Imperfect: An Improbable Life

by Jim Abbott

  When Alomar was ready and I was again on the mound, I took one more look at the flagpole, turned, got the sign from Nokes—curveball—and threw a good one that Hendry must have thought was high. Alomar then fouled off a cutter, took another curve for a ball, and then hit a cutter toward third base. Wade Boggs snared it on an in-between second hop and threw to Mattingly. I was again headed to the bench, again untouched. I broke into my Kamieniecki routine again, because I needed everyone to laugh, myself included. I sat down and thought, Here it is. For the first time, I think ever, I rooted for the team not to score. I wanted to get back out there.

  CHAPTER 17

  Once, when I’d known I’d let down the Angels and the people who wanted to believe in me because I couldn’t get enough outs, when I was so frustrated I no longer could pretend I believed in the next pitch or the next start or the next anything, I took a baseball bat in my hands and beat an inanimate object until I reached exhaustion.

  The heavy bag, the kind boxers practice on, hung in the tunnel behind the home dugout at Anaheim Stadium. It was soft from years of abuse, and it was red like the faces of those who abused it.

  When the bat splintered, I flung it to the ground, found a second bat, and continued to thrash until that splintered, too. Then I got a third bat, which died similarly, in a rage I’d never felt before.

  I’d pitched poorly before and would again. I’d gotten hit and misplaced the strike zone and lost before. But sometimes a guy has to beat something, because hitting myself with the bat would have looked foolish. I was finished in the fifth inning that day.

  Head down, legs heavy, Lachemann had come for the baseball. And I went for the bat rack. Then to the heavy bag. I stopped because my reaction was an embarrassing display of immaturity and selfishness, and because it could have been construed as showing up Lach, and because it went against all that my father had instilled in me in childhood about dignity and composure. And because I couldn’t find a fourth bat.

  That was September of 1995.

  The following season was worse. Every day was worse. Every game, every restaurant meal, every night I came home to a quiet house, every time the phone rang, it was worse.

  The promise of the previous season—heavy bag excluded—ran off in spring, in the Arizona desert, and never really did return, not for long enough.

  There is perhaps no better job in the world than being a ballplayer, and no better position than starting pitcher. In fact, professionally speaking, if I had to live one day every day for the rest of my life, it might be the day after a win. Any win. The sun is warmer and the laughs are easier. The clock is meaningless. Lunch stays down. The next day of work is forever away.

  Lose, however, and I would have rather done anything else. Lose, and the next day my arm didn’t feel quite right, and the traffic to the ballpark was exasperating, and all those guys getting ready to play again were the lucky ones. Lose, and the four-day wait for redemption was interminable.

  Lose a bunch, and the impatience to win again becomes the very grounds to lose again. Rather than concentrating on executing a single pitch, the focus becomes winning a ballgame or three, and that’s far too big. Or, actually, it becomes not losing another ballgame. The cycle can be murderous to a baseball season, then to a career.

  Lach used to tell us, “Trust your stuff.” Believe in your pitch and throw it to the mitt, he said, and think of nothing else. In a losing streak, however, the single thought in a pitcher’s head—at least this pitcher’s—was, “Don’t lose.” Sometimes, “Please don’t lose.” I’d get a perfectly good sign from the catcher and risk it by thinking, “Don’t let this be the pitch that beats me.”

  Obviously, that’s not conducive to pitching well. And I didn’t.

  I lost 20 games in 1996, 18 of them in the big leagues, two of them when the Angels had seen enough and sent me to the minor leagues. Unlike the last time team management considered demoting me, no one put his career on the line and threatened to go with me.

  It wasn’t simply a bad season. It was an epically, historically, hide-the-women-and-children bad season. On May 1, I was already 0-4. From the middle of May to late June, just to take one particularly imprecise period, I was 0-6 with a 12.72 ERA. By August 10, I was 1-15. I was losing by football scores.

