by John Smoltz
John made the arrangements and I met with sports psychologist Jack Llewellyn a couple times during the All-Star break. It was such a simple process. I went over to his house and we shot pool in his basement and talked. We didn’t even talk much about baseball. We talked about how I was feeling in general about my life and my recent marriage. After a couple of visits, Jack had an idea that he thought might help. He asked me to go have the video guys put together a highlight reel for me, so I did.
It ended up being nothing more than an old VHS tape with two minutes of my best moments from the mound up to that point. He told me to watch it several times before the next game, paying particular attention to how I had been able to throw all my best pitches in situations where one bad pitch could mean the difference between an out and several runs. I didn’t know if it was going to work, but obviously it was worth a shot.
The very next game after the tape was made, I faced that same moment on the mound that had owned me all season. Runners were in scoring position and things were on the verge of getting ugly. But this time, I thought about the tape: I saw myself overcoming adversity in the past and I didn’t let myself think I couldn’t do it. I stood there on the mound and dug in deep. I made the adjustment in my mind and I faced the adversity in front of me. And not only did I face it my first time out, but I nailed it my first time out, pitching my way out of a jam and keeping runs off the scoreboard for the first time in what seemed like all year.
Now, the adjustment wasn’t physical, but what I was doing mentally was affecting me physically—if that makes any sense. Before I saw Jack, I was basically the victim of some warped thinking. Remembering my little highlight reel helped me break out of it and banish the negative thoughts from my head; it freed me up and allowed me to make the pitches I needed to make and had been capable of making all along.
And that’s what happened. It was as simple as just a couple times shooting pool at Jack’s house, putting the video together, and done. That was it for me. We’ve kind of touched on this already, but if I can feel it or see it, the way my mind works, I can apply things really, really quickly. Once my confidence was restored, I was back on track. The story should have ended right there, but as most of you probably know, it didn’t.
I really turned things around in the second half and started winning games on a pretty regular basis. The problem was, as the wins started to add up, the media keyed in on the story. Some articles suggested that because Jack had started to make it a habit to sit in the stands wearing a red shirt on days I pitched, his presence was somehow an integral part of my resurgence in the win-loss category. The silly thing is that I didn’t have any idea that Jack was sitting in the stands at all.
I was simply focused on pitching, and I wasn’t even aware that the issue was snowballing into its own story. To compound matters, no one ever asked me for my side of the story and I didn’t step in and address it either. It wasn’t until it carried over into the ’92 season that I finally had to say “time out” and take the time to set the record straight. I was by no means embarrassed by my association with a sports psychologist, nor was I afraid to admit I had needed some help. I remain grateful to Jack for helping me regain my confidence. What I didn’t appreciate was how the story got twisted and made out to be more than it really was. And if I had to do it all over again, I’d have stepped in and put an end to it much sooner.
Perhaps part of what fueled the story was that this was one of the first times that it had become public knowledge that a pro athlete was seeing a sports psychologist. There were other guys doing it, even guys on my own team, but it had never made the papers. I had no problem being seen as some kind of trailblazer in this arena (even though I really wasn’t); I just wish it had been more accurately portrayed.
If you’d have told me at the break, when I was 2–11, “John, you are going to not only go 12–2 and earn two wins in the National League Championship Series against the Pittsburgh Pirates, but go on to pitch fourteen innings in the World Series against the Minnesota Twins and only allow two runs,” I wouldn’t have believed it. In fact, I would have probably checked you into drug rehab. But that’s what happened. I watched my little highlight reel whenever I needed to (at some point I didn’t even need to put the tape into the VCR anymore; I could just close my eyes and see it) and I fought my way out of the worst slump of my career all the way to the opposite end of the spectrum—almost winning Game Seven of the World Series. The whole experience is a clear testament to how important your own thoughts are to your own success: Sometimes you just have to get out of your own way.
Fast-forwarding back to 2009, with runners on first and second and no outs in the bottom of the first, I just needed to remind myself of the facts: I knew what I had fixed and I believed in what I could still do. All I needed to do was pitch.
I was fortunate to get González to hit into a 4-6-3 double play, and just like that, the inning was reset with two outs and a runner on third. I threw three more pitches to left fielder Chase Headley, struck him out swinging, and the inning was over. Thankfully, on this occasion I not only avoided a four-spot in the first, I kept the score tied at 0–0. I walked back to the dugout already in and out of my first jam, unscathed. I hadn’t really accomplished anything yet, but I remember telling myself, Okay, I got over that tiny, little hurdle.
In the second inning, Mark DeRosa led us off with a deep fly ball to center field for out number one. Yadier Molina, the second batter, walked, bringing me up to bat for the first time all year.
Before I stepped into the batter’s box, I paused for a moment, taking a practice swing as I watched José Oquendo, the third-base coach, cycle through his signs. As I half expected, with Molina on first and only one out, Tony La Russa was calling for a sacrifice bunt to move the runner to second. I hadn’t laid down a bunt in a game in I don’t know how long, but when Carrillo wound up, I squared around like old times.
