OK, this one will turn personal.
I have to tell you it's an art form to see people post things and then make them about themselves.
I abhor it, especially if I do it.
But, well, I'll be guilty on this one.
I just finished watching Southpaw: The Life and Legacy of Jim Abbott on ESPN. It's a documentary about the left-handed pitcher whose 10-year career produced 87 wins and some moments of brilliance.
There's a "but" here. Abbott was born without a right hand. That's right. He was a one-handed pitcher. He figured out how to spin the glove off his left hand for fielding, then put it right back on after delivering the pitch. It was stunning to watch.
It was inspiring. In fact, part of the documentary is his dealing with being seen as a "one-handed pitcher" and an inspiration, as opposed to just being a pitcher.
The documentary is astounding. It's gorgeous. It's really well done. It follows him from his early life in Michigan, understanding why he didn't have a right hand, how he adjusted, and being a stud athlete in high school and at the University of Michigan before being drafted by the California Angels.
It centers largely on the most famous day of his baseball career: Sep 4, 1993.
Jim Abbott pitched a no-hitter.
Against the Cleveland Indians. A team that was loaded with Hall of Famers (Jim Thome), potential Hall of Famers (Kenny Lofton, Albert Belle), a damn good close-but-not-quite Hall of Famer (Carlos Baerga), and a guy that could be a Hall of Famer but, hey, steroids (Manny Ramirez).
Yes, the Indians were stacked.
Oh, and Jim Abbott pitched a no-hitter against the Cleveland Indians on Sep 4, 1993 at Yankee Stadium. It was the first no-hitter in The Bronx since 1983, when Dave Righetti no-hit the Red Sox.
Here's where I come in. I was at Yankee Stadium that day.
I discovered Abbott while watching TV back in the 80s. In those days of flipping the channel, I came across Abbott and Michigan and became mesmerized. He was incredibly easy to root for and I became a fan.
I was thrilled to see him make it to the Angels. We didn't have the collection of games that we can watch now, so I'd follow him via the newspaper.
But then, after the roller coaster of the first part of his major league career, Abbott found himself traded in late 1992.
To the Yankees. I was overjoyed.
Success, however, wasn't automatic. He pitched the home opener at the Stadium on April 12th, firing a complete game, allowing eight hits, and one earned run as the Bombers beat the Royals 4-1. Two other things that day: new Yankee Paul O'Neill had four hits and the losing pitcher was future Yankee David Cone.
Oh, and I was at that one also.
But by Sep 4, Abbott's returns were mixed. He'd come into that game at 9-11, and he had clearly underachieved. Keep that word in mind when you watch the documentary.
In Mahopac, I pulled myself together and headed to my then-fiancé's house. Her father would drive all of us. I sat in the back of their car and wondered exactly why we were bothering to go. The day was stark. It was cloudy, dark, and misty, and it felt like the game would never happen.
Our seats were in the right field corner lower deck. The Yankees, heading back not only to respectability but to being THE YANKEES, would only draw 27,125 on this miserable day.
Abbott was sharp early, relying on offspeed pitches and breaking balls to keep the dangerous Indians on their heels.
It would take until the bottom of the third for the New York offense to generate something. A Dion James single turned into a Little League home run as the Indians committed two errors and three runs scored.
In the bottom of the fifth, we watched as Randy Velarde lined a home run over the right center field wall. It was 4-0, and that was it for the scoring.
I was keeping score and wasn't moving. Not one to overreact, I made no note of the fact that Abbott had yet to give up a hit.
It was around the middle innings when Sean's mother (yes, my fiancée) asked to go get food. Dutifully, I followed along, rolling my eyes at having to leave my seat. We found a concession stand and satisfied whatever itch she needed to scratch.
What was unusual for me was that I didn't stop keeping score, listening to the radio broadcast as it was pumped through speakers in the concourse area. At that point, a no-hitter didn't seem real to me. I'd been going to Yankee games since 1972 and had never seen one in person.
Back in our seats, the game rolled along. At the end of six innings, I allowed myself to think it. Jim Abbott -- my guy, by the way -- was pitching a no-hitter.
Eventually, as the crowd began to go nuts, I glanced at my former brother-in-law. I think he was 15 or 16 at the time.
"Do you see what I see on the scoreboard?" I said.
"Oh yeah," came the reply.
In the broadcast booth, I acknowledge no-hitters in the process of reporting. In this case, I said little to nothing here.
Abbott got three groundouts in the top of the seventh. One of them required the usual terrific defensive play, as Wade Boggs snagged a hard grounder in the hole off the bat of Albert Belle. Suddenly, it all felt real.
I remember thinking every no-hitter has "that play." Some kind of solid or great defensive play. The baseball gods need to be in your corner.
I breathed and tried to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" at the seventh inning stretch.
He struck out Manny in the top of the eighth and, after a walk to Thome, he induced pinch hitter Sandy Alomar Jr to ground to third.
There were three outs left.
The bottom of the eighth, as the Yankees hit, felt endless.
Abbott had walked four. He also had to face the top of the Cleveland lineup in the top of the ninth.
I took a deep breath. History was on the line.
My ex-wife didn't understand why the crowd of 27,000 was losing its collective stuff. In her mind, OK, the game was likely in hand at 4-0, so what was the big deal?
"Look at the 0 in the hit column," I whispered.
"Oh."
Kenny Lofton was first. A classic leadoff tablesetter, Abbott got him to bounce to second.
Next came Felix Fermin. In the midst of a good year in 1994, he was a good contact man, which was the job of a number two hitter at that time.
In this case, Abbott left a pitch out over the plate and Fermin crushed it to left center. They call it "Death Valley" for a reason, as it was 399 feet to the alley. I held my breath as the ball climbed but, as I've taught so many to do, I kept and eye on the outfielders. Bernie Williams, not-quite 25 on that day, moved like a gazelle and caught up to it near the warning track.
Seriously, he made it look easy.
Two outs.
Carlos Baerga was next. A professional hitter, he'd bat .317 in 1993.
One out to go.
Scorecard in hand, voice wavering (very unusual for me), I watched.
Abbott delivered. Baerga swung.
Around the world, millions of people were inspired, watching this man who didn't want to be "a disabled pitcher" live up to that dream.
He was just a pitcher. Baerga rolled a grounder to shortstop Mike Gallego, who threw across to Don Mattingly (another possible Hall of Famer) and it was over.
Jim Abbott was the pitcher of a no-hitter.
Abbott and catcher Matt Nokes had worked together like a charm. The disappointments of the season didn't matter at that point. They won the game.
And Jim Abbott -- a truly lovely, sweet man -- was a hero to millions.
And I was almost without a voice. It was as great a moment as I had ever known in Yankee Stadium.
I still have the scorecard tucked away. I treasure the memories of witnessing it, even if it comes from an entirely different lifetime.
I watched this beautiful documentary with the joy of remembering that game.
Jim Abbott won't have a plaque in Cooperstown. He doesn't need one.
But watch the documentary and you'll understand that, to many, he's already there.
I couldn't find my scorecard tonight, but this is my copy of the NewYork Daily News from the next morning. |
Last note: thank you to the many who reached out following my last post. I know I worried some, but I guess I needed to write what I wrote, no matter how much it embarrassed me. For the record, nothing has changed. But I know I'm loved and I'm grateful.