EARL WILSON...TRAILBLAZER, PITCHER, HUMANITARIAN.....

It was just five years ago that Robert Earl Wilson passed away at the age of 70. He died suddenly of a heart attack at his home in Detroit Michigan. He was known primarily as a member of the 1968 World Champion Detroit Tigers and that is as it should be, for it was with the Tigers that he had his best years and it was the city of Detroit where his huge heart found it's home. However before he made his way to Detroit in 1966, that huge heart touched the heart of a little boy in Weymouth Massachusetts. A little boy who fell in love with Red Sox pitcher Earl Wilson, the pitcher who hit home runs!

He was signed on May 11, 1953 becoming the first black player to be employed by the Boston Red Sox organization. Originally a catcher, his rifle arm peaked immediate interest in converting him to the mound. By the end of 1954 and after two stops at the Class C level in the Arizona Texas League, and a short stint with the San Jose Red Sox in the California League, he settled in with the Class A Montgomery Rebels of the South Atlantic League. He was exclusively a pitcher and he was 20 years old.

From 1956 -1961 his minor league journey took him through; Albany NY, Minneapolis, Seattle and two stops with the Red Sox. When the Red Sox broke Spring Training from Scottsdale Arizona in April of 1962, Earl Wilson was in the major leagues to stay!

My earliest baseball memories are a mosaic of images; some more vivid than others. The first trip to Fenway where Dad pointed to left field and stated with reverence, "that's left field and that's where Ted Williams plays". I still smell the cigar smoke wafting across the diamond. Rooting for the White Sox in the 1959 World Series because those dastardly Dodgers had abandoned the good people of Brooklyn. Sitting in the chair at Tom's Barbershop while Bill Mazeroski rounded the bases in triumph after slaying the mighty Yankees with the homer that ended the 1960 World Series. Leaping with a scream of joy nearly cost me an ear.

As vivid as each of these are, they remain but snippets of a tapestry of yesterdays. My first memory of a complete nine innings of baseball involved, my Red Sox, my dad, my living room, my black and white TV and the mighty Robert Earl Wilson.The date was June 26, 1962. School had just ended and I was promoted to Mrs. Lenihan's fifth grade classroom at the James Humphrey School. It was officially summer and the confirmation of that was that the Red Sox were going to be on TV! This may seem like no big deal today, however, a televised night game during the week was a rarity and I was excited at the prospect. With school out it meant that I would get to stay up and watch the whole game. Make no mistake about it, Christmas had come in June!

A summer rain threatened to melt my early Christmas, but it only delayed the start by a half hour. I was shooting hoops on the makeshift basket on the telephone pole in front of my house when dad called me in, "game time" he said and I was gone! The sweet fragrance of that summer rain remains with me as I see myself bounding up the front stairs and into my living room.

The Sox were playing the Angels who were sending the flamboyant rookie lefthander Bo Belinsky to the hill. Belinsky had exploded on the scene six weeks earlier when he hurled a no hitter on May 5th against the Orioles! Belinsky entered the game with a 6-3 record while Wilson was 5-2. It had all the earmarks of a pitchers duel and a little over 14,000 fans showed up at Fenway to see it. One of the largest crowds of the year!

The first two innings went quick as each pitcher walked a man in the second. It was 0-0 with one out, in the bottom half of the third, when Earl Wilson strolled to the plate. He took a hardy cut at the first pitch and missed. The next fast ball he launched into the blackness of the night clear over the screen in left centerfield giving his team and himself a 1-0 lead. It was his second home run of the year and of his career but the true significance of that home run was six innings from being realized.

It was the only run that he would need as one Angel after another came up and went down. He walked two men in the fifth and one in the sixth. The Sox added an unearned run in the fifth on an RBI single by right fielder Carroll Hardy. Belinsky was nearly as formidable, striking out 10 and allowing only three hits before departing in the eighth for a pinch hitter. Following Wilson's walk of Billy Moran with one out in the sixth, an Angel had not reached base and when the ninth inning arrived, Earl Wilson stood on the threshold of history.

Moran led off and down he went, Leon "Daddy Wags" Wagner flied out to Yastrzemski in left field and only Lee Thomas stood between Wilson and immortality. Thomas lofted a fly ball to centerfield and as that ball nestled into the glove of Gary Geiger, the 14,002 members of the Fenway faithful erupted. So did the living room at 57 Endicott Street, for Earl Wilson had fired a no hitter!

Wilson was the 12th Red Sox pitcher to throw a no hitter. He was only the second pitcher in Major League history (Wes Ferrell 1931) to throw a no hitter and hit a home run in the same game. And he was the first black pitcher in American League history to pitch a no hitter. All of that was unknown to the nine year old boy in the living room. All he knew is that Earl Wilson was AWESOME!!!!

It was nearly a half century ago that Wilson spun his magic in the Fenway night yet the significance of that night, his career and indeed his life has grown in stature with each passing year, unveiled by history and embolden by his character.

