inside the parking lot. Stronger than it had ever been.
About a year after his surgery, he threw his first bullpen session and realized:
"OK, I'll be able to pitch this summer."
He contacted Jeff Deardorff, a Yankees scout and longtime family friend.
"I wanted him to reach out to some universities or even community colleges to come watch me pitch," Greene says. "Maybe get a baseball scholarship."
Deardorff agreed to watch Greene throw a bullpen session at Bishop Field, in Clermont, Fla., the field Greene had grown up playing on. Greene was on the mound, throwing to his best friend, Gary Decker, who wasn't even a catcher. Decker's 10-year-old sister, Hannah, stood behind an L-screen with a radar gun, as Greene started to pitch.
"Hannah, how hard was that?" Deardorff asked.
"92," Hannah said.
Greene had never thrown over 90 in his life.
"No, seriously," Deardorff said
"It was 92," she said.
Deardorff walked behind the L-screen and watched.
"I get done," Greene says. "I didn't know what to expect. He said, 'They send me around the state to find guys do what you just showed me. Do you wanna play pro ball?'"
"That's a stupid question," Greene said. "Obviously."
"When's the next time you can pitch again?" Deardorff asked.
"At this point, I had no idea how fast I would bounce back," Greene says. "I said, 'Give me five or six days.'"
Five days later, the same people showed up to the same field, but Deardorff brought along another scout. Once again, Greene hit 92 on the gun.
"When can you do it again?" Deardorff asked.
Five or six days later, Greene threw at the Yankees' complex in Tampa, Fla.
"I faced some extended spring training guys in a scrimmage game," Greene says. "I threw one inning and struck out two guys. When I came off the mound, Deardorff was right there waiting on me, right outside the fence. He was smiling from ear to ear. He was like, 'Do you know how hard you were throwing?'"
Greene had no idea.
"You were 93, 94." Deardorff said
Ten days later, the Yankees took him in the 15th round of the 2009 MLB draft.
Greene didn't even notice. He was playing Call of Duty, the popular video game, with Gary Decker.
