THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, January 10, 1995 TAG: 9501100428
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C2 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY TONY GERMANOTTA, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Medium: 97 lines
Mike Schmidt entered my Hall of Fame long ago. He was the best player this admittedly obsessed Phillies fan ever saw.
And he hit a home run on Aug. 3, 1986, that will forever be a part of me.
I didn't see that shot. I don't know if it was a monster or merely squeaked over the green wall at the Vet. I wasn't there, and frankly baseball was the last thing on my mind that night.
But that home run in his march to 548 means more to me than the four he hit in Chicago one day or the blast that finally clinched the National League East in 1980. For some reason I can't explain even today, it consoled me, made me feel that everything was going to be all right.
My son Alex was born early that morning. He came unexpectedly, almost a month early, and I went from panic to ecstasy when he seemed to be OK.
My wife and I held him proudly as we phoned family back in Philly telling them the tremendous news. Afterward, a nurse noticed Alex was starting to turn blue. His little lungs hadn't quite developed. He wasn't ready to breathe.
I watched in shock as they cleared a table and began a frenzied ballet to save his life. They stuck this baby, my baby, in the arm with needles to test his blood for oxygen content. They rushed a special respirator to his side and put his squealing face under a plastic dome and began pumping pure oxygen into his lungs.
As he grew more and more starved for air, his tiny chest collapsed and his entire body seemed to convulse with every breath. My wife was off in her room recovering from the eight hours of labor, unaware of the emergency.
My first decision as a father was to allow the doctors to run a tube into Alex's tiny belly button so they could more easily check blood samples.
I was dizzy. They hooked up monitors.
Then I went to my wife's room and gently broke her the news. He wasn't perfect after all. There was a problem. It was serious, but he was in the best hospital and they were doing everything possible for him.
I took her in to see him. They had moved Alex from the table into a large plastic cocoon. We had to open a hatch to even touch him. He looked so tortured, his breathing seemed so pained.
We spent the day there, watching helplessly, scanning monitors and dreading hourly blood reports.
It was when I was heading home that evening, exhausted, distraught, that Schmidt had his impact on me. The radio was on, and the announcer was talking about the night's baseball games.
Something snapped. Like a primitive seeking a sign from the heavens, I leaned expectantly toward the dash. Michael Jack Schmidt had hit a home run. I relaxed.
I don't know why. I'm probably the most cynical human on earth. I worship nothing, least of all overpaid, self-absorbed athletes. But that home run brought me peace. It seemed an affirmation that my world wouldn't collapse, that things would be OK.
It took a week, but my son recovered. He's a Tides fan now and delights in teasing me by rooting for the hated Mets. Schmidt retired long before I could take Alex to see him play.
I never booed Schmidt after that home run. He was so damn talented it could frustrate you.
I spent years praying he wouldn't get a 3-0 count and the green light every slugger gets in that situation. I may be wrong, but I don't think Schmidty ever hit a home run on a 3-0 cripple. He would flex his arms, nearly strangling the bat as he prepared to pull the trigger. By the time that fastball came through the zone, though, he was so tight he'd hit a feeble popup.
That's what people in Philly often remember, his failures.
But elsewhere, they recall how tough Schmidt was to face. How hard he hit the ball and how well he knew the strike zone. They also recall how many hits he stole on defense and how many runs he manufactured with perfect base running.
Schmidt was the best third baseman of all time.
And he hit the biggest home run in my life, bar none. ILLUSTRATION: ASSOCIATED PRESS
Mike Schmidt and Phillies owner Bill Giles enjoy a memory Monday
after Schmidt made the Hall of Fame.
HALL OF FAME VOTE
Results in the 1995 Baseball Hall of Fame voting (460 votes cast;
345 needed for election):
Mike Schmidt, 444; Phil Niekro, 286; Don Sutton, 264; Tony Perez,
259; Steve Garvey, 196; Tony Oliva, 149; Ron Santo, 139; Jim Rice,
137; Bruce Sutter, 137; Jim Kaat, 100; Tommy John, 98; Dick Allen,
72; Minnie Minoso, 66; Curt Flood, 59; Joe Torre, 50; Luis Tiant,
45; Dave Concepcion, 43; Bobby Bonds, 35; Vada Pinson, 32; Thurman
Munson, 30; Graig Nettles, 28; Vida Blue 26; Mickey Lolich, 26; Ron
Guidry, 25; Rusty Staub, 23.
Dropped from ballot for failing to receive at least 5 percent of
the vote: George Foster 19; Don Baylor 12; Buddy Bell 8; Darrell
Evans 8; Kent Tekulve 6; Bob Forsch 2; Willie Hernandez 2; Mike
Krukow 1; Chris Speier 1; Jim Sundberg 1; Doyle Alexander 0; Greg
Gross 0; Rick Rhoden 0; Manny Trillo 0.
by CNB