Lucky Bastard

by Joe Buck

  I was lucky that social media did not exist. People talked about it a bit, but the mechanism wasn’t there to completely destroy me.

  After the game, I went running down to the clubhouse, an odd combination of red-faced and white-faced, to apologize to Tony in person. Players were drinking champagne and celebrating. It was one of the great moments of their careers, and one of the worst of mine.

  I pulled Tony over to the side. I said, “Look, I hope you know that I was thinking about your dad. Please tell your wife I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed. That’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done on TV.”*

  Under very rare circumstances, a man has a right to punch another man in the face. I would have understood if Tony had come at me with a left hook.

  Instead, he said, “Oh, she’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  He was unbelievable. I ended up sending her flowers with an apology. Three years later, he got traded to the Cardinals. We got to know each other relatively well. He couldn’t be a better guy.

  —

  The Diamondbacks made it all the way to the World Series to play the Yankees, who were going for their fourth straight World Series title. Normally, almost everybody in the country would be rooting against the Yankees. It’s an American tradition. But in the wake of 9/11, it was hard for anybody to root against New York.

  After the first two games in Arizona, both of which the Diamondbacks won, I flew to New York for Game 3. It was a strange feeling, being in the middle of this enormous entertainment vehicle while everybody is worried about 9/11, anthrax attacks, and a potential war in the Middle East.

  I happened to be on the same flight as actor Jason Patric.* I’ve been a big fan of his for a long time, going back to The Lost Boys. I’ve watched some of his movies over and over, and there he was. But I didn’t know him, and I sure wasn’t going to say, “Hey, you’re Jason Patric, on the same flight as me! Let’s get drunk!”

  Then, at the end of the flight, he came up to me. He said he was a Yankee fan and enjoyed our FOX broadcasts. And I thought: “Hey, you’re Jason Patric, on the same flight as me! Let’s get drunk!”

  And so we did. We shared a ride into the city. I dropped my bags off at my hotel, and we went out and started running around the city. I think it started because we were kind of nervous, being in New York so soon after 9/11. We joked that we had to keep drinking until another terrible thing happened. It doesn’t sound funny now, but I was about to broadcast World Series games at Yankee Stadium, everybody was worried about terrorists and bombs, and the whole country was just on edge. We needed to ease the tension a bit.

  I had never seen security like they had at Yankee Stadium for Game 3. I had Cipro in my bag, because that was the antibiotic of choice in case there was an anthrax attack. We were all worried about it. It was a crazy time.

  When I arrived at the ballpark, I didn’t know that President George W. Bush was coming to throw the first pitch. Then his helicopter landed out in left field, and he walked out of the Yankees dugout with his FDNY jacket on.

  Throwing out the first pitch is hard, partly because it seems easy. From the stands, it looks like a simple throw, but doing something like that in front of a full stadium is nerve-racking. I was a pretty good high school pitcher, but when I threw the first pitch out at Busch Stadium, I almost passed out because I was so nervous. Stadiums mess with your depth perception, too. Even good athletes bounce it or throw it over the head of the catcher.

  And this was an especially nervous moment, because it seemed very possible that Al Qaeda would attack Yankee Stadium during the World Series, or that somebody would spread anthrax around.

  Most people stand between home plate and the mound and throw a first pitch. But President Bush, who played high school baseball, confidently walked straight to the mound, stood on the rubber, and gave the crowd a thumbs-up. Then he calmly fired a real sixty-foot, six-inch strike. It was stunning. We later heard that Derek Jeter told him something like “You can’t bounce it. They’ll boo you. You can’t be in front of the mound. They’ll boo you for that, too.” But we didn’t know that at the time. We just knew the president had thrown a strike, and that was one of the most powerful moments I’ve ever witnessed in sports. It was spine-tingling, and it had nothing to do with politics.