I made contact, but the ball ended up rolling foul. Carrillo then threw over to first twice, before picking up the battle with me again. The sacrifice was off now and I took the next three pitches for balls. With the count at 3–1, José signaled that the sacrifice was back on, and I fouled off another bunt. With the count now full, José gave me the green light to swing away. The next three pitches were good, all close enough that I had to swing, and I was lucky enough to get wood on all of them, fouling them away without harm.
At this point I was already pretty proud of myself. Here I was, the pitcher for the opposing team, and I was making Carrillo work. I had seen eight pitches already. The next pitch—the ninth of the at-bat—looked like it could easily be my third strike if I let it go, so I took a cut.
I made contact, dinking a weak ground ball to the shortstop. It was a fielder’s choice and the Padres threw out Molina at second, but I escaped the double play and arrived safely at first. I hadn’t advanced the runner, I hadn’t been credited with a hit, but I had reached first base safely in my first at-bat and I felt an usual amount of satisfaction about it. It might have seemed like a minor moment to a twenty-one-year veteran, but I hadn’t even taken batting practice in over a year.
It was a unique thing to find myself on first base in the second inning, and I felt the first twinge of magic that day. I had already pitched myself out a jam in the first inning and now here I was on first. I remember tilting my face up toward the sun for a second and just taking in a deep breath of warm Southern California air. It was a picture-perfect day weatherwise—mid-seventies with a slight breeze and a brilliant blue sky—and a perfect day to be being playing baseball.
As I settled into a modest lead off first base, Skip Schumaker hit a ground ball into center and I advanced to second. Now it was two on, two outs, and there I was striding out a lead on second, figuring any second I’d be exchanging my helmet for my hat and glove.
Brendan Ryan was up next and all he did was improbably extend this improbable inning by ripping a two-out grounder up the middle. I broke for third as soon a
s I saw him connect with the ball, but I figured it would just be a short sprint. But when I saw José windmilling his arms toward home, I took a good line, rounded third, and started digging it out for home as fast as I could.
The next thing I know, I see Albert Pujols waving me in like a 747—calling for a slide! It must have been years since I had slid into any base, much less home, but I promptly launched my aging body feetfirst and executed a hook slide. I slid away from the tag of Padres catcher Nick Hundley, and when I swiped home plate with my right hand, I was pretty sure I was…
“Safe!”
I was absolutely gassed by this point, but hearing home-plate umpire Todd Tichenor’s call propelled me up and onto my feet again.
I could only shake my head and smile as I walked back to the dugout, knocking the dirt off my pants. As I slapped some high fives through the dugout and sat down to catch my breath, I definitely felt forty-two years old in my body, but in my heart and mind I felt the joy of a nine-year-old who had just scored from second for the very first time.
For me, things had come full circle in that trip around the bases. I had literally and figuratively come back home, back to my roots in the National League. I had been a little tense in the first inning after giving up a hit that was immediately followed by an error. You always want better results than that, especially in the first, but once I got through it, I felt like all those years of experience had kicked right back in and I was right where I needed to be.
I enjoyed a nice break catching my breath as my new team continued our unlikely two-out rally, eventually scoring three more runs. It was an absolute gift to my game, walking out to start the bottom half of the second with a four-run lead, and I promptly settled in on the mound and got into a groove. Twelve pitches later I had sewn up another inning, three up and three down, all strikeouts—two swinging and one looking. I had started the game with confidence, but now I had momentum.
In the third, Carrillo walked DeRosa, our first batter up. When he then threw two consecutive balls to our second batter, Molina, Padres manager Buddy Black came out of the dugout. Carrillo was done and we were into the Padres’ bullpen in the top of the third—always a good sign. Edward Mujica came in in relief and didn’t fare any better against Molina; Molina drew a walk, bringing me up to the plate again.
With runners on first and second and no outs, the sacrifice was on from the first pitch. I took a deep breath and steadied myself in the batter’s box for a moment before squaring around. This time I laid down a beauty of a bunt toward third. I scampered down the line and somehow beat the throw. Bases loaded, no outs. I had not only advanced the runners, as my manager had intended, but the Padres hadn’t managed an out. I stretched my legs, half expecting another trip around the bases.
But this time, it wasn’t to be. Schumaker came up next and hit into a double play and then Ryan hit a deep fly ball to right field for the third out. It’s always disappointing not to score any runs after you load the bases with no outs, but at least we still had a four-run lead.
I picked things up in the bottom of the third right where I had left off in the second, only this time I only threw ten pitches. Nine strikes, one ball, and it was three up, three down, all strikeouts again—one looking, two swinging.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just fired off seven strikeouts in a row, something I had never done in my entire career and something that had never been done in Cardinals-franchise history. What I did know was that I was making all my pitches and that whenever I got to two strikes, things almost felt automatic to me. I’d get two strikes and I’d be thinking, He’s out. And for two and a third innings straight, they were.
