World Series 2011 - Historic Game 6 and series

ST. LOUIS, Mo. -- Fans climbed the bronze statue outside of Busch Stadium on Friday night to have their picture taken at the feet of Stan "The Man" Musial as the celebration roiled and rocked around them. On the base of the statue are engraved these words, "Here stands baseball's perfect warrior. Here stands baseball's perfect knight."
 
The days of perfect knights in baseball have gone the way of Camelot and King Arthur's round table. But what about a World Series of perfect nights? If not perfect, then seven that range from good to great?

Maybe Friday's Game 7, in which St. Louis clinched its 11th World Series title with a 6-2 victory over Texas, fell flat. But we will always have Game 6, in which Texas dropped five leads, which meant St. Louis rallied five times before finally winning, 10-9, on David Freese's leadoff homer in the 11th to avoid elimination and make Friday night a reality.

The Nineth: 98 mph Neftali Feliz and David Frese HR

It wasn't just Freese's walkoff homer that made the night, it was his game-tying, season-saving, two-run, two-out, two-strike triple off a 98 mph fastball from Neftali Feliz in the ninth inning.

Turns out that was just the appetizer.

The Tenth: God Told Me and the Lance of Destiny

In the top of the 10th, on a mission from God, Josh Hamilton hit a two-run homer off closer Jason Motte to put Texas back in front, 9-7. Hamilton told reporters after the game that God told him he was going to homer in Game 6.

"But he didn't say we'd win," Hamilton conceded. 

In the bottom of the 10th, with Texas still leading, 9-8, the Cardinals were once again down to their final strike. Scott Feldman had a 2-2 count on Lance Berkman, who was not enjoying himself.
"It's not fun to go up there with the season on the line," said Berkman.

He put his feelings aside long enough to bloop a single into center field to tie the score and ensure that Freese would get a chance to bat in the 11th. When it was over, after Freese sent a 3-2 pitch from Mark Lowe over the center field fence, Berkman had a firm hold on the moment
.
"The reality is that if we don't win Game 7, then this just becomes a footnote to a nice season," said Berkman. "But if we win, this is the stuff of legends."

The Eleventh

Enough said. This joins Joe Carter (1993), Kirby Puckett (1991), Carlton Fisk (1975) as one of the best Game 6 of the World Series with memorable walkoff HRs, short of Game 7 Bill Mazeroski (1960) legend.

No burning cars

The Cardinals, who didn't make the postseason until the final day of the regular season, can consider themselves legends. Their fans certainly do. The St. Louis faithful were still packed into Musial Plaza at least two hours after the game. When a Cardinals official walked by carrying the World Series trophy along the second deck of the ballpark, they spotted him and cheered.
 
The crowd snaked along Stadium Drive, up to Mike Shannon's Bar and Grill. The joint wasn't just packed, it was overflowing into an elbow-to-elbow crowd on the street. Music blared, cops and beer cans were everywhere. A guy on a makeshift set of drums pounded away.

Market Street, a main drag through the heart of downtown, was at a standstill going and coming. Cars were bumper-to-bumper blowing their horns. People walking up and down the exchanging high fives with strangers. The police had portions of the street blocked off, but no one seemed to mind.
It was loud and friendly. No cars were burning. The Cardinals have been to 18 World Series. This was their second title in five years. They know how to celebrate.
 
Said Freese, "These fans are the best."
 
Freese not only won the World Series MVP, but the NLCS MVP as well. In the World Series he hit .348 (8-for-24) with three doubles, one triple, one homer and seven RBI. In the postseason, he hit .397 (25-for-63) with eight doubles, one triple, five homers and a record 21 RBI. If he didn't get the World Series MVP, St. Louis was going to give him The Arch.
 
Now for the topper. Freese grew up just outside of St. Louis rooting for the Cardinals. When they acquired him from San Diego for Cardinal icon Jim Edmonds, his buddies kept asking him, "Who else did we get for Edmonds?"

Was Game 6 the greatest World Series game ever played? Maybe, but St. Louis did make three errors in the early going.

Pujols, Reggie and the Babe/ Pujols, Matsui and Bobby Richardson

While that is a debatable matter, there can be no denial that Albert Pujols' performance in Game 3 was the best single offensive game in World Series history. Not only was he just the third man in World Series history to hit three homers in one game, he had five hits, six RBI and 14 total bases.

The homers, hits and RBI tied World Series records. The 14 total bases set a World Series record.
Game 7 could have been Pujols' last as a Cardinal. He's a free agent this winter, which means the soap opera will soon begin. Before Game 7, Commissioner Bud Selig said he hoped that Pujols stayed in St. Louis.

After Friday's game, Pujols was asked about his plans. "I'm just going to enjoy the moment," he said.
Regarding the 107th World Series, he'll have a lot of company.

World Series Game 5 - This kind of thing is supposed to happen to the Tribe, not the stately Cardinals as they try to win their 11th World Series championship.

ST. LOUIS, Mo. -- For the second straight day manager Tony La Russa came bearing answers to explain how his Cardinals lost Game 5 of the World Series Monday night.

No matter how much he talked, or how eloquently he pleaded his case, St. Louis is still facing elimination Wednesday night in Game 6 at Busch Stadium.

All this because of a couple of phone conversations between La Russa and bullpen coach Derek Lilliquist in Arlington went terribly wrong. It's so confusing, and so unexpected of the precise and detailed La Russa, that at any minute a new version of Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First" routine could break out.

Here's what happened.

The 8th: Rzepczynski and Motte

In a game tied at 2-2, Michael Young opened the eighth with a double off Cardinals reliever Octavio Dotel, who struck out Adrian Beltre and intentionally walked Nelson Cruz after a visit by pitching coach Dave Duncan.

While that was going on, La Russa said he called Lilliquist and told him to get lefty Marc Rzepczynski and righty Jason Motte ready. Lilliquist heard Rzepczynski's name, but said he never heard La Russa say Motte.