His impact upon the game of baseball went far beyond his no hitter. In 1965 he hired Bob Wolfe, a Boston attorney, to represent him in contract negotiations with the Red Sox. He was the first professional athlete to hire "an agent" both changing the face of professional sports and launching Wolfe on a career which made him the most sought after agent throughout the decade of the 1970s.

Wilson endured the prejudice, discrimination and hatred ever present throughout his journey through the minor leagues in the 1950s. An incident which occurred in the spring of 1966 would stretch his tolerance to the limit and take him to his ultimate destiny. Following a spring training game in Lakeland Florida, Wilson along with teammates Dave Moorhead and Dennis Bennett entered the local Elks Club for a beer. The trio was immediately informed by the bar tender that "we don't serve niggers in here". The three of them left the premises and when the Boston press got word and wrote of the incident, Wilson was told by Red Sox GM Dick O'Connell to not "make an issue of it". A man of dignity and pride, Wilson was not happy that the Red Sox did not come to his aid and defense. He expressed that disappointment and before the June 15 trade deadline he was on his way to Detroit, exchanged for outfielder Don Demeter and pitcher Julio Navarro.

The Tigers and Wilson were a perfect match. Wilson fell in love with the city and the city and the Tigers fell in love with him. And why not? From the time he arrived until his arm failed him in 1970; Wilson was 64-45 with Detroit including a league leading 22 wins in 1967. He was a mainstay on the staff which won the 1968 World series and he continued to hit. He finished his career with 35 home runs. Warren Spahn is the only pitcher who hit more. Oh, and as for Demeter and Navarro? Wilson hit more home runs for the Tigers than Demeter did for the Red Sox and Navarro never threw a pitch in a Boston uniform.

After baseball he founded a very successful auto parts distributorship in Detroit. The humanity that was Earl Wilson would manifest itself long after his playing days ended when he served four years as president of the Baseball Assistance Team. BAT is an organization which aids former players who have fallen upon hard financial times. During his tenure as BAT's president he raised over $4,000,000 to assist his comrades. Beyond that he was a constant force in countless charities and charitable events throughout Michigan and beyond.

On April 23, 2005 Earl Wilson was at his home in Michigan when a heart attack struck him down. That huge heart had simply had enough and in a matter of an instant, he was gone. His passing brought accolades from the many who knew him. Willie Horton said "one of the great teammates I had...and a greater individual."

Earl's resume speaks for itself. However nowhere on that resume will it tell about the 12 year old boy who approached him at a "Sports Night" at East Junior High School in Weymouth Massachusetts. Looking up at the elegant "Duke of Earl" clad in a "shiny" gray suit with a powder blue shirt and a gray tie; the page of his 1965 Red Sox Yearbook opened to Wilson's picture, He asked, "Mr. Wilson could I please have your autograph?" "You sure can" he said as he signed, creating a moment and a memory which, like Wilson, grows in stature with the passage of time into that unrelenting veil of history.

PITCHING AND GOLF.....

In February of 2009, I had the privilege of playing a round of golf with Red Sox great Luis Tiant. Tiant was the ace of the Red Sox pitching staff during the decade of the 1970s and is, in my opinion, the best pitcher not in the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame. The intent of this post is not to explain that point but I would invite one and all to examine the careers of Tiant next to those of Don Drysdale and "Catfish" Hunter and then try to figure out why El Tiante is not there. But I digress.

Throughout the round, as shocking as this may seem, the conversation centered around two things, baseball and golf. Luis, who is approaching seventy, and sports about a 10 handicap commented how much golf was like pitching. And indeed it is true. When a pitcher is on the mound he must be totally focused on the job at hand and he must approach his stint one pitch at a time. He cannot, must not, be deterred or derailed by what has just transpired. Whether he has just surrendered a 450 foot home run or punched out the number four hitter with the bases loaded. His focus must be on the next pitch and his journey from start to finish must be one pitch at a time.

A round of golf will last for roughly four hours. During that time a golfer is actually in the motion of striking the ball and following through for a period of about 90 seconds. So, a golfer requires three hours, fifty eight minutes and thirty seconds of total focus and concentration for about a minute and a half worth of motion. He too must be totally focused on the task at hand and cannot, must not be deterred or derailed by what has just transpired. Whether he has just rifled a snap hook into the woods or just nailed a six iron from 170 yards to within 8 feet of the hole. His focus must be on the next shot and his journey from start to finish must be one shot at a time.

To reach the level of a major league pitcher or PGA Tour golfer an individual possesses a certain skill level that a minute number of human beings possess. On certain days that skill level merges with mental focus and concentration resulting in a performance of exceptional proportions; Pedro Martinez strikes out 17 batters and throws a one hitter or Tim Lincecum whiffs 15 and gives up four singles, Phil Mickelson shoots a 30 on the back nine of Augusta on his way to a round of 65 or Freddie Couples at 50 years old shoots 67 on Bobby Jones Playground.

