He had me in tears: Retired All-Star J.J. Hardy and his dying friends struggle with ALS

May 28, 2024

The Frisbee traveled about 30 feet before landing on the dirt pathway.

J.J. Hardy was puzzled.

His fun-loving neighbor at his summer lake house in Montana had been talking shit for a while now about how he was gonna school Hardy in disc golf.

They were finally playing and the dude, Chuck Campbell, could barely fling the Frisbee at all.

Maybe Campbell, a former four-sport high school athlete who worked in the technology sales and consulting world, didn’t really understand what he was up against.

Hardy spent 13 seasons in the major leagues from 2005-2017, winning three Gold Gloves at shortstop and making two All-Star teams. He’ll be inducted this August into the Baltimore Orioles Hall of Fame.

Hardy’s dad played professional tennis and his mom was once the second-ranked U.S. amateur in women’s golf behind only the legendary Nancy Lopez. Hardy grew up competing in everything. And winning just about everything.

Now, in his late 30s, he’s being razzed by a 50-something who can barely flick a Frisbee?

“I’m like, ‘Is he joking? Is he joking with me? Because he was offering me strokes,’” Hardy remembers. “And then (Campbell) starts talking about his shoulder. It’s been a while now and his shoulder’s not working and he’s trying to figure it out.”

Hardy listened and offered some advice about injuries while crushing his new friend in the match. Using his cannon of an arm to whip the disc around huge pine and fir trees, Hardy routinely landed the Frisbee near the designated hole, despite never playing the sport before.

Looking back now, there was something off about Campbell’s play that day and the shoulder excuse. He’s left-handed, but the pain was in his right shoulder.

“I could (at one point) throw a football 60 yards. But now all I could do get was get that Frisbee just barely down the trail,” Campbell said. “But I will say J.J. and his brother were very nice about it. But we were all embarrassed.”

When his shoulder checked out OK, the sense was Campbell was dealing with a pinched nerve in his neck. Weeks went by. There were multiple tests. Then Hardy received an unforgettable call.

Campbell, 53, was diagnosed last August with late-stage amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), a progressive and incurable neurodegenerative disease.

“He had me in tears over the phone, talking about how he had just found out he had ALS,” Hardy said. “And how grateful he is for his life and the fact that he was able to meet me and become friends with me. And I’m just like, ‘Holy crap.’”

Professional sports leagues often use their platforms to shine a spotlight on important causes.

Perhaps none has a more natural link than Major League Baseball and ALS, which is also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, named after the New York Yankees Hall of Fame first baseman. Gehrig died of ALS at age 37 on June 2, 1941, roughly two years after he benched himself for health reasons, halting his then-record streak of 2,130 consecutive games played.

In March, commissioner Rob Manfred announced that starting with the 2021 season, June 2 officially would be MLB’s annual Lou Gehrig Day, marking the death of the superstar 80 years ago as well as the anniversary of when he entered the Yankees starting lineup in 1925 to replace regular first baseman Wally Pipp. Gehrig played every game thereafter for approximately 14 years.

On Wednesday, every player in baseball is wearing a “Lou Gehrig Day 4-ALS” patch on their uniforms, and stadiums throughout the country are holding ceremonies commemorating Gehrig while raising funds for ALS research. A special video will be played at each ballpark featuring ALS advocate Steve Gleason and narrated by Orioles Hall of Famer Cal Ripken Jr.

“I think it’s great that MLB is trying to do more for it than there is already out there,” Hardy, 38, said. “I’m sure a lot of people have friends or family or know somebody that has had ALS. And, if they don’t, then they probably don’t understand how terrible of a disease it is.”

As a baseball player, Hardy knew a little about Gehrig and his premature death. He learned more while playing for the Orioles, since one of his predecessors at shortstop, Ripken, will forever be liked to “The Iron Horse” after Ripken broke Gehrig’s streak in 1995.

It wasn’t until 2013, however, that Hardy had a personal connection with ALS, which currently affects an estimated 15,000 Americans.

Kay Groll, one of Hardy’s mother’s closest friends who had been a standout college athlete herself, was diagnosed with the disease and lived with it for nearly six years before dying in August 2019.

“She was a super nice person. We all liked her,” Hardy said. “Towards the end, when she couldn’t do anything … my mom would wheel her over to the pool and help her into the pool so she could kind of move around. Because when (ALS patients) lose complete control they can’t move at all.”

In 2014, Hardy participated in the Ice Bucket Challenge to promote ALS awareness. And in 2019 he took it a step further, partnering with a friend to build a Lou-Gehrig-themed guitar that sold for $1,550 at an ALS benefit auction in Arizona. He chose the charity as a way to honor Groll.