  That night, Patric and I got drunk again after the game. The next night, Jeter won Game 4 in the tenth inning with that little home run into right, just after the clock struck midnight on Halloween—that’s what earned him the nickname Mr. November. It was one of the most exciting games I’ve ever called, and to celebrate, Patric and I got drunk again.

  I didn’t even sleep long enough to wake up with bad breath. I was dragging ass to the stadium just to get there. Then the Yankees’ Scott Brosius won Game 5 with a home run in the twelfth, and guess what. Patric and I got drunk again. I don’t think I slept eight hours, total, in those three nights. The world was so tense, and I was so nervous going to New York, but once I got there, I felt kind of free and clear in the city. There weren’t a lot of people out. We were running around the town having fun. I’ve never gone on a bender like that since. It’s not sustainable. For whatever reason, I did it that week.

  —

  We caught a big broadcasting break that year with the World Series matchup. Obviously, the Yankees making the World Series so soon after 9/11 was compelling television. But the other break was that their opponent, the Diamondbacks, were managed by Bob Brenly.

  Bob had worked on our number two announcing team with Thom Brennaman, and he had joined Tim and me in the booth for some playoff games. Brenly was a fantastic friend, and he understood and respected what we were trying to do.

  We said: “Hey, Bob, remember us? Why don’t you wear a microphone during the game?” He agreed to do it, as long as we didn’t air anything live. That way, he could be himself. If he said something that didn’t belong on the air or could get him in trouble, he trusted us enough to know we wouldn’t air it.

  The deal appeared to pay off in Game 4. Curt Schilling was pitching on short rest in New York. Nobody knew how long he would last, or how well he would pitch. Even the best starters often struggle on short rest.

  Schilling was fantastic. Through seven innings, he had allowed only one run and thrown only 88 pitches. But Brenly replaced him with Byung-Hyun Kim.

  “This is a decision that I do not agree with,” I said on the air.

  We then showed their exchange from a few minutes earlier. Brenly had walked up to Schilling in the dugout to tell him he was making a change, and Schilling objected. Brenly’s microphone caught the whole conversation.

  “That’s enough, that’s enough,” Brenly said.

  “No! No!” Schilling said. “I’m all right! I’m all right!”

  Brenly said, “Listen, you’re at eighty-eight [pitches] right now. We’ve got BK locked and loaded for the last six outs.”

  It was great theater. It belonged on Broadway. And like a lot of what you see on Broadway, it was fictional.

  Here is what we didn’t know. Earlier in that inning, Schilling had told his catcher, Damian Miller, that he was running out of gas: “Whatever happens, this is my last inning. Don’t let him put me back out there again.” Naturally, Miller had told Brenly.

  Schilling wanted no part of that eighth inning. He was wiped out. And he knew Brenly wouldn’t put him back out there, because he had told Miller not to let that happen.

  But Schilling could see the microphone on Brenly’s uniform. He knew he would look better if he begged to keep pitching on national television. So he asked Brenly to keep him in the game, and it was all bullshit. They both knew he was coming out.

  Kim gave up the lead in the ninth inning, and Derek Jeter won the game with a home run off Kim in the tenth. Brenly got lots of heat for pulling Schilling against his will—the whole country had heard Schilling protest in the dugout. But Bre
nly couldn’t really call out one of his aces for being a glory hound. He had to take the heat, and he did—with a great sense of humor.

  “You fucking guys,” he said with a laugh the next time we saw him. “You make me look like the bad guy. Never again!” He thought it was hilarious.

  —

  This wild, exhausting, depressing, terrifying, inspiring, thrilling, alcohol-soaked postseason ended in dramatic fashion, with the single greatest moment a television analyst has ever had.

  That’s my opinion anyway. I’ve never seen anything like what Tim McCarver did at the end of Game 7 of the 2001 World Series.

  The Yankees led the Diamondbacks, 2–1, in the bottom of the ninth inning. Mariano Rivera was pitching for the Yankees. Somehow, the Diamondbacks tied the game and loaded the bases for their best hitter, Luis Gonzalez. There was one out.