When we, who can't do, evaluate the performances of these great competitors we often engage in the discussion of topics such as greatest this or best that. The greatest season a baseball player has ever had or the best performance in a golf tournament. These exercises of pundits and observers are often punctuated with the numbers. For example how could the best pitching performance not be one of the rare occasions in which the pitcher threw a perfect game or the even rarer accomplishment of striking out 20 batters in just nine innings? How could the best golf tournament not be the one in which the the winner simply buried the field with the lowest score of all time?

I submit to you that as stunning, as incredible, as dynamic as those performances may have been they do not qualify in my eyes as "the greatest" I have ever seen. And watching the events at Augusta National last weekend, was a reconfirmation of that concept in my mind. Everywhere you turned for the 2010 Masters there was a tremendous story waiting to unfold. In no particular order there was Lee Westwood, once the 4th ranked player in the world, dropping to the rank of 269th, battling back to number 4 again and knocking on the door for his first major championship. Freddie Couples, the 50 year old 1992 Masters Championship capturing the magic of yesterday and threatening to become the oldest player in history to win a major. And then there was Tiger and Phil. There is always Tiger and Phil but never, ever more juxtaposed then they were this weekend. Tiger, the philandering narcissist living his self created nightmare reemerging after a 145 day hiatus. Phil, the quintessential family man who has spent the past year in support of his wife and mom who both are battling cancer the insidious predator. Both Mrs. Mickelsons were present at a tournament for the first time since their diagnosis' a year ago. The weekend belonged to Phil and his family and rightfully so! He made the shots when he needed them as he stepped into the breech on Sunday to grab the coveted Green Jacket.

As fitting, hard fought and emotional as that was, I came away from the weekend and was once again in awe of Tiger Woods. As we all know Tiger finished fourth this weekend and I was happy that he did not dominate the course or the field. I was rooting for the game of golf this weekend and I felt that the game could best be served by Tiger struggling. Not because his personal life is a train wreck. Not because of his ridiculous transgressions, not because I choose to sit in moral judgement on his rather questionable personal choices. Simply because I know in my heart that the game of golf is simply too difficult to play and NOBODY, not even the great Tiger Woods, should be able to be away from it for 145 days and then dominate the best at one of its finest venues.

That all having been said; what he did was nothing short of phenomenal. His game abandoned him on the weekend. He pulled his tee shots, he popped them up, his chips were long, he three putted from 8 feet and he was never in rhythm. Yet, in spite of it all, through 66 holes, he still had a chance to win. In short he had nothing and through sheer mental toughness, will, determination and heart, he remained a force.

While watching the Masters I thought back to my conversation with Tiant and I began to think back to a similar performance by El Tiante himself. It was game four of the 1975 World Series. The Reds were up two games to one and a Red Sox loss would put them down 3-1 placing their proverbial backs against the proverbial wall. Luis had shutout the Big Red Machine on five hits in Game 1 and the Sox looked to him to even the series.

The Reds jumped in the bottom half of the first inning. Rose led off with a single, Ken Griffey (daddy) doubled him in and was thrown out trying to stretch his double into a three bagger. Joe Morgan walked, went to second on a grounder to short by Tony Perez and scored on a double by Johnny Bench. It was clear right out of the gate that the Tiant of game four was not the Tiant of game one. Or was he? The Red Sox scored five runs in the top of the fourth and the Reds added two in the home half of the same frame. The score at the end of four was Boston 5 Cincinnati 4.

What transpired in the next five innings was the greatest pitching performance I have ever witnessed. Oh, Tiant was not the Tiant of game 1. He did not dominate. In fact in only one of the last five innings (the 7th) did the Reds go down one, two three; and the first out was a scorched line drive by Rose to second base, the third out was a blast to the centerfield fence by Morgan. In the fifth, the Reds had men on second and third when Bench flied to left to end the inning. The sixth ended with Tiant punching out Darrell Chaney with Geronimo on first. Concepcion popped to right to end the eighth with George Foster on first and the game ended when Griffey lined to center and Morgan popped to first, both with runners on first and second. The final score Boston 5 Cincinnati 4.

The box score looks very ordinary. Tiant surrendered four runs on nine hits, he walked four and struck out four. His pitch count for the night reads 155 but there are some who suggest it was about 170. What Luis did that night, with virtually nothing, was even the World Series 2-2 and set the stage for legendary baseball drama that is now woven into the tapestry of baseball history. What he did, he did through sheer mental toughness, will, determination and heart.

So when the the cosmic tumblers kick into place and the symetry of talent and competiveness merge to produce a performance for the ages, sit back, watch and admire them as true works of art. As for me, give me the performance of the athlete who simply refuses to yield, who continues to fight when all that remains is the sheer will to do so; for when he prevails, we all prevail!