He didn’t realize at the time that ALS would get much closer.

Just a few doors down the lane.

The Campbell family.

Chuck Campbell craved physical activity. Boating. Golfing. Skiing. His favorite days were when he’d challenge his two boys, 17-year-old Cole and 13-year-old Chase, to a game of driveway hoops.

Campbell’s an ex-jock. He played basketball, football, baseball and ran track at a Montana high school, earning all-conference honors as a strong safety and a shooting guard.

He went to the University of Montana, was a cheerleader — “Don’t laugh,” he says, half-menacingly — and graduated with a political science degree and worked for a time in political campaign management. He also lived in Las Vegas for 15 years and was on a softball team there that twice won a city championship. He never allowed his body to slow down.

So he didn’t quite understand what was happening in February 2020, when he was skiing an intermediate slope and collapsed.

“He just fell down right in the middle of the slope. Then he tried to get up. He couldn’t even get his skis back on. He just had no balance,” said Campbell’s wife, Pam. “We tried and tried, and it was really strange. Finally, he just had to slide down the mountain on his butt to get back to the lodge.”

“I had to do the walk of shame,” he quipped.

Campbell had no power in his right shoulder and thought it was an old sports injury. Maybe a torn rotator cuff was throwing everything off-kilter.

A month later, Pam’s octogenarian father, who had experienced brain trauma from a previous fall, went for a drive, became disoriented, traveled off the road and crashed his car into a ravine. The local volunteer firefighting company, of which Campbell is a member and its current public information officer, organized a search party.

They spread out and combed a 10-mile area of rough terrain. Ultimately, thanks to a friend with a helicopter, Pam’s father was located. He had survived the scary crash.

But the experience created more physical uncertainty for Campbell. While searching for his father-in-law, Campbell was strangely unsteady on his feet.

“I fell down a couple of times on the hike. Thank God no one noticed,” he said. “But I realized my body was not doing what it was being told to do. After that, things started to slide.”

Hardy, his wife Adrienne, and their boys, Jay and Leo, live in Chandler, Ariz., for much of the year. Hardy also has a hunting lodge in Montana that he visits when he wants to drop off the grid. And the couple dreamed about owning a place along Flathead Lake in God’s Country of Northwest Montana.

In 2017, with Hardy finishing up his career with the Orioles, a property became available in the exact section of the lake in Polson, Montana, they coveted.

“Adrienne flies out like the day it comes on the market to go look at it. And we buy the place,” Hardy said. “We’re thinking we’re gonna remodel it, and it turns into a total teardown and building a new place.”

The Hardys didn’t move in until the summer of 2019. They figured they had people to meet.

“We were just walking up and down the street, it’s not really a neighborhood, but we’re meeting everybody and just kind of getting acquainted with our new neighbors,” Hardy said. “And I met (Campbell) toward the end of that summer. Really nice guy. We had a nice conversation and we kept in touch.”

A former baseball All-Star moves into a small town, news spreads quickly.

“Chuck was excited, and he wanted to meet him. So, he asked me if I could bake an apple pie and we could take it down to them and welcome them to the lane. And, so, I did,” Pam Campbell said. “And we just welcomed them. About a week later, they walked down and returned our pie platter. And they have these adorable little boys. We just fell in love with Jay and Leo. We just immediately connected with all of them.”

Hardy and Campbell quickly bonded. They went out on each other’s boats. They talked hunting and firefighting and other pursuits.

“If I asked J.J. about what it was like to play Major League Baseball, he’d tell you. But if he just wants to talk about life, the lake and other stuff, I enjoy that just as much,” said Campbell, who grew up as a Seattle Mariners fan. “We can talk about anything. We don’t talk about baseball as much as people would think. I enjoy, honestly, talking to him more about his hunting stories.”

Campbell’s respect for Hardy grew exponentially in the winter of 2019. Hardy and his family already had returned to Arizona when Campbell contacted him. They were still getting to know each other, but Campbell asked a favor.

He wondered if Hardy would donate an item for a charity auction. Hardy immediately sent an autographed jersey and baseball bat. The items raised $2,000 — more than half of what the entire auction brought in.

“Regardless of who he is, I knew that guy was going to be my friend,” Campbell said. “Because he did not have to do that.”

The Hardys and the Campbells.

As last summer progressed, Campbell’s situation worsened.

He was getting weaker, and no one knew why. He still competed in disc golf on the seven-hole course Pam and a friend had created across the family’s five-acre, wooded property. Hardy called him “Steady Eddie” — a hat tip to Orioles’ Hall of Famer Eddie Murray — as Campbell threw deliberately and accurately to each hole.

