Coming Back Stronger (11 page)

The night we arrived back in Birmingham, I talked with Tom, my agent. When I told him about what I’d seen in New Orleans, I felt like a young Marine who had just witnessed his first day of combat. I still needed to process a lot of what I’d seen and felt while I was there. But Tom could already tell which direction I was leaning.

The money was almost identical from both teams, so that really wasn’t a huge factor. New Orleans was ready to sign a deal if I wanted it. The Dolphins were studying the MRI and the physicals I had been through while I was in Miami. I was confident the results would come back great and perhaps I’d get some of the affirmation I’d been hoping for during my visit. My heart was definitely being tugged toward New Orleans, but I hadn’t closed the door on the possibility of Miami at that point. The decision was coming down to this: What organization do I want to be part of? What city do I want to call home? What community will Brittany and I raise our future children in? Who really believes in me?

Tom had a different take on Miami’s approach. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “Here’s what’s going to happen: Miami will call tomorrow. They’re going to say that the physical didn’t turn out as well as they had hoped. They’re going to threaten to pull the offer.”

“You know this?”

“Not only do I know it, but I can pretty much guarantee it.”

Sure enough, the next day the phone rang. It was Miami. They gave Tom the runaround about the deal and said there were problems with my physical. Tom had nailed it.

As the discussion continued with Miami, I kept feeling this steady pull toward New Orleans. The calling didn’t hit me all at once—it was more like a progression of realizing how God was directing us. In some ways, it paralleled my experience with Brittany at Purdue. I continued to see her over and over after our first encounter on my twentieth birthday. It was like God kept allowing our paths to cross. I couldn’t forget about her. Now I had to wonder if it wasn’t just a mistake that we took that wrong turn and saw those sights in New Orleans. I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that maybe I belonged in New Orleans, that God was opening doors there for a purpose.

I didn’t understand it all, I didn’t have it figured out, but I knew in my gut that there was an opportunity presenting itself. I was trying to rebuild my shoulder and my career, the organization was rebuilding its reputation and reestablishing itself, and the city was restoring not only the homes but also the lives of its people. Why not do this together and lean on each other in the process? We were all going through the same struggles and battling the same doubts. The vision was starting to crystallize as Brittany and I weighed both sides.

What I kept coming back to when I processed all the issues was the fact that the Saints wanted me. That was what I’d struggled with over the past five years with the Chargers. I didn’t have their respect. I hadn’t felt supported or fully appreciated. But here was a community and an organization welcoming me with open arms, saying that I was their guy. They wanted me to be part of their team. They thought I could come back and play as well as, if not better than, before. They believed in me.

I called Tom Condon, and we discussed the options some more. “It sounds like you want to do the deal with New Orleans,” he said. “You want me to get it done now?”

“I do, but I have to make one call first.”

This probably seemed pretty odd to Tom, but he knows me well enough to understand what I was about to do.

Before I made my final decision, I had to know where Miami stood. I had heard what they’d told my agent. But that could have been a bargaining strategy. What was going through Nick Saban’s brain in Miami? Would he pick up the phone and say, “I don’t care what the doctors say—you’re a winner, and we want you here”? In my heart I needed to know exactly how Saban was feeling. Then, when I walked away from this, I’d have closure. I wanted to have that measure of peace with my decision, leaving nothing to chance. This way I’d never have to look back and wonder what might have been.

I hung up and dialed Nick’s office. His secretary answered, and my call was directed to his office.

“Coach, it’s Drew Brees. I had a conversation with my agent, and I have a question for you.”

“Sure, Drew.”

Deep breath. “I heard that my medical reports came back and your doctors didn’t like what they saw.”

“Right. Well, you know, our doctors have given you a 25 percent chance of coming back and playing. I don’t know what else to trust or look at other than what our medical people tell us. They’re professionals, and they know what they’re doing and how to interpret those tests. We’d still love to have you, but . . . that number we talked about earlier might have to change.”

I understood that he was in a tough spot. He was facing the restrictions of their salary cap while still trying to put together a championship team. The doctors had given him the reports, and he had to trust them.