"The first mention of Motte was probably after he (Lilliquist) hung up," said La Russa. "Maybe I didn't say it quickly enough."

Weird Hop and bounce

Rzepczynski replaced Dotel to face lefty David Murphy. On cue, Murphy sent a potential double-play ball back to the mound, but it took a weird hop and bounced off Rzepczynski's body for a hit, loading the bases. La Russa's next move was to bring in Motte, who can throw close to 100 mph, to face Mike Napoli, the Rangers' right-handed power-hitting catcher.

Lance 'emergency' Lynn, Rzepcynski and Motte
Before heading to the mound, La Russa looked into the Cardinals bullpen and didn't see Motte throwing. He called Lilliquist again to get Motte ready. But Lilliquist thought La Russa requested Lance Lynn, another right-hander. Lynn wasn't supposed to pitch except for an emergency.
La Russa was caught.

"There is no way you can stall long enough to get him ready," said La Russa, even though it was Lynn, not Motte, who was starting to loosen.

So Rzepczynski had to face Napoli, who hit .319 against lefties during the regular season. Napoli doubled into the right-field gap on a 1-1 pitch to score two runs. After Rzepczynski struck out Mitch Moreland, La Russa went to the mound thinking Motte was finally going to enter the game.
Wrong again.

'Emergency' Lynn emerges

As La Russa waited on the mound, Lynn jogged in from the pen.

"When he got to the mound, I said, 'What are you doing here?'" said La Russa.

He then ordered Lynn to intentionally walk Ian Kinsler to reload the bases because he didn't want to risk Lynn injuring his arm. At last, he was able to hand the ball to Motte, who struck out Elvis Andrus. Not only was it too little, but it was far too late.

La Russa took the blame.

"I told Derek, 'Believe me, this is not your problem,'" said La Russa.

But the fact that Lilliquist at one time pitched for the Indians seems to put things into perspective. This kind of thing is supposed to happen to the Tribe, not the stately Cardinals as they try to win their 11th World Series championship.

All in all, this was not a postseason game that covered La Russa in glory.

The Cardinals stranded 12 runners and went 1-for-12 with runners in scoring position. Texas pitchers tied a World Series record by issuing four intentional walks, three to Albert Pujols. Every time Texas manager Ron Washington displayed four fingers, he escaped without a run being scored.

Who should call 'Hit-and-Runs'?

The 7th: The game offered a revealing look at how much freedom Pujols has under La Russa. Allen Craig walked with one out in the seventh against Alexi Ogando. Pujols flashed him the hit-and-run sign. Craig took off on the next pitch and was thrown out by Napoli. Pujols didn't offer at the high fastball from Ogando and was intentionally walked for the third time.

"Albert has had the ability for several years to put the hit-and-run on," said La Russa.
La Russa said Pujols has earned that because of his talent and baseball smarts. It will be interesting to see if Pujols gets the same freedom should he bolt St. Louis through free agency.

The 9th: In the ninth, it was La Russa, not Pujols, who called for a run-and-hit with Craig on first and Pujols batting. Trailing, 4-2, he was trying to create a first-and-third situation with no outs. Instead La Russa ended up with a strike-'em out, throw 'em-out double play.

It was that kind of night.