But Campbell sensed he was continually losing strength. After MRIs of his shoulder and neck showed no irregularities, Campbell’s neurologist became concerned and ordered an electromyography (EMG), which more accurately detects nerve and muscle issues.

“When they got the results, that’s when they knew that it was ALS, because there was a major breakdown between my nerves and my muscle,” Campbell said.

He was sent to Salt Lake City for a second opinion and the disease was confirmed. The conjecture is Campbell probably had had ALS for three or four years before the diagnosis.

“Honestly, I felt it fascinating that something like that could be possible, because of my lifestyle and as much as I work out,” Campbell said. “We have an indoor gymnasium and I lived out there. So, I was fascinated. And in denial. Then I started to research. Then I talked to Pam. And, after talking to Pam, the reality really sunk in.”

There was no fascination for Pam Campbell. Only overwhelming dread.

“I knew immediately that it was a death sentence. My grandfather on my dad’s side died of ALS,” she said. “And he lasted years, so I thought Chuck would linger, like last for a long time.”

But because it had gone undetected, the prognosis was bleak. He was given roughly a year to live last August. The decline would be rapid. The best they could do was make his life as comfortable as possible.

“It’s a very hopeless disease. There’s no cure. There’s no physical therapy. There’s no drug. It’s kind of a dead end,” Pam Campbell, 56, said. “So, you go into the doctor’s and they go, ‘Well this is what you have.’ Normally, when you go to the doctor they have all kinds of (thoughts). ‘Well, you can do this, this and this.’ They have suggestions.

“With ALS, they just kind of leave you hanging. Because there’s really nothing they can do with you. So, it’s a pretty hopeless feeling.”

Because of his experience with Groll, his mother’s friend, Hardy knew how terrible ALS could be. But nothing prepared him for the speed of Campbell’s deterioration, from that emotional phone call last August to the reality of what awaits him in Montana this month.

“That’s what’s so crazy,” Hardy said. “Just how fast this has taken over his body.”

Pam and Chuck were college friends at the University of Montana. They went their separate ways, lived their own lives. They caught up at a 30-year reunion. Chuck was divorced. Pam had never married. They began talking again.

At the time, Campbell was living in Williston, N.D., just east of the Montana border and 60 miles south of Canada. He wanted to move closer to his sons, who lived in Missoula in Western Montana, an hour-plus drive from where Pam lived in Polson.

He relocated to be with Pam and live on the property that’s been in her family for three generations. They married six years ago.

A former nurse’s aide, she’s now the caregiver for her husband, her 84-year-old father and her 83-year-old mother, who has dementia.

“I feel like it’s a gift, where we get to live. And there are a lot of people going through this kind of thing and they don’t get to take care of their family. They have to go to a job,” she said. “I get to stay here and take care of the three people I love the most and they’re appreciative. And we get to live in an amazing, beautiful place. So, it could be a lot worse.”

Still, her husband laments the burden his wife is dealing with now. It’s one of the more painful parts of all of this for Campbell.

“The difficulty is having to watch my wife completely take care of me,” he said through halted speech. He now uses a breathing apparatus. “My wife has to help me with going to the bathroom, taking a shower, feeding me. Getting me to bed. I can’t do anything without my wife and her support. I’m completely, I don’t know what you want to call it, dependent.”

Then there are the simple things he misses. Driving himself to town. Helping neighbors. And, more than anything, watching his sons play sports — Cole in basketball and Chase in football. Before the diagnosis, he’d attempt to make all of their games. Now, through streaming, he watches from his living room as Cole plays high school hoops. But it’s not the same. Nothing is the same as it was a year or two ago.

“It’s all too much, too fast, I can tell you that,” he said. “If I had to describe it, the hardest part is going from playing basketball with my boys out in the driveway to (watching) my kid play basketball on TV because I don’t think I could make it physically to a game. It’s that much of a change for me.

“I miss driving my truck. I miss going out to restaurants. I can’t tell you how much I miss going out on the boat. And I know I won’t ever get to ski again. It’s hard for that reality. The other thing is I need to get assistance just to breathe. That’s a reality that’s come for me.”

Chuck Campbell has received support from his community.

There’s no happy ending here.

Sometime soon, likely in weeks and not months, a husband, dad and volunteer fireman will die of ALS before his 54th birthday.

Campbell’s not going away without leaving his mark, however. Without doing what he can to raise ALS awareness and assist those in the future who have to endure a similar fate.

With the help of his high school sweetheart, who is now a member of Montana’s House of Representatives, House Joint Resolution 19 — referred to as “Chuck’s Bill” — passed this year.