“You have to understand our situation. If we sign you for this amount of money and all of a sudden you can’t play, it puts us in a really difficult position down the road. That’s a lot of money going to a guy who’s not contributing to the team. And then I won’t be able to pay other players to fill that void.”

Another breath. “Coach, I know what your doctors believe about me. My question is, what do you believe? Do you believe that I can come back and be better than I was before and lead your team to a championship?”

I already knew how New Orleans had answered that question. Now I needed to hear what Miami had to say.

Nick Saban paused.

That was really all I needed to hear. His pause told me everything.

“Well, Drew,” he said, “I would still love to have you, but I have to trust what our medical people are saying. . . .”

He went on from there, basically repeating what he had said before, like he was reading from a script. But I was starting to tune out. By then I had all the information I needed. I had made my decision. Now the only question was how I was going to deliver it.

When Nick finished, I said, “You know what, Coach Saban, thank you very much for your time. I appreciate your interest. I appreciate the visit and the invitation to come down there. I’m going to New Orleans.”

Click.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to do that. In the world of negotiating, that type of reveal is verboten for someone in my position. I knew the organization was trying to get me for as little money as possible. They thought they had me. Now I’d flat out told them I was going to New Orleans. But in that moment I couldn’t resist the honest disclosure.

As soon as I hung up, I knew what would happen on the other end. Coach Saban would call their general manager and tell him to do the deal with Daunte Culpepper. But the minute I was off the table, they had no bargaining leverage. I had just thrown a wrench in their negotiations.

Immediately I called my agent. “Tom, do the deal with New Orleans.”

The Comeback

From the very beginning in New Orleans, there was a warmth from the people that confirmed this was where we were supposed to be. When we ate in the chef’s kitchen at Emeril’s restaurant, he left a cookbook for me at the table. I opened the front cover and saw he had signed it.

To Drew: You sign with the Saints, and I’ll be cooking your first meal for you in your house here in New Orleans. Emeril Lagasse

As we walked through the restaurant and down the street, I was amazed by how many people randomly came up to us. “Hey, I’ve been a fan of yours since college. We’d love to have you in our city.”

I had anticipated the feeling that this was a city on its way out, but that’s not what we discovered at all. Instead, we found a tight-knit, welcoming community filled with people who are deeply rooted in the city they love. When they realized Brittany and I were considering making that area our home, they opened their arms to us. Their energy and optimism for their community showed us what could be done in New Orleans. Despite the tragedy of the hurricane and the devastation and mismanagement that followed, there was hope. There was life. And no matter how desolate things might have appeared on the outside, if you went deeper, you could feel a strong heartbeat in the city.

I had no doubt when I signed the contract with New Orleans that this was the right place for us. But at the same time, I felt a sense of fear and angst because there was such a big job ahead. Just rehabbing my shoulder felt at times like I was giving every ounce that I had. To rebuild a team and organization, then a stadium, and then an entire city—those were huge tasks beyond the scope of human capability. When I looked at the challenges before us, it was overwhelming, and I hoped I could fulfill my role and do my part.

However, I clung to the belief that if God calls you to it, he will give you the power to walk through it. He will give you the tools required to accomplish the task. He will give you the heart, the resolve, and the fortitude you need. In one sense, I’m glad the task was so much bigger than any person or team could achieve. It forced me to rely on God and other people in new ways—this wasn’t something I could try to pull off by myself. And if we had any success, everyone would know we couldn’t have achieved it by human effort alone. There was something—Someone—bigger involved.

I compare the feeling I had right then with the butterflies I get before a game. There’s an excitement, a nervousness, that comes prior to any big event, and no matter how much you prepare, no matter how confident you are, you still have a bit of fear and anxiety mixed with anticipation. At the core of that is a feeling of responsibility. I have a task to complete, and I want to bring my best today.