On Twitter: @hoynsie

Irabu Got Lost on the Road Back - NY Times

By KEN BELSON Published: October 8, 2011 It was the kind of inquiry that curious pitchers make, even ones with World Series rings. How, Hideki Irabu wanted to know, do you throw a changeup? Jerry Spradlin, his pitching coach on the Long Beach Armada in the spring of 2009, was all too happy to show him. A former journeyman major league reliever, he was a newcomer to coaching and was eager to share some of what he knew, even something as basic as a changeup with a pitcher once called the Nolan Ryan of Japan. The lesson was impromptu and informal, typical of the way things were done on the Armada, an independent league team that served as a halfway house for older players making last-ditch comebacks and younger players still hoping to make it as professionals. With the help of an interpreter, Spradlin showed the grip to Irabu, who threw about 10 warm-up pitches in the bullpen before his start that day. Even though he was 40 and a former Yankee, Irabu was an attentive student. He was also a quick study. He struck out the side in order during the first inning using his new pitch to put away the batters. “He clearly had something left in the tank,” Spradlin said with a chuckle. As per tradition at Armada games, the fans passed the hat to reward players for their feats. Irabu had made millions during his career and did not need the $300 that reached the dugout. Some players wanted to give it back to the fans while others thought they should split it among themselves. Garry Templeton, the team’s manager, felt otherwise. He told Irabu where the money had come from, and without hesitation, Irabu told him it should be spent on food and beer for the team. The clubhouse attendant was dispatched to a store for provisions. “We had a party on him,” Templeton said. Two years later, Irabu, 42, was found hanging in his house in Rancho Palos Verdes, Calif., an upscale Los Angeles suburb. At some level, all suicides are mysteries. Irabu apparently left no note, but he had his troubles. He was known to drink heavily at times. His wife and two children had moved out weeks before. His two noodle restaurants had closed, and he was casting about for something else to do. “When I saw him last summer, he told me he was having a midlife crisis,” said George Rose, who befriended Irabu when he worked for two years as his interpreter on the Yankees. Rose then repeated what had been a kind of conventional wisdom about the Irabu: he had a big heart, but could be his own worst enemy. Irabu, for sure, had seemed to battle demons throughout his meteoric rise and fall. A No. 1 draft pick in Japan, he was best known for his record-setting fastball, and his temper off the field. Even during his best years in the mid-1990s, he had a love-hate relationship with the news media, which needled him by writing about his mixed heritage, a taboo in Japan. He called some Japanese reporters locusts. He was eager to play in the United States, but he bucked the baseball establishment by refusing to be traded to the San Diego Padres, despite their generous contract offer. Instead, he held out until the Yankees could sign him, and he received a hero’s welcome in New York. He twice was named the American League pitcher of the month, but he faded late in seasons. His moodiness, injuries and weight problems led George Steinbrenner to call him a fat toad, a stinging tag that he could not shake. He returned to Japan in 2003 and helped the Hanshin Tigers win the Central League pennant for the first time in nearly two decades, a redemption of sorts. But the next year, the injuries piled up and he retired after pitching in three games. His time with the Armada in 2009, then, turned out to be Irabu’s last attempt to recapture his love of the game and to fulfill some of his unmet expectations. But like many things Irabu did, his time on the Armada came with conditions. He was with the team only on days when he pitched, and he went to those games with a personal assistant and an interpreter. Because of his limited English, his teammates had little sense of Irabu as a person. Some of the players, chiefly those who had never had a whiff of the major leagues, were in awe of Irabu nonetheless. But they could also be irked that Irabu kept his distance. “To get to know him as a teammate or friend was nearly impossible,” said Scott Lonergan, a starting pitcher that year who now works as a scout with the Padres. “He didn’t come off as a prima donna. There was no sense that he was better than anyone. It was a strict business transaction. He would show up, pitch and leave.” A Toss Leads to a Quest Irabu’s road back to baseball began with a bit of serendipity. In 2007, a Japanese television crew visited Irabu in California to see how he was faring nearly three years into his retirement. They visited his restaurants, followed him as he rode his three-wheel motorbike and filmed him on a sandlot field in Torrance, obligingly tossing a ball in jeans and flip flops. Irabu had not pitched in several years, but he seemed genuinely pleased that his knee did not hurt and that his arm felt good. The pitching session was brief, but it planted a seed in Irabu’s mind that he might just have a shot at returning to baseball, according to Don Nomura, his longtime agent. “He just picked up a ball and fired the hell out of it,” Nomura said by phone from Japan. Nomura did not give it much thought, but a year or so later, Irabu started working out with two other players. Takateru Iyono, who was Irabu’s teammate in Japan, traveled to Los Angeles to seek guidance from his sempai, or elder, on how to revive his career. They recruited Hajime Nishimura, who had played on a Japanese industrial league team and moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career, to be a personal catcher. He now is a youth baseball coach. While training with Iyono at the M.L.B. Urban Youth Academy in Compton, a gritty part of Los Angeles, Irabu began to take his conditioning more seriously. Tentative at first, he gained confidence when his knee showed no signs of faltering. So in early 2009, with Iyono having left, Irabu picked up the pace. Each weekday, he took two half-hour whirlpool baths in the morning. Nishimura would arrive at 10 a.m. to work on fielding and pitching for two hours. Then they would go for a vegetable-heavy lunch before Irabu returned to the academy to take another bath. The regimen helped Irabu shed more than 40 pounds, buoying his spirits. “At first, I wondered if he could do it,” Nishimura said. “But he was very serious about baseball. He loved the game and didn’t think about how old he was. As long as he could play, he wanted to play.” With the season approaching, Nomura discussed the options with Irabu. It would be hard to find a major league club in the United States that would sign an aging pitcher who had not played in years. But with his mix of pitches, big-league savvy and brand name, Nomura thought that Irabu could become a useful reliever in Japan. The easiest shot at reaching that goal would be for Irabu to showcase his talents in an independent league, where the barriers for entry were lower and teams and fans were used to seeing aging stars give it one last go. The Golden Baseball League was the best fit. Each team had a handful of former major leaguers. The league also had links to Japan, including the Samurai Bears, a traveling team that had been stocked with Japanese players and managed by Warren Cromartie, a former major leaguer who played for the Yomiuri Giants. Always on the lookout for budding talent regardless of the potential guffaws, the league recruited Eri Yoshida, a Japanese teenager known as the Knuckle Princess for her signature pitch. She pitched last season in Maui, Hawaii. The league also had teams in Orange County and Long Beach, which would allow Irabu to live at home during his comeback. So in April, Nomura’s Los Angeles-based assistant, Toshi Hoshino, set up a tryout with Templeton. The session went well. “He wasn’t throwing 98 anymore, but he had the experience and the other pitches,” said Kevin Outcalt, the commissioner of the league, which also owned the Armada. “You don’t often get a player of his caliber.” A Pop-In Pitcher Outcalt was so impressed that he agreed to a contract that allowed Irabu to show up only on days when he pitched at home games. It would force Templeton to find an extra starter when the team was on the road, and knock other pitchers one game back in the rotation when they returned home. Still, Outcalt thought that the concessions were worth it because Irabu, he hoped, would be a big draw, especially with Japanese fans in the Los Angeles area. That could help the struggling club. It was a standard formula: mix hungry young players with a sprinkling of recognizable former major leaguers, add theatrics and keep prices affordable. In fact, Rickey Henderson spent a season in the league and Jose Canseco had played on the Armada, which used Blair Field, an aging stadium in Long Beach. Irabu’s teammates were paid depending on their experience, with some of the highest salaries hitting about $1,500 a month. Many players had not been drafted out of college and needed a place to play until they could be noticed by a major league organization. That meant playing in front of small crowds in places like Chico, Calif., and Yuma, Ariz. Despite their grumbling, no players were openly hostile to Irabu. His teammates recall that Irabu would show up an hour or so before his scheduled starts and disappear from the clubhouse before the last out. Some players spotted him between innings smoking cigarettes in the shower. When he was on the bench, few players had more than passing conversations with him, even though Nishimura was there to interpret. Sean Buller, a pitcher on the team who became the pitching coach halfway through the season, said no one on the team directly challenged Irabu and his seeming diffidence. Everyone, he said, had their own hopes, and did not want them damaged by possibly causing dissension. Despite the enigmatic attitude, Buller said of Irabu, “I feel bad because we never got close.” Good-Natured Needling The only teammate who felt compelled to communicate with Irabu was Jose Lima, a former all-star pitcher on the Los Angeles Dodgers who was also attempting a comeback. In many ways, he was Irabu’s polar opposite: funny, lively, involved and generous. He would sing the national anthem before his starts, take teammates to Dodgers games, serenade them with his guitar and chart their pitches on his days off. He was perhaps the only person with enough stature to needle Irabu, and he did not miss the chance. About an hour before the Armada were to play the Scorpions in Yuma, Irabu had still not shown up. (Irabu pitched twice on the road because the parks were within driving distance of his home.) Typically, the manager or coach would give that night’s starting pitcher the ball to be used to start the game. It was a bit of ceremony, but Irabu was nowhere to be seen that night. So Lima took the ball, put it in a clear plastic baggie, taped it to the clubhouse wall and wrote, Irabu #?, on the tape. Irabu chuckled when he showed up, then he threw five innings, gave up four runs and struck out six to earn the win. Another time, someone left a sign at Irabu’s locker that had a picture of two Japanese businessmen laughing with the words, ROR: Raugh out Roud. Some said Irabu got the joke. The club tried to make the most of Irabu’s occasional, mercurial presence. Josh Feldman, who organized on-field entertainment at home games, invited some Japanese drummers to perform as part of an Irabu Mania night. At another game, performers from a local martial arts academy broke boards, including some that they had set on fire. In Japan, One Last Chance By early August, Irabu had compiled a respectable but not overwhelming record given the competition. In 10 starts, he was 5-3 with a 3.58 earned run average and 66 strikeouts in 65 1/3 innings. Like his time in the major leagues, Irabu had some games in which he was unhittable, and other games when his control eluded him. Still, after several years away from organized baseball, he was happy to be back in uniform and on the field. “He was having a good time and enjoyed playing baseball again,” said Hoshino, who videotaped his starts from behind home plate. “He was really excited to take the next step.” That next step came partly as a result of Japanese reporters who had come to see Irabu pitch in Long Beach. He received an offer to pitch for the Fighting Dogs in Kochi, on the island of Shikoku, a backwater by Japanese baseball standards. Independent leagues are relatively new in Japan, where high schools, colleges and industrial leagues provide most of the young talent for the top teams. Even so, Irabu’s reputation in Japan was still strong, so he stood a better chance of catching the attention of a Japanese big-league club by playing in Kochi than if he remained in California. It was a brief stay. His first start went as well as could be expected. In seven innings, he gave up three runs, walking five and striking out three. About three times the usual crowd showed up for the game, and replica Irabu jerseys and shirts were on sale. His second start was a step back. Irabu lasted five innings and gave up five runs. Afterward, an inflamed right thumb effectively ended his season and, it turned out, his professional baseball career and his time in the public’s eye. With baseball now a fading memory, Irabu returned to Los Angeles, where he looked for things to do. Coaching was one option, but without a strong command of English, he had a hard time finding work. He appeared occasionally at clinics and talked of getting into movies someday. But none of it amounted to much. Earlier this year, his wife and two children moved out of their home. They had become acculturated to American life, leaving him more isolated, friends said. And he never picked up a baseball for the Armada again. “He was kind of searching for what to do next,” said George Rose, his old interpreter, “and he never did.”

