Ben McDonald stood in the clubhouse, the eyes of the Orioles’ hopefuls staring back at him.

Some of the players were just getting started, fighting every day to get the attention of major league coaches. Others had been through this many times.

His message, as a guest instructor at spring training this year, applied to all: Enjoy every moment on a baseball field. Because, he told them, you’ll never know when it’s your last.

Every player must learn that lesson at some point, but many come to terms with it too late. The harsh reality of their career ending — and the fame, money and sense of purpose that come with it — is hard to prepare for.

Brian Matusz, a former Orioles pitcher who died at the age of 37 this year, turned toward drugs as his problems on the mound led to a move to the bullpen, according to new reporting from The Baltimore Banner. He died, alone in his home, of a suspected drug overdose.

Although his death startled former teammates, they knew Matusz had struggled with losing the game that had given his life structure. Many athletes do.

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The unraveling of a former Orioles pitcher

Jun 12, 2025

In 1998, when shoulder injuries ended his career at the age of 29, McDonald found himself miserable and on the edge of losing his family.

He didn’t want to parent his kids. He picked fights with his wife. He was depressed — baseball was all he knew and now, not at his own choosing, it was over. It took him more than a year of therapy, he said, to come out on the other side and a lot of apologizing to his family to get through it.

“I was bitter; you go through all these emotions of ‘Why did it have to happen to me?’” he said. “I’m in the prime of my career, I’m just starting to figure it out, and then all of a sudden you can’t do it anymore.”

McDonald was lucky. His wife pushed him into therapy, and he got help before it was too late. He found a purpose in broadcasting and a passion for helping the next generation.

McDonald thought he was alone during that dark period — that no one else experienced this lost, drifting feeling. Turns out almost every one of his former teammates could relate. Too many former players turn to alcohol and drugs, anything to try to numb the feelings and avoid asking for help, so as not to appear weak, he said.

Matusz’s death showed how dire the mental health battle is.

“I kind of got to choose when I stopped playing, but it doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard,” said Zack Britton, one of Matusz’s closest teammates. “You get home and you dedicate your whole life to something when you are a little boy in Little League, and then you get there. ... It’s tough when you dedicate your life to something and then it ends and you’re like, ‘Who am I? What do I do now?’”

It’s not a problem unique to baseball. Michael Phelps, the most decorated swimmer of all time, and former NBA player Shaquille O’Neal openly talk about the depression they faced when their careers ended.

Michelle Pannor Silver, an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology and the Interdisciplinary Centre for Health and Society at the University of Toronto, interviewed over 100 retired elite athletes for her book “Retirement and its Disconnects,” which followed former athletes adjusting to life after sports. Nearly all, she said, struggled with an identity crisis when they hung up their uniforms.

“Even the ones who went on and became coaches and maintained a different job, they all had this sense of rejection,” Silver said. “Whether their bodies stopped being able to compete at that level or because their coaches replaced them, they all felt a sense of loss, a profound sense of loss because their personal identity was deeply intertwined with this.”

Other professionals with all-consuming jobs struggle to adjust to retirement, she found, but athletes have an additional challenge to overcome: time. Their window to excel in their sport is short, often leaving former athletes with decades of time to fill.

“We don’t think of retirement as something that is a young person’s thing to do,” Silver said. “Athletes tend to retire with these physical injuries or physical ailments; it does sometimes mimic things that happen later in life. So there is all this stuff that you just have to deal with earlier, and I guess because they’re like superhuman we just expect that they will figure it out.”

Matusz, the fourth overall pick in 2008, was a highly touted prospect who found success in the majors his first full season, pitching to a 4.30 ERA in 30 starts in 2010. Injuries caught up to him, and he was put in the bullpen for good in 2012, a move he saw as a demotion.

It’s unclear when he started taking drugs, but Taylor Palmer, a childhood friend, had concerns about his usage starting in 2014. Teammates interviewed for this story would not say if they knew about his usage during his time with the Orioles, nor would manager Buck Showalter.

Matusz began the 2016 season on the injured list, then returned to give up eight earned runs in six innings. He was traded to the Atlanta Braves, who designated him for assignment, and made one more big league appearance: a “Sunday Night Baseball” meltdown with the Cubs that season.