Albert Pujols hit a solo homer in the top of the fourth, so when I came out for the bottom half of the inning, we had a 5–0 lead. The first batter up was Tony Gwynn Jr. I should have known my crazy strikeout streak was destined to end because the son of Tony Gwynn had my number. I don’t know what his career batting average was against me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was up over .500. Tony Jr. had been a pesky thorn in my side for many years and he would prove to be again on this occasion, coming through with a single to left field on a 2–2 count. The single broke up my streak, but thankfully mattered little overall, because I retired the next three batters, including one more strikeout, and stranded Tony at first.
I ended up pitching one more inning, allowing one more hit, but no runs, and adding yet another strikeout. In total, I had pitched a five-inning shutout and would be credited with a win. I had given up just three hits, struck out nine, and allowed no runs or walks. Just seventeen days earlier, it had been a completely different story: three and a third innings, nine hits, eight runs—all earned, four walks, two home runs, and three strikeouts. In one game, in one magical debut with the Cardinals, I had resurrected myself. I felt more than satisfied after the game; I felt vindicated.
Despite my performance, there were questions and comments after the game that I still had to deal with. They varied from the obvious (“Well, how come you didn’t do this in Boston?”) to the unfortunate (“Well, he beat the Padres, big deal, they were struggling”) but it really didn’t bother me. For me, it was more than just that one performance. And at the end of this day, despite anyone’s comments, I didn’t feel like I had to justify anything to anyone.
I mean think about it: I had been released from Boston, I was completely out of baseball for two weeks throwing at a stinking high school field, and the next thing you know I’m back in the big leagues. I hadn’t started a game in seventeen days (which for pitchers is an eternity) and I struck out seven batters in a row—something I had never done in my entire career. No way. There’s just no way that could have happened. I mean, you couldn’t write that in a book.
Well, I guess I just did.
Chapter Eighteen
A SWEEP WORTH SAVORING
Prior to my five-inning shutout debut in San Diego, the expectations St. Louis had for me could best be described as limited and calculated. It was all but a foregone conclusion that after my previously agreed-upon two-start test drive, I was headed to the bullpen. I was really acquired not to be their fourth starter, but as another weapon in manager Tony La Russa’s bullpen arsenal.
For those who aren’t up on pro baseball managerial trends, Tony is widely credited with transforming the way today’s managers use their bullpens. He was famous for using relievers in situational roles, like bringing in a lefty pitcher to face a lefty hitter, to create matchups that tilted the odds in his direction—to the point of switching pitchers one batter at a time on occasion. I was certainly capable of being the right-handed specialist Tony intended me to be in the bullpen, but I was also hoping to prove that despite my recent performances in Boston, I was really the ultimate utility pitcher at this point, capable of starting, closing, and everything in between.
I think it’s safe to say my debut against the Padres kicked open the door of possibility for me with the Cardinals. It was probably the first time they seriously entertained the idea of expanding my role and considered keeping me in the rotation after all. I was ready to fill in wherever they thought they needed me, but certainly the ambitious competitor in me was hoping to contribute more than just a few innings here and there. For me, the thrill of knowing what might happen if I could pitch strongly down the stretch helped me focus on the one thing I could control between now and then: how I pitched.
My next start, against the Washington Nationals on August 28, would be another memorable debut with the Cardinals—my home debut, my first time pitching in Busch Stadium as a member of the home team. The fans in St. Louis are widely considered to be the Best Fans in Baseball, and after August 28, I can understand why. I had built up some equity with the fans in Atlanta over the course of twenty years: I played there, I lived there, and I loved it there, but in three short months St. Louis made me feel like I had been there twenty years as well. I received not one, but two standing ovations, one when I walked out to the mound for th
e first time and then again when I came up to bat to lead off the bottom of the third. I had never experienced anything like it in my life and it was all the more humbling because I really hadn’t done anything for them yet and here they were making me feel like I was about to do something incredible. The fans understood my career, they understood that this was probably the tail end for me, and they acknowledged it. It’s one thing to be a fan of a player; I would argue that the folks in St. Louis are fans of the game.
I didn’t follow up with another shut-out, but I got the job done in my second start. I went six innings, allowing four hits, one walk, and one earned run, while striking out six. I didn’t get the win, since the game was tied 1–1 when I left in the sixth, but I didn’t need the tick in the win column to prove I had been effective. An ERA under 1.0 for my first two games said it all.
It seemed like with every start with the Cardinals I gained confidence, even though I wasn’t getting wins. Really, when you look at it, my record didn’t reflect how well I was pitching. What did reflect my performance was the Cardinals’ decision to keep me in the rotation for the foreseeable future. It was still hard to predict how I would fit into the team’s postseason strategy, but I was working on building a résumé that I hoped would prove me worthy of my ultimate goal: another postseason start.
Under the circumstances, my shoulder was holding up well, but I did have one setback. In early September, in between a start in Milwaukee and a start back home in St. Louis against the Cubs, it flared up a little bit. The Cardinals were obviously more than a little concerned, but I was able to convince them not to make any hasty decisions with regard to me and the disabled list. I had been down this road before and I knew exactly what I needed to do. I told them not to worry, to just give me a few days to treat it, and I’d be back. I wouldn’t miss a beat and I would pitch well in my next start.