Ohio Baseball

CLEVELAND, Ohio -- Cleveland, the lake town, is a football town. Fans here love their Browns, an inept franchise for a generation. They treated the team's absence for three seasons in the 1990s as a civic identity crisis.

Clevelanders care about the Indians, complain bitterly about the team's owners, the Dolan family, and overload the bandwagon when the team is good.

Cincinnati, the river town, is a baseball town. Fans there love their Reds, although much of the attendance comes from across the Ohio River in Kentucky and from the hamlets of Indiana and West Virginia.

Cincinnatians care about the Bengals, an inept franchise for a generation, complain bitterly about the team's owner, Mike Brown, and overload the bandwagon when the team is good.

The Reds began the only interleague series that really matters in Ohio when they met the Indians on Friday night in Progressive Field.

Only Ohio, Illinois (White Sox and Cubs) and Pennsylvania (Phillies and Pirates) can stage an interleague series featuring teams that date back to the gaslight and horseless carriage era. In the Reds' case, the city's baseball history dates back to the very beginning of the professional game in 1869.

Both cities have had difficulties with names and mascots.

Cleveland dropped the first "a" in founder Moses Cleaveland's name and uses a mascot for the Indians that many find offensive and term "Little Red Sambo."

Cincinnati's original name was Losantiville.

Bad as that is, it would have been much worse had the Red Stockings' name been changed -- as it almost was because of the city's nickname of "Porkopolis," for the 19th century pig-slaughtering trade there -- to "Porkopolitans."

Cincinnati is staunchly Republican. When the Red Scare dominated politics in this country in the 1950s, lest anybody get the wrong idea about Soviet spies in the lineup, the team's name was changed to "Redlegs."

Cleveland is corruption-ridden and Democratic.

Both cities are historically blue collar, although Cleveland is more so now than Cincinnati. Both cities are predominately Catholic, with Notre Dame enjoying a strong following in each. The wife of former Cleveland Mayor Ralph Perk turned down a White House invitation because it was on her bowling night. Former Cincinnatian and star of the silver screen Tyrone Power offered to fund a gymnasium at Purcell High School, Roger Staubach's alma mater. The school said no because Power was divorced.

The Reds lost a great icon, albeit one shared with Detroit, when former manager Sparky Anderson died late last year.

The Indians lost a great icon who was all our own when former pitcher Bob Feller died late last year.

Pete Rose, a native Cincinnatian, is still considered a wronged man in his hometown, despite his own admission that he bet on his team as Reds manager. Reds fans also loved national embarrassment Marge Schott (maiden name: Unnewehr, pronounced "unaware"), when she owned the Reds because she was a local girl.