  Joe Torre, the Yankees manager, brought the infield in, so his infielders could make a throw to the plate and keep their season alive.

  After Rivera’s first pitch to Gonzalez, Tim said, “The one problem is, Rivera throws inside to left-handers. Left-handers get a lot of broken-bat hits in the shallow outfield . . . that’s the danger of bringing the infield in with a guy like Rivera on the mound.”

  On the next pitch—the next pitch!—Gonzalez hit a broken-bat single just over Derek Jeter’s head.

  Viewers heard me say, “Floater . . . center field! The Diamondbacks are world champions!” They did not see me give Tim a high five. What an amazing moment for him. It was probably the highlight of my whole time with Tim. It was also the last World Series play that my father ever saw.

  —

  I remember when my maternal grandfather died. I was fifteen. I watched my dad get ready for the funeral, combing his hair very deliberately. I was always fascinated by which strand he would pick to go westward and start the part.

  He saw that I was watching him.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking about what it’s going to be like when I die.”

  That was exactly what I was thinking.

  “When I die, you’ll be ready for it,” he said. “You’ll handle it.”

  Part 4

  Good-bye, Dad

  Chapter 10

  The Last Fight

  Ann and I were down in the Florida Keys when we missed the call from my dad. I called him back and heard the voice of a younger Jack Buck. I had not heard his voice that strong in ten years.

  He said, “Well, Buck, I went to the doctor today, and I want to let you know that I got diagnosed with lung cancer. It’s contained in the bottom part of my lung, in one of the lobes of my lung. We’re going to fight it. Everything will be well.”

  My dad, who cried so easily that we used to tease him about it, wasn’t weepy about having cancer. He said, “We’re going to be fine. I’m going to battle it and we’ll get it taken out and we’ll move on. Enjoy your vacation.”

  I hung up the phone.

  Ann said, “What was that about?”

  I said, “Well, my dad just told me he’s got lung cancer.”

  He was seventy-seven, and he’d been struggling with Parkinson’s disease and diabetes. When he called a game, he used every ounce of energy he had that day. But it kept him young. The clubhouse speakers would play Nelly, Run-D.M.C., Eminem—all these different rappers that he tolerated through the years. He loved being around the players. He loved introducing himself to new players on both teams.

  And when he was out, nothing slowed him down. He wanted to sign every autograph and do every interview. His hand would shake, but he wasn’t self-conscious. He told me that when you have Parkinson’s, at some point you have to decide, “Screw it, I’m going to do what I do. Let them worry about the shaking.” He would joke about it, too. It all disguised the reality, which is that he was nearing the end of his life.

  In the Keys, I thought about his words to me when I was fifteen: When I die, you’ll be ready for it. You’ll handle it. I hoped he was right. I would do my best. But I would also have to deal with all the people who thought he was family—and a few who thought he wasn’t family enough.

  —

  Shortly after the diagnosis, I was in a waiting room at Barnes-Jewish Hospital with most of my half brothers and half sisters. A doctor came out and said an issue had come up during surgery.

  “We’re going back in,” he said.

  My mom was crying. I was nervous. And that’s when I heard my half siblings muttering, loud enough for my mom to hear it: “I knew this was wrong.” . . . “We shouldn’t have done it this way.” . . . “This is the wrong doctor. . . .”

  I stood up, and for the first time, thirty-two years of tension bubbled over. I was so mad they were questioning my mom.

  “How dare you?” I said. “How dare you after all these years?! You missed birthdays! You missed everything! And you sit here and armchair-quarterback the only person who has always done everything she can to protect our father!”

  It got heated. I mean, I just lost it. I was yelling at them in that waiting room: “You’ve never been there for anything! Now we’re here because he’s sick and you want to judge everything! We have the best doctors this city has to offer!”