  By the time they counted up the big-league numbers at the end of the season, all based on at least 141 innings pitched (which I somehow managed to accumulate), my win-loss percentage (.100) was the ninth-worst in history. And my 7.48 ERA—again, based on at least 141 innings over a season—was the worst ever. Those numbers don’t come by accident. There aren’t that many bad breaks in a season.

  At twenty-eight years old, and feeling mostly strong and healthy, I had perhaps the ugliest season in baseball’s modern era, which spanned thousands of pitchers over three-quarters of a century.

  Generally, I viewed my seasons in the context of the areas that could have gone better. Even the good seasons—12-12 in ’89, 18-11 in ’91, 11-8 in ’95—I tended toward underselling the high points, at least to myself.

  There was no underselling 2-18. I was 0-8 in Anaheim, in front of Angels fans, family, and people who mattered the most to me. And they were so nice about it. I’d walk off the field down five runs in the fourth inning, and get an ovation for it. It was painful.

  Left-handed hitters batted .347. I couldn’t keep the ball away from their bat barrels. Had they been one guy, they would have finished third—behind only Alex Rodriguez and Frank Thomas—in the American League batting race. And when there were runners on base, when I really tried not to lose rather than simply making a pitch of some passable quality, the league batted .358 against me. And, speaking to my dearth of confidence, I walked 78 batters, the most in my career, and five more than I’d walked in 1991, when I’d pitched 101 more innings. I even threw 13 wild pitches, none of which, it should be noted, were hit off the left-field wall for a two-run double.

  As a pitcher, the season had been a breakdown of body, mind, and, hard as I fought it, spirit.

  Tim Mead would find me after games in the weight room. A sweat puddle chased me from machine to machine. We’d stand there looking at each other and I’d ask, “What would you do?”

  What would anyone do?

  Remarkably, Lach and general manager Billy Bavasi stuck with me for as long as they did. Second-most-remarkably: Dana stuck with me all summer without making me sleep in the garage. Hard as I tried, I often failed to leave the hurt and frustration of the season at the ballpark.

  I lifted more weights, threw more bullpens, threw more fastballs. When that didn’t work, I lifted fewer weights, threw fewer bullpens, and threw fewer fastballs. Then I’d start over. I couldn’t figure it out, and neither could Lach or his pitching coach, Chuck Hernandez. Without a good fastball, my secondary pitches were not effective enough to get me through a game. Bob McClure was right, all those years ago. He’d told me I had to learn to pitch, that I wouldn’t have a fastball forever, and now it was gone and I had nothing to turn to. From the days of softball-toss competitions in elementary school, I’d always been able to throw hard; I’d assumed I always would.

  For the first time, Dana and I discussed the possibility that my career was over, or discussed what we’d do when it was over. Something was wrong that couldn’t be fixed, and maybe I would not have the twenty-year career—and the lifestyle that came with it—we had assumed. Dana, ever protective, dragged these notions out of me. When I was home, I couldn’t talk about the games, because my failure in them was consuming. I couldn’t face old friends, people who shared a baseball connection, because they, I was sure, would want to help, or—worse—feel sorry for me. Going to dinner was torture. When I walked into a restaurant, I thought people saw not Jim Abbott, but the guy who was approaching 2-18, like a neon sign was hung over my head. Back in Orange County, I believed my entire world was wrapped up in my struggle. I tried to balance the joy and uncertainty of Dana’s pregnancy against my job, but never did. The pi
t in my stomach that came as I left for the ballpark was as painful as it was relentless.

  On August 4 I lost my fourteenth game. The next day, Lach, among the most decent men I’d ever met and someone who’d once risked his career for mine, was fired by the Angels. Among my many mistakes was in allowing the losses to become personal, not only to me, but to Lach, Billy, Tim. Every day I looked into their eyes and felt I’d let them down. Even by that standard, August 5 was a terrible day.

  The Angels held a press conference, where Lach glumly answered questions about what went wrong. He was, as ever, a picture of dignity and resilience. I sat in the back of the room and watched my coach, my friend, bear the weight of a season lost and a franchise suffering. I thought it should have been me up there.