Indians fans defended Albert Belle to the last ditch -- until he left. The most popular Browns player of the last quarter-century was Bernie Kosar, from Boardman, Ohio, near Youngstown, for the simple reason that he wanted to be here.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called Cincinnati "the Queen City of the West" and Winston Churchill called it "the most beautiful inland city in America." Cleveland was not called either.

Cleveland has a world-class orchestra and art museum. The Creation Museum, archenemy of evolution, is near the Cincinnati airport, which is located in Kentucky.

Cincinnati college fans look to the Southeastern Conference and the University of Kentucky, more than to the Big Ten and Ohio State.

Cincinnati and Toledo, which is at least split between Ohio State and Michigan, are the only cities in Ohio in which the Buckeyes do not dominate the college sports conversation.

Cleveland is Columbus North in some ways, sending more students and players to Ohio State than any city but Columbus. Important OSU games draw higher television ratings here than in any city but Columbus.

The Indians are more popular statewide with younger fans, who remember the great teams of the 1990s. Older fans skew to the Reds because of their memories of the dynastic Big Red Machine in the '70s.

Both cities appreciate players who play hard and are not afraid to get dirty. Rose was loved by Reds fans, Johnny Bench and Ken Griffey Jr. less so. Browns fans love the smash-mouth style of Peyton Hillis because he's a younger Rose with bigger muscles.

People work hard in both cities. Slackers on teams are reviled. If asked "What do George S. Patton, the Exxon Valdez and LeBron James have in common?" many Clevelanders would say, "All three were tankers."

Somebody has been ferreting out some serious talent lately for both teams. The Indians and Reds are good now, and young besides that. They are at or near the top of their divisions to boot, with the Indians having the best record in baseball. The rivals will play again in Cincinnati at the start of July.

It is not inconceivable that they could meet yet again in October.

Follow Bill Livingston on Facebook and on Twitter @LivyPD

A toast to Tom Wilhelmsen

A toast to Tom Wilhelmsen - Seven years after walking away, ex-bartender makes big league debut with Mariners By Jim Caple
ESPN.com

Seattle Mariners reliever Tom Wilhelmsen

Ex-bartender Tom Wilhelmsen on Opening Day, how to make a "Fat Man."
Tags: Tom WilhelmsenSeattle Mariners reliever Tom Wilhelmsen
The Hut is a popular live music/tiki bar in Tucson near the University of Arizona campus. You enter the bar by walking under a 45-foot-high tiki head that formerly reigned over a local miniature golf course. The bar's interior is a former metal fabrication plant where workers made bomb casings in World War II, a heritage The Hut honors with its signature cocktail. Named after the first atomic bomb, the Fat Man is a 60-ounce drink served in a fishbowl and swimming in the maximum alcohol amount allowed by Arizona law.

There was a three-day music festival at The Hut this past weekend, but as soon as one band finished its set Friday night, the bar turned down the music and turned up the Mariners' home opener from Seattle. Bar regulars and employees turned their focus from their Fat Men and beers to focus on the TV screens as Seattle reliever Tom Wilhelmsen took the mound to face the Cleveland Indians lineup. The season is one week old, Seattle is about 1,600 miles away, the Mariners are trailing 6-0 and Wilhelmsen is in the process of making it 11-0, but the bar crowd is going crazy, spirits rising and falling with his every pitch.

As recently as December, Tom Wilhelmsen was mixing drinks and pouring beer at a bar in Tucson, Ariz.

"It was like we were watching a University of Arizona basketball game," says Scott Mencke, a co-partner of The Hut. "The people here were overreacting to everything. If Tom threw a strike, people cheered like crazy. When he gave up the home run, people were bent over double." And when Wilhelmsen ended the 10-run inning by striking out Austin Kearns? "It was like Miles Simon just hit the game winner in the NCAA championship [in 1997]. We were all giving high-fives.

"We had people from out of town who came for the music, and they're probably wondering, 'What are these Tucsonians doing, going nuts over this Mariners game?'"

Well, that's easy to explain. These people were simply excited to see a friend and fellow bartender who had mixed Fat Men and poured beer at The Hut as recently as December take another step in baseball's most delightfully unlikely comeback story that doesn't include Dennis Quaid as a high school science teacher/baseball coach.

One month after bicycling to daily spring training workouts, one year after pitching in Class A, two years after playing center field in a co-rec softball league, five years after backpacking around Europe and seven years after leaving organized baseball for a career mixing Fat Men, Wilhelmsen was pitching in the major leagues.


"It's a little different from the beer league we were playing softball in," says Wilhelmsen, who grew up in Tucson. "I ultimately knew this day would come, but I didn't realize it would come this quick. But it's a great feeling."

A great feeling? This story leaves you feeling better than a free round of Fat Men.

"You can just say it's a miracle," Seattle third baseman Chone Figgins says. "It's one of those miracle situations."




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilhelmsen, 27, is a tall, broad-shouldered young man who is quick to flash a smile bright enough to power U2's entire 360° tour. He is animated and engaging and said to have a very impressive collection of tie-dyed shirts. "Holy [Fill in the blank]" is a favorite expression, with the "Holy" drawn out and stressed. Hole-Ley.

“
I was very disappointed for years. People would say, 'He'll be back, he'll be back.' I would be like, 'I don't know. You have to want it.' After about three years I would tell people, 'No, he's never coming back.'


”
-- Tom Wilhelmsen's father, John



"I'm not exaggerating at all: He is the nicest guy you'll meet in your life," Mencke says. "He's beyond nice. He cares about people; he's empathetic to people. He's fair, he's honest, but he's also a personality."

"He is the salt of the earth," says Douglas "Fini" Finical, The Hut's other operating partner. "What you see is what you get. He's a gregarious guy, very open. … There's sort of a displaced hippie in him. He loves the Grateful Dead. I see him as a guy who would be just as happy living in 1968. One of those people who is completely genuine. Just completely original and genuine."