It declared May as “ALS Awareness Month” in Montana as well as urging the U.S. Congress and President Joe Biden “to provide additional funding for research in order to find a treatment and eventually a cure for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”

Campbell also has spearheaded efforts to one day open an ALS clinic in Western Montana. Currently, the state has only one medical facility that qualifies as a treatment center — and that’s in Billings, roughly a six-hour drive from Polson. ALS patients in Western Montana often have to travel to Seattle, Salt Lake City or Denver for specific treatment or resources.

Somehow, though, Campbell hasn’t lost his sense of humor. Despite his breathing difficulties, he remains quick with a one-liner.

“We laugh every day,” Pam Campbell said. “You either laugh or you cry. We choose to laugh and try to make the best out of every moment we can.”

In talking about his big-tire, four-wheel-drive wheelchair that was donated to his fire company on his behalf, Campbell said it’s so powerful, “it could climb a tree.”

As his wife discusses the handsome Hardy, whom she says is, “as beautiful on the inside as he is on the out,” Campbell retorts: “And I’m still better looking than J.J.”

Hardy refers to Campbell as “a jokester,” and chuckles recalling his favorite story about his buddy. Campbell’s best friend and a lieutenant in the fire company, Bryce Muench, wanted to have a picture of him and Hardy taken so he could send it to his baseball-playing son in California.

Apparently, Muench mentioned it several times and Campbell finally set it up.

Pam Campbell snapped the photo: Hardy’s in the middle with Muench to his right and Campbell to the left. Campbell texted the picture — with a slight alteration. Muench is almost completely out of the shot. The side of his face, his left arm, his left leg, and a shoe are all that’s visible.

“He crops (Muench) out of it and sends it to him. ‘Here’s the picture you wanted of J.J,’” Hardy said. “It was hilarious.”

Bryce Muench (left), J.J. Hardy and Chuck Campbell.

In April, a boy who was watching Campbell so Pam could do some work on their property came sprinting out of the house.

“He goes, ‘Pam, Pam, come running. Chuck has pooped his pants.’ And so, of course, I come running in the house thinking I’m gonna have this mess to clean up,” she said. “And Chuck goes, ‘April Fools.’ It was April 1.”

“They were just playing a joke on me and I completely bought it. He does stuff like that on a daily basis.”

In the next 10 days or so, Hardy and his family will drive to Flathead Lake for the summer. It’ll be the first time the men have seen each other since September, a few weeks after the diagnosis. So much has changed.

“I’m a thousand miles away from him right now, but when we get up there, it’s gonna get real,” Hardy said. “Like really real.”

Campbell now weighs 140 pounds, down significantly from his typical 190. He can lift his left hand slightly from side to side. That’s the extent of his physical movements. He needs to be hand-fed. His voice is becoming a whisper. Hospice care was scheduled to begin Monday.

“It’s gonna be really, really hard to see him like this after just nine months ago being able to hang out and play Frisbee golf,” Hardy said. “He sends me pictures of his kids, who are really good athletes in school up there. And it’s like, ‘Man, this is probably him 30 years ago, being a stud athlete in Montana, and now look at how quick life changes.’”

Campbell texted Hardy a few weeks ago and shared one of his primary concerns for this month: He’s worried about how Hardy’s boys, ages 5 and 3, will react to his appearance.

“I don’t want them to be scared, because the difference between what I looked like the last time I saw them versus what I look like today could be a scary thing for a kid,” Campbell said. “And I didn’t want them to have that fear because they are so young.”

In one sense, Hardy couldn’t believe it. That this guy, who is staring at death, is worrying about how it may affect Hardy’s children. Then again, Hardy reasons, that’s Chuck. It’s why everybody knows him in town, why so many people are wearing “Campbell Tough” T-shirts.

“He always put everyone else first. Even with him getting diagnosed, all he’s worried about is my kids being scared of him,” Hardy said. “I’m like, ‘Dude, they’re not gonna be scared of you. They’ll just want to ride on that wheelchair.’”

Hardy understands the reality, of course. He knows he may be attending a funeral this summer. When Hardy thinks about that, it feels like a gut punch.

It’s not as if they’ve been pals forever. Only two years. But it’s been a genuine friendship. A comforting one. And an unfairly fleeting one.

“I’ve just got to say that things happen for a reason,” Campbell said. “But I am grateful that J.J. and I got together. I always thought J.J. and I would be friends for 20 years, not two years.

“I’m just disappointed we’re not going to be hanging out for the next 20 years.”

(Photos courtesy of the Campbell family)

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