The Bible says, “To whom much is given . . . much will be required.” I know I have been given a lot throughout my life. I’ve been blessed with a ton of tremendous opportunities. I’ve been surrounded by unbelievable people—family, mentors, coaches, teachers, friends, my wife and soul mate. These people have supported me and helped mold me into who I am. They’ve given me the confidence to attempt some things that are too big for me to handle on my own. Every time I walk onto the field or stand in front of a group to raise awareness for our foundation or pick up a hammer to work on rebuilding a house in the Lower Ninth Ward, I feel this sense of responsibility on my shoulders. I want to give back a little of what has been given to me and in some way pay it forward to those who otherwise might not have as many opportunities as I’ve been given.

But before I could really dig in to the rebuilding process in New Orleans, I had to move further down my own long road to recovery. And I wasn’t prepared for how long or painful it would be.

Ever since I was little, whether I was playing baseball or football, I’ve always had a strong arm. It didn’t matter if I was tossing the ball in the yard with my brother, Reid; playing a pickup game on the playground; or participating in organized ball—there was a certain feeling I had when I could zing the ball to a friend and hit him right in the chest. There was nothing like the sound of a fastball popping a catcher’s mitt or the thump of a football hitting your target in the chest. Sometimes my teammates got upset with me back then. “Why are you throwing so hard, Drew?” I wasn’t doing it on purpose. Well, not all the time, anyway. But that throwing arm has always had fire in it. It is my gift.

As I grew up, it was like the football became an extension of me. Pitchers talk about the almost-magical feel of the baseball in their hands, and quarterbacks over the years have tried to describe the sensation that comes over them when they’re holding a football. I can’t quite explain it, except to say it feels like there’s an energy source there. When a player picks up the ball, it’s as if it comes to life in his hands.

I have a certain comfort level when I’m holding a football. It gives me a sense of strength but also responsibility. It clears my head and allows me to focus. When you have the ball, you feel like you are holding the sword of King Leonidas of Sparta, leading your team into battle. When you’re in control of this thing in your hands, you have the power to do great things and ultimately determine if your team wins or loses.

For someone like me who had lived all of my conscious life with a ball in my hands, it was excruciating to suddenly be stripped of a football. This wasn’t just my job or my hobby; it was my love. And to add to the pressure, now I had a new team that was counting on me—in a city still recovering from a major disaster. The people were excited. The coaches were ready. Mentally and emotionally I was primed. But my doctors said my body wasn’t there yet. I wanted to turn the dogs loose, but they were holding me back, telling me to pace myself. They knew that at this point my biggest threat for reinjury was myself.

I kept pushing Dr. Andrews to let me throw. After all, I had gotten out of the sling a week early. I had full range of motion about three weeks earlier than he’d predicted. I was continuing to progress further and further ahead of schedule. Call it the magic of God’s healing along with the commitment and desire he gave me. The other big motivator for me was fear of failure—fear that I wouldn’t be able to come back at all or that I would let down those who had invested so much in me. Every day I was confident I could come back even better, but there was still that sliver of anxiety in the back of my mind that gave me a drive to push myself each day. But Dr. Andrews just smiled and reminded me about the importance of letting the shoulder heal. “Remember, it’s not healed yet. Let the shoulder rehab take its course. No throwing for four months.” He wouldn’t budge on that one.

The throwing motion he was concerned about was the shoulder’s external/internal rotation. Also, as I release the ball over my head when I’m throwing, my arm is put in a similar position to where it was when it dislocated. There were plenty of precautions to be taken, but that’s why we had worked so hard to gain range of motion and strength back in my shoulder. The biggest concern was that I would push my shoulder too far in the rehab process and accidentally pop an anchor, which would require another surgery and put me right back to square one. I could not afford any setbacks.

At certain times during my rehab exercises, I would feel something stretching in my shoulder like rubber bands. It would actually make a squeaking sound, like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz or nails on a chalkboard. It’s a weird feeling to have something foreign inside your body holding you together, and it’s even stranger to be able to feel it working. But it was working, so I couldn’t complain. Without those anchors, I wouldn’t have had a chance.

Kevin Wilk saw the progress I was making, and he knew it was time for me to pick up a ball again. There’s no test that can tell you it’s time to begin throwing, so he judged it all by feel. Shortly before the fourth month, ahead of schedule, Dr. Andrews gave me the go-ahead. I was finally ready to throw again!