And once upon a time, Wilhelmsen also was a promising, hard-throwing right-hander in the Milwaukee Brewers system. A seventh-round pick in the 2003 draft, he went 5-5 with a 2.76 ERA at Class A Beloit in 2003. But he also was a free spirit who twice tested positive for marijuana. The Brewers responded to the second test by suspending him for the 2004 season.

The next year Wilhelmsen effectively suspended himself by giving up his baseball career to travel and hike our national parks. He says he was burned out on baseball and no longer had the passion for the game he once did.

"My first immediate thought was to pull a Mutt Mantle and go wring this kid by his neck and go take him home. That lasted about 30 minutes," says his father and former coach, John Wilhelmsen. "Then it was: 'You know, it's his life.' No matter what your kids do, you're going to love them no matter what. What does the other stuff mean? I knew he wasn't into it anymore because he didn't do anything in the offseason. He would usually work out or ask me to throw with him.

"I was very disappointed for years. People would say, 'He'll be back, he'll be back.' I would be like, 'I don't know. You have to want it.' After about three years I would tell people, 'No, he's never coming back."'

Wilhelmsen's agent, Steve Canter, says Tom needed some distance. "Some people go to college to grow up; Tom went and worked and traveled and started to get his life together. He got his own education."

He certainly did.

After hiking numerous parks, Wilhelmsen returned to Tucson, where he applied for a bartending job at The Hut. "We were looking at the application and looking at his job history, and there was only one entry," Mencke says. "For the company, he put down: 'Milwaukee Brewers.' Position: 'Pitcher.'" Mencke laughs. "We were looking for good-looking females to hire, but Tom walked into the bar and filled out an application, and after talking to him, I decided right then, this is a good guy to have around. I just had a gut feeling about him."

[+] EnlargeCourtesy of Seattle Mariners
Under the bright lights at Safeco Field, Tom Wilhelmsen was a Seattle Mariner on Opening Day.

Wilhelmsen also reconnected with his old high school girlfriend Cassie, and they hiked extensively through the Southwest and the West. They backpacked through Europe in 2006, running the hostel gamut from Amsterdam through Bavaria into Italy and then back up through France and England.

While some of his former teammates were just reaching baseball's major league green cathedrals, Wilhelmsen was touring Notre Dame. When he could have been pitching in Milwaukee while beer-drinking fans sang the "Beer Barrel Polka," he was listening to Germans sing at Munich's Oktoberfest. ("We heard 'Country Roads' every 15 minutes. And that song, 'Heyyyy, baby. … Oooh! Aahhh!' every 15 minutes.") And rather than studying video of Albert Pujols, he was gazing in awe at Michelangelo's David. ("It's a statue of a guy, and you think, Oh. Great. But you stand in that line and then you walk in and see it, and you say, 'Hole-ley cow!'")

Back in Tucson, he and Cassie played on a co-rec softball team. Cassie played second; Tom played in the outfield. "I was too afraid to pitch -- it was so close to home plate. So I told my brother who is blind in one eye to do it," Wilhelmsen says and laughs. "He's still in a league, and he still pitches. He calls me up when he strikes out three or gives up 12 runs."

They were fun times, of which Wilhelmsen says, "There was a lot going on," before reconsidering for a moment and adding with a smile, "Really not a lot going on."

Which was pretty much the problem. His was not a bad life when you're in your 20s, but not so much when you grow older and staying up until 4 a.m. isn't quite so much fun as it was and guys you played with in the minors are set for life after earning millions in the majors, then you look down at your arm and wonder what might have been if only you had given baseball your all.

"Cassie was a huge part of it. I started thinking about the future because I wanted to ask her to be my wife," Wilhelmsen says. "That was the big part. What am I going to do? I don't want to come home at four in the morning to her, especially if we're going to have kids. I don't want to smell like beer all the time."

He also was smoking a pack or so of cigarettes a day, but one June day in 2008, he says, "I went outside, lit a cigarette, smoked it about three-quarters down and said, 'What the hell am I doing?' Then I threw the cigarette out, and that was it."

Just like that, Wilhelmsen quit smoking. Then he celebrated Father's Day by calling up his father and repeating a question from "Field of Dreams" that has accounted for an estimated 43 percent of all American male tears shed since 1989. "Hey Dad, you want to play catch?"




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When Wilhelmsen's story is turned into a movie, this is where the music will swell and you will see a montage of Wilhelmsen (John Krasinski from "The Office"?) running laps and sprints and agility drills to work himself back into shape. There will be lots of shots of his pitches popping into his father's catcher's glove. Tom mixing Fat Men behind the bar and curveballs on the mound. The montage will make it look easier than it probably was, but the return was quick. By 2009, Wilhelmsen was ready to pitch again. Shortly after marrying Cassie, he tried out and signed a contract with the Tucson Toros of the Golden Baseball League, an independent league so minor that its salaries were about $900 a month, the per diem was $10 and a player with one club once had to drive the team van from Arizona to British Columbia for the next game.

Wilhelmsen was just rounding back into form with the Toros when he suffered a biceps injury that ended his season. He received some workers' compensation and returned to The Hut.

While the arm healed, his agent called up Mariners general manager Jack Zduriencik, who had been Milwaukee's scouting director when Wilhelmsen was with the Brewers. Canter told Zduriencik that Wilhelmsen was pitching again and asked whether the Mariners would take a look at him. When Zduriencik did, he was impressed enough to offer Wilhelmsen a minor league contract in February 2010.


"He's a little more mature now," Zduriencik says. "He has a better focus of what he wants to do. Now he wants to play baseball, and I think he'll tell you he lost that desire somewhere along the way. And now he's a grown man with a wife, and he has responsibilities. He's experienced some things in life. He's fortunate that he still has a live arm. That doesn't happen every day where a guy moves on with his life and is able to come back five years later and pitch at this level."