Still, Matusz always thought he was just one step away from a comeback, Palmer said. He signed a minor league deal with the Diamondbacks, his hometown team, in 2017 but pitched only 17 2/3 innings in Triple-A. Two years later he went to play in Mexico, making one appearance, and for the Long Island Ducks (he had a 4.05 ERA over nine starts in independent ball).

He told Palmer his arm felt like it was going to fall off, yet he became enraged at the idea of his career ending. His ex-wife said Matusz spit in her face when she said his career was over in May 2019.

Former teammates say he isolated himself once he was out of the game and never seemed to find a new purpose or something to get him out of bed.

“I couldn’t really pry from him what was next. That was concerning,” former teammate Caleb Joseph said. “I think that might have been part of the issue: seclusion. Seclusion is like gas on the fire of certain problems. The more people I’ve talked to, it seems like people were trying to get him more involved with certain things, even potentially moving to restart and try to find some other avenues to be productive at or chase or learn about or enjoy, and it just seemed like he was stuck in a bit of a Groundhog’s Day.”

Matusz’s former teammates and others in the baseball community now wonder if there was more they could have done — and what the sport can do to prevent this from happening in the future.

There are mental health resources to help current players, including mental skills coaches and, as of last season, confidential alternatives through the players association. But those are geared toward dealing with the stress of playing, not figuring out life when they retire.

Charlie Morton, the Orioles’ starting pitcher who is in his 18th major league season, said he contemplated retirement a decade ago when he needed elbow reconstruction surgery and again during each of the last five offseasons. He said he’s glad the conversations while players are active are centered on the present, because they only get one chance to play.

“I would hope someone from the PA is not going to call me and be like, ‘Hey, man, we need to talk about your next career,’ because you are insinuating that I’m not going to continue playing,” he said.

Morton already knows, though, that he will soon have to figure out a purpose outside of the game. Having the clarity needed to take the right next steps in the midst of mourning the loss of a game he’s played for decades will be the difficult part.

There are programs available for retired players. The Baseball Assistance Team, run by Major League Baseball, provides grants to former players to help pay for addiction recovery treatment, housing, medical expenses, health insurance or food and household necessities. The program also offers scholarships for educational or vocational opportunities.

The Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association hosts summits twice a year for current and former players and their wives that introduce them to different career paths, from broadcasting to real estate. They learn resume-writing and interview skills, and anything else they might need to land a job.

Jerry Hairston Jr., a former Oriole, is now an MLBPAA board member and a broadcaster for the Los Angeles Dodgers.

“I don’t care who you are or how successful you’ve been in the game of baseball,” he said, “if you’ve had a great career, your career is probably done at age 38 or 40. That’s playing 15 to 20 years in the big leagues. You have probably another 40 to 50 years left in your life. You want to be able to do something productive. It doesn’t matter if you have a ton of money in the bank. You need something meaningful in your life. It gives these guys different ideas.”

It’s not known if Matusz attended any of these events. Hairston, who played golf with him, said Matusz mentioned that he hoped to get into coaching, something he did briefly as a volunteer for the New Zealand team during the 2022 World Baseball Classic qualifiers.

Joseph began to worry about Matusz last July. He lived with Matusz three times throughout his career and always knew when something was bothering him. Joseph felt like Matusz was stuck, that eight years after his last major league appearance, he had not accepted that his career was over.

After his death, Joseph couldn’t stop wondering what more he could have done.

“I’ve talked to some of those that were probably closest to him, and you know we had all kind of been sensing and feeling the same type of feelings,” Joseph said. “Why didn’t I call some other people? Like, I honestly don’t know because I kept asking him like, ‘Hey, are you good? Can I do anything for you? Do you need anything?’ I guess I just trusted that what he was saying was correct, and maybe it wasn’t the truth.”

Others shared that feeling. Britton said, after Matusz’s death, he heard from other former players (some he did not even know), saying they knew Matusz was having a hard time — and they were too.

“I knew he was struggling, as are a lot of guys when they are not playing,” Britton said. “I just tried to be there with him, to support him, talk with him about the things he wanted to talk about.”

Before Matusz’s funeral in January, a group of his former Orioles teammates gathered in Arizona. It was the first time in years that most had talked to each other. Matusz’s death, Joseph said, was a reminder that they need to check on each other.

“Under the circumstances, it’s brutal,” he said. “We should have been doing this every year for fun, not because we are burying a teammate.”

Banner reporter Lee O. Sanderlin contributed to this article.