  A week later, after nearly eight full major-league seasons, I was sent to the minor leagues. The organization hoped a gentler environment might clear my cluttered head and develop those elusive secondary pitches. The plan was to rebuild my psyche and let my career follow, to facilitate my transition from a power pitcher to a finesse pitcher, the latter being what they call pitchers without a fastball. That, and a minor leaguer.

  In spite of Bavasi’s sound reasoning, and in spite of the preponderance of evidence supporting his decision, I viewed the demotion not as a chance at a fresh start, but as the final stage of a complete breakdown.

  My home games wouldn’t be in Anaheim, but in Vancouver. I had a pregnant wife at home. There were hundreds—no, thousands—out there like me, grown men with families who’d gone off to pursue baseball careers, aiming to advance through minor-league systems and one day stand in a big-league ballpark. I was moving in the other direction. Our paths crossed in the Pacific Coast League.

  I had struggled with the Yankees, but that didn’t feel like outright failure. That was temporary. Success was a couple miles per hour away, a little more depth on my curveball, slightly more tilt on my slider. Success was within reach. It was four days away.

  The minor leagues were outright failure, and it wasn’t all about how hard I would throw a baseball.

  The Vancouver Trappers were playing a series in Tucson, Arizona. I pulled open the clubhouse door, lugged my duffel bag across the threshold, and became a minor leaguer for the first time, after 1,535 major-league innings. In that moment I joined the many who were scraping and clawing their way to the majors. Some would get there. The rest would stop here, agonizingly close to all they’d ever played for.

  Some of the faces were familiar, the ones that had come through Anaheim for short periods or had been in spring training. Mostly, however, they were kids, earnest kids who’d worked their way through the system and wore some of the weariness of baseball summers. They were, however, still enjoying themselves, still young and grateful enough for that anyway. I even laughed some that first night, something I hadn’t been doing a lot of in Anaheim.

  The next morning was cool and sunny. I awoke to the chatter of families in the parking lot, the clicks and slams of car doors, and the rough stirring of engines. Gone were the trappings of the majors—the cozy beds, the room service breakfasts, even the quiet of morning. I’d pitched myself into a roadside motel in Tucson and woke up to the scent of bygone travelers and old cigarette smoke, and to a career in distress. In a dim light cast through thready drapes, the fall from hardball grace ended on an orangey-brownish carpet, and knocked the wind from me.

  I saw myself as a ballplayer first, and as a worthwhile person because of it. Who was I without a fastball? What was I without a major-league uniform?

  I’d built a life on a foundation of athletic achievement, beginning in places where the bases were toppled lawn chairs and salaries were paid in grilled cheese sandwiches and apple cider. My self-image came with a baseball cap, a roaring fastball, and a crowd on its feet, applauding strike three. If I was special, or as special as some people thought I was, it was the game that made me so. How could anyone like me if I wasn’t a good baseball player?

  Twenty years after I’d been handed my first uniform, near dawn and a few yards from the growl of semis on Interstate 10, I mourned the decline of that person. I searched my life for signs of what else I could be, of who else I could be. When nothing came but blankness and indecision, I sat on the end of the bed and questioned how it was—with so many blessings in my life, including and especially a wonderful wife and a daughter on the way—that failure on the baseball field could bring me to absolute misery. Nothing—not Dana or family or friends or money—offered more than temporary comfort, which only heightened my pangs of selfishness. The money least of all. In fact, the weight of the contract enhanced my despair: I was not just disappointing people, but cheating them, too.

  I was a little dark that day. It wouldn’t be the last day like it or the worst day like it. But, it was the first of such depth. Fortunately, soon I got to pitch again. And, turned out, I had a little fun. The atmosphere with the Trappers was more relaxed. The spotlight was dimmer. Dana visited Vancouver, and with lighter hearts one morning we drove the ninety miles to Whistler. In just a few weeks, Southern California and the big leagues seemed a long ways away.

  I returned to the Angels in early September, through Miami, where Harvey was working for the Florida Marlins. Scott Boras and Billy Bavasi worked out the details, all quite clandestine considering Harvey was employed by another club. Harvey and I spent a day together.