Says Wilhelmsen, "I'm just older now, and I have more responsibility and understand what it is to have responsibilities. Maybe not to the fullest extent, but a hell of a lot more than I did when I was younger. I just have more life experience in general and understand how to go about your life."

[+] EnlargeCourtesy of Seattle Mariners
Wilhelmsen was a seventh-round draft pick by the Brewers in 2002.

Wilhelmsen pitched well enough last year for the Mariners' Arizona League team and their Class A teams in Everett, Wash., and Clinton, Iowa, to earn a spot on the 40-man roster and an invitation to spring training this year. He was so thrilled by it all that he occasionally was seen asking teammates and coaches for autographs this spring. Given little chance to make the team out of Arizona, he just kept pitching and getting better. And when the Mariners announced their final roster, he was on the team. He quickly called his father.

"I could hear that he was crying; he was very emotional about it," his father says. "He kept saying, 'Thank you, Dad.' He just made me all warm and fuzzy."

Wilhelmsen made his major league debut in Oakland, striking out one batter in a scoreless inning. His next appearance was Friday's home opener after he added to the dreamlike nature of his comeback by running onto the field with his teammates through a fog machine while 48,000 fans cheered.

With his wife and his father watching from the stands and dozens of friends watching on TV at The Hut, Wilhelmsen entered that night's game in the fourth inning with Seattle trailing 6-0, one out and one runner on. He gave up a single, struck out a batter, walked a batter, gave up a two-run single and then gave up a towering home run to Travis Hafner that banged off the window of the seldom-reached Hit It Here Café in the right-field upper deck.

"That was in his butter," Wilhelmsen says of the gopher ball. "If it was any other place, he probably would have hit it within this zip code. But right there? It was gone. I looked at it and I was just like, 'Hole-ley, bomb!' And I watched it the whole way, and I usually never, ever do that. But I watched that one the whole way. But now I know where his sweet spot is. He won't see another one there if I face him again."

Wilhelmsen's fastball approaches 95 mph, and in four appearances through Thursday, he has struck out six batters in 4 2/3 innings (good). But he also has walked five batters, given up eight hits and allowed six runs (not so good). After missing so many years and returning in so swift and breathtaking a leap, he needs experience in addition to the lively arm.

Mariners pitching coach Carl Willis likens Wilhelmsen's path to the majors to the way a lot of athletes wind up getting their college degree after they leave school for a pro career.

"I went to college to play baseball, and all I was concerned about was to maintain a C average to stay eligible," Willis says. "Then I signed to play pro ball and went off and started my baseball career. And then years later I said, 'I want to go back and finish college.' So when I went back, I made all A's. If there was a 10-page paper assigned, I wrote 15. Because I wanted to do it. And I think when he started as a young man, maybe he wasn't 100 percent sure baseball is what he wanted to do. Now, he's experienced different facets of life and says, 'This is what I want to do.' And he's able to be all in, 100 percent. And because he's experienced the other side of life, he appreciates this opportunity so much more to be able to go out and play the game."

Wilhelmsen says his odd path to the majors has affected him in ways he probably doesn't realize yet.

"It has helped me be a little more grounded. It helps me understand there are other things in this world than baseball," he says. "You're playing baseball and this is your dream as a kid and you play it nonstop. You live it, breathe it, you eat it. There are other things, but that's your focus if you want to get to the highest level. But there's a bigger picture. I'm very glad I was able to live a normal life away from baseball and then come back to it. If I had made it when I was playing ball, I definitely wouldn't be the same guy."

Perhaps. But in many ways, Wilhelmsen still is the same bright, optimistic, genuine personality whom people say he always has been. Consider the rookie backpack.

As is the veteran relievers' custom for embarrassing a rookie, Wilhelmsen received a child's backpack to carry to the bullpen. This is very fitting for a man who backpacked his way through Europe and back into baseball. Plus, it has the bonus of not being one of those pink My Little Pony backpacks past rookies have carried. This one is of R2D2, which Wilhelmsen finds very cool.


"I feel pretty honored by it," he says, flashing that engaging grin. "R2 is the most famous Droid in the world. And he's got my back."

The legend of Bob Feller began on an Iowa farm: Bill Livingston

CLEVELAND, Ohio -- The Greatest Indian of Them All, Bob Feller, grew up in Van Meter on the Iowa prairie, among legends both real and make-believe.

Winterset, Iowa, was the hometown of John Wayne, although his name was Marion Morrison then. Nile Kinnick, who won the Heisman Trophy at the University of Iowa, was Feller's catcher in American Legion ball and grew up in Adel, Iowa. A sportscaster called "Dutch" Reagan was working in DesMoines.

Feller's life was a tale as tall as any of theirs.

Ted Williams, the consensus choice as baseball's all-time greatest hitter, closely studied pitchers, but he never obsessed about them -- except for one.

Feller captivated Williams. While Williams would focus on someone like Allie Reynolds of the Yankees, a terrific pitcher, for two hours before a game, he started psyching up three days before facing Feller. The difference between Feller's stuff and "good" stuff was always exponential.

Feller had a "field of dreams," in Iowa, just like in the movie. After clearing the land with his own hands, his father planted more wheat than corn on the rest of the farm. Wheat was easier to harvest, which left more time for baseball.

That's a synthesis of fathers, sons, baseball, and amber waves of grain. Feller, who passed away Wednesday at age 92 of complications from leukemia, was born, bred and whole grain-fed to be an American icon.
To protect his amateur eligibility, he signed with the Indians for $1 and a baseball autographed by the members of the team. Feller struck out 17 Philadelphia A's, breaking the American League record, when he was only 17 years old. Then, he went home to finish high school. He would have been a global sensation in today's world of 24/7 news cycles on cable TV and the Internet. It is not overstating it to say that Feller might have been the greatest prodigy in any field since Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

He was self-assured enough to throw a strike, at nearly 79 years of age -- and from the pitching rubber yet -- while making the ceremonial first pitch during the 1997 World Series.