  I ended up taking it outside the room to the cafeteria, to talk it over with my half sister Christine’s husband, David. I calmed down after that.

  What could I do? I do have empathy for my half siblings, because they didn’t get to know my dad the way I got to know him. I’m not sure anybody in my family got to know him the way I got to know him. But when they were kids, he was new to town, finding his way, working constantly. His career didn’t really take off until around the time he met my mom.

  My sister got to know him well, but I think I knew him even better, because I got to go on more road trips with him when I was a kid, and then even more when we were broadcast partners.

  My father came from nothing, worked like crazy, and had a taste of success. He had fun. Even when he met my mom, he maintained that kind of Johnny Carson swashbuckling demeanor, where every night felt like an adventure. My half siblings missed that.

  Even though he wasn’t home with Julie and me a lot, I’m sure he stayed home more with us than he did when he lived with his older kids. I just don’t think my half siblings ever knew what they had in their dad. I don’t think they ever got past the hurt of him meeting my mom. And I can’t fault them for that. But I was astonished that all these years, even as he lay dying, some of them were still hanging on to that. I felt like, if they were still resentful when he was on his deathbed, then that was it—they would always be resentful.

  But as my dad had told my mom, so many years ago: So what? I tried to treasure my own relationship with him as long as I could, and so much of it was built around laughter. I remember him being wheeled out of surgery, and I said, “Dad, are you feeling all right? Your color’s great.”

  He said, “Really? What color am I?”

  I joked, “A nice shade of green.”

  He laughed and said, “Just wheel me right out the fucking window.”

  I was lucky that I could connect with him like that, all the way to the end. But I knew I would still have to share him with the city. I knew that when he died, it would be different from when somebody else’s dad died. All of St. Louis would want to pull up a chair and mourn with us.

  —

  “Will your dad be ready for Opening Day?”

  It was early 2002. Dan Caesar of the Post-Dispatch was on the phone. Old wounds do heal eventually; I came to see Dan’s point in his original critique of me, and I came to like him personally. And now he wanted to know when my father would be back in the Cardinals broadcast booth.

  I tried to be honest: “Look, I don’t want you writing this . . . this is off the record . . .”

  I didn’t want to sound the alarms. I tried to be as
vague as I could but still give him some kind of update, both as a courtesy to Dan and because everybody wanted to know.

  My dad had been doing Cardinals games for almost fifty years. He was a part of people’s lives. I think St. Louis is the smallest big town in the country. Everybody knows everything about everyone. You go to the grocery store, and people know what kind of fruit you like.

  I was never totally comfortable with that kind of attention, but my dad enjoyed it. I think the adulation kept him going. It gave him strength. I hope that doesn’t sound strange. But when your body is breaking down, and you know you are near the end of your life, it’s good to have daily reminders that your existence is meaningful to other people.

  He wanted to do good, and raise money for causes he believed in, and he never wanted to stop. St. Louis is a really philanthropic town, and my dad became the unofficial charity emcee for the whole city. There was a time, early in his career, when he was doing three or four banquets a week. He hosted a golf tournament to benefit a cystic-fibrosis charity for more than twenty years. Whatever the cause, he was there.

  The night before he went in for his first lung cancer surgery, he did a banquet at the Missouri Athletic Club, one of those old-time clubs that goes back to the early twentieth century. The banquet was named after him. The club has a restaurant that is also named after him. They gave out the Sports Personality of the Year Award at the banquet, and they would honor one top athlete every year, and it was up to my dad to make sure the athlete showed up. So in 2001, he emceed it, left the banquet, and drove straight to Barnes-Jewish Hospital to check in for surgery.

  He did not tell anybody at the dinner he had lung cancer. Even when he was in the hospital, dying, he was raising money for the Mathews-Dickey Boys’ & Girls’ Club.

  So people in St. Louis had a lot of reasons to wonder if my dad was OK. That’s why Dan Caesar wanted to know if Dad would be ready for Opening Day.