  He reminded me that I was not my job, that the way I pitched did not define me, not when I was bad and not when I was good. Believing I was a good person because I was pitching well, of course, was not the current issue.

  As he’d done before, and would again, Harvey looked me in the eye and in that crackling New York accent said, “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  Harvey had little patience for self-pity.

  I’d tried just about everything. In fact, I asked over and over, what hadn’t I done about it?

  Just being around Harvey was good for me. I met the team in Minnesota, won a game against the Twins, pitched in three more games and lost all three of them, numbers sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen. Like I said, historically bad.

  The Angels lost 91 games and finished in last place in the AL West. We’d gone through three managers (John McNamara followed Lach, and then Joe Maddon followed McNamara). The season ended and I was glad for it. I needed to get out from under those eighteen losses, to clear my head so I could get on with saving my career, and it wasn’t going to happen as long as I was dragging 1996 around with me.

  The year ended just as it should have, with a fresh and hopeful beginning. Maddy was born in December. She was healthy and happy and came into the world with a full complement of fingers, toes, and innocence. She was a blessing in every way. Having her in our lives allowed us a measure of perspective in an uncertain time. By herself, Maddy diluted my pain. Maddy’s timing was perfect. For her, I felt a renewal of purpose. I was going to pitch long enough for her to know her dad’s story, to witness at least a part of it. Every morning of that winter I left the house seeking to banish 2-18 to some other place than my head and my conscience. I ran, and I lifted weights, and I threw. And when I returned home to Dana and Maddy, exhausted and wrung with sweat, I was convinced I’d taken back another inch toward repairing my name and my game.

  Confident again, I was strong and, at twenty-nine, in my prime. By spring training, and in spite of the debacle of the season before, I was sure of myself. I’d done the work. I’d pushed the uncertainty away. I had more to pitch for.

  Then I could barely get an out.

  As though there’d been no five-month break, no morning workouts, no dedication to fulfilling my contract, I could barely throw a strike.

  I made a few starts. The last was in Tucson, which meant a two-hour bus ride on a Saturday morning to face the Colorado Rockies. Nobody wanted to be on that bus, and few of the veterans were. I’d been knocked around by the Oakland A’s five days before, so I was eager to get on with my comeback, even if it me
ant 230 miles roundtrip. Close enough to that minor-league hotel room that I could almost smell it, I pitched an inning.

  I couldn’t find the strike zone, like my arm wasn’t even part of my body anymore. Jim Leyritz was the catcher and he’d set up wherever he set up—in, away, down the middle—and I wasn’t ever close. It was gruesome. I’m sure it was pathetic to watch from the dugout, the stands, and the press box. It was worse from the mound, I could have assured them. Over the course of three outs, I’d given up walks, given up hits, even been struck on the shin by a rather firm one-hopper.

  When I did finally get out of the inning I went straight to Lach, who had returned as manager Terry Collins’s pitching coach, and asked for another inning. “Just one more,” I said. When he said no, I begged for another inning, pleaded for another chance.

  “You’re not going out there again,” Lach said. “You’re done.”

  Back in the clubhouse where months before I’d managed to muster a laugh in the face of demotion, I couldn’t put the pieces together. Here I was, a veteran player, familiar with the game and its routines, and yet my career was hanging by a thread.

  Something that had been there my whole life—the ability to throw hard, to throw near the plate and with movement—was gone. I wasn’t even thirty. Hours later, the bus drove north past that same motel, back across the desert to Tempe, dragging my career behind it.

  The following morning Bavasi called me into his office. My head spun, thoughts of forging ahead mixing with ideas that I should make life easier for everyone by walking away. I was hoping for a pep talk. Keep working, hang in there, we’ll get this right, that sort of thing. Instead, his eyes were hard and his words pointed.

  “If I had your stuff,” he said, “I wouldn’t throw strikes, either.”

  It was not going to be a pep talk. He laid into me. I put my head down and took it like I deserved it. After 14 2/3 innings, and with the regular season a week away, my ERA was 13.50, almost twice the ugliness of the season before.