Blunt and outspoken, he was also one of the most admirable men of an admirable generation. In the prime of his career, he gave up 31/2 years to serve in the Navy. He enlisted two days after Pearl Harbor, although he could have gotten a deferment since he was the sole support of his family, and his father was dying. In contrast to how teams schemed to arrange reserve-unit berths for players during the Vietnam war, Feller told told Cy Slapnicka, the scout who had signed him: "I'm going to enlist."

Slapnicka replied: "I think you should." As chief of an anti-aircraft battery on the battleship USS Alabama, Feller steamed 175,000 miles, crossed the Arctic Circle six times and the Equator 24 times, won eight battle stars, and, for his pains, saw a bunch of know-littles exclude him from the list of the 20th century's greatest players because he didn't win 300 games. Why, without World War II, he'd have won close to 400!

Although he played catch on the Alabama every day, Feller could not have known that he would come back to the big leagues as good as ever, not after missing most of four seasons when he was his early to mid-20s. In a way, it figured. .Legends are for all time, literally.

Before the color barrier fell after World War II in big-league baseball, Feller barnstormed in the off-season against the best of his era, including the great Negro League stars. He was an equal-opportunity strikeout artist.

He said only Walter "Big Train" Johnson was faster than he was. That riled Nolan Ryan's fans, but Feller had a strong sense of what it meant to be "Rapid Robert." Still, his self-gratification was slight, compared to his self-sacrifice. "Freedom's not free," he said.

On 9/11, one of the darkest days since Pearl Harbor, a reporter seeking reaction from a player who was a veteran of military service called Feller. It was an easy choice. He was the greatest American I ever knew.

Baseball in Cleveland will never be the same without Bob Feller: Paul Hoynes commentary

CLEVELAND, Ohio -- Hi Corbett Field was nearly empty on a long ago spring morning.

Bob Feller was the only occupant on the Indians' spring training grounds. He was in right field, in full uniform, going through his pitching delivery. He'd come to a set position, whirl and throw the ball into the right field wall.

Feller was practicing his pickoff move to second. Why not? He was only in his 70s.

Bob Feller, the greatest Indian of them all, is gone. He died Wednesday night and baseball in Cleveland will never be the same.

The birth of the new season didn't mean a thing until Feller walked into the spring-training press room, cracking jokes and passing out a new set of his autographed baseball cards to anyone within arm's reach. It didn't matter if it was Tucson, Ariz., Winter Haven, Fla., or Goodyear, Ariz., the sun couldn't shine and Indians players couldn't start pulling their hamstrings until No.19 reported.

He was sharp of mind, a red state unto himself and had an opinion on everything. He moved easily among the rich and famous. He danced with Marilyn Monroe, pitched to Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams, mingled with admirals and generals. Everyone knew Rapid Robert, the Heater from Van Meter.

In Winter Haven one morning, reporters were talking about what Indians players might open the season on the disabled list. The war in Iraq was raging on and Feller quickly tied the two together.

"I was just in Washington, D.C., talking to some generals," Feller said. "I'll tell you who's going on the disabled list ... Saddam Hussein."
Feller won 266 games with the Indians, throwing three no-hitters and 12 one-hitters. At his peak, he joined the U.S. Navy right after Pearl Harbor in 1941 and lost nearly 3 1/2 years of his career in World War II.

Feller told me it probably cost him about 60 victories, but he had no regrets about going to war.

"We were getting the hell kicked out of us," he said. "I thought we needed some help."

My favorite memory of Feller was listening to him talk about the barnstorming tour he organized with Satchel Paige and other Negro League stars. It was a blue-sky day at Chain of Lakes Park in Winter Haven as Feller talked to a group or reporters, but he made it sound as if the tour between big-league stars and Negro League greats happened yesterday.

Feller organized the tour, booked the hotels and travel. I don't know if he sold tickets, but he may have. He and Paige pitched two to three innings every day of the tour. He remembered dates, towns and crowd sizes.

He ranked Paige as one of the top 20 pitchers of all time. He gave scouting reports on other Negro League players, turning the mist of legend into muscle and flesh. It was an oral history of baseball and I'm still kicking myself for not taping it.

In last season's World Series between San Francisco and Texas, the Giants had Hall of Famers Juan Marichal, Willie McCovey, Orlando Cepeda and Gaylord Perry throw out the first pitch from Game 1. Willie Mays would have been there, but he wasn't feeling well.
In Cleveland, the Indians only had Feller at that pristine level of baseball greatness. The good thing was he was he never left.

• Playing catch in front of the Indians' dugout with Omar Vizquel in Winter Haven just before game time as the PA announcer reeled off his statistics that the crowd knew by heart.

• Sitting in the press box for the opening of Jacobs Field in 1994 as Seattle's Randy Johnson threatened, but eventually failed to match his record for throwing the only opening day no-hitter in history.

• Telling you his itinerary for his next round of card shows, "I'm in Dubuque on Tuesday, Nashville on Friday, Chicago on Sunday. Then I'm going to Iowa and we're going to walk out of a corn field just like in the movie."

He made his living by being Bob Feller. Herb Score used to call him "Inc." He was Bob Feller, Incorporated.

Several years ago he was asked how much he would be worth at free agent prices. He said without hesitation $15 million to $17 million a year. It was clear he'd thought about it. Today he'd be short-changing himself.

I wonder what Feller would have done if he pitched in the free-agent era? Would he have played his whole career in Cleveland? His talent certainly made him a one-team player such as Cal Ripken Jr. or Tony Gwynn. Or would he have left for more money and better opportunities like so many others?

Such thoughts are not for the moment. Today is for being grateful that we had Bob Feller among us for so long. That he was always there and in no hurry to leave.