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"We Miss You, Paul O'Neill"

A Letter A Week friend Vin Russo is back this week for a second attempt at a letter.  This time he writes to former Yankee great and current Yankee announcer Paul O’Neill.

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Dear Warrior,

Friday July 7th, 2000.  Shea Stadium.  Bottom of the 9th inning.  Runner on third.  Yanks up 2-0.  Mariano Rivera on the mound.  Derek Bell representing the tying run at the plate.  Rivera stretches and fires his patented cutter screaming to the plate with its typical “too late to do anything about it” late-breaking movement.  Yet this time Derek Bell digs in, extends, finds some good wood on the cutter, and launches a moon-shot.  Over 50,000 raucous, insane, thirsting-for-blood Met fans rise to their feet as the ball soars back and above the Right Field wall.

And then it happened.

#21 (that’s you) drifted back to the Right Field wall methodically; looking like you had a bead on it.  But it still looked like it was out.  At the last second the Warrior (you again) timed your jump, and like an NFL player at the Indy combine made your best attempt at a vertical leap.  In typical O’Neill fashion, it was just enough to get the job done. Extending your 6’4” frame, you ROBBED Derek Bell of a potential game-tying 9th inning homerun off of the greatest reliever of all time.  Bell ended up with a sacrifice fly and the Yankees went on to win the game 2-1. 

I can never remember a more sudden swing of emotions.  50,000 fans went from utter delirium to shock and awe.  There’s nothing quite like the sound of a sports crowd when an amazing play happens.  And to try to explain the sound in words would not do the moment justice.

As for moments, you had plenty of them.  There was the 14-pitch walk against flame-throwing Armando Benitez who was over-powering you.  But in typical O’Neill fashion you scraped and clawed to stay alive, refusing to let him beat you.  There was the game at the old Kingdome in Seattle where Lou Piniella was always sending signals to have you hit by the pitcher.  Finally one night you couldn’t take it anymore and shouted out to Piniella and Catcher John Marzano while you were in the box.  Marzano stood up, took a swing at you, and in typical Warrior fashion you ducked, he missed, and you Football-tackled him to the ground and got right on top of him.  And then everyone jumped on the pile, but you clearly sent your message.  There were the series of moments from April-June 1994 when you flirted with .400 and eventually settled at .359 for the strike-shortened Batting Title.  (I think you would have raised it above .359.)  But more than the statistics (like becoming the oldest player to ever steal 20 bases, or being a lifetime .300 hitter as a Yankee) what I remember is the little things. 

Little things like when you came to the plate with no outs and a man on second.  You weren’t as concerned with getting a hit as you were with killing yourself to pull the ball to the right side to get the runner over to 3rd.  Little things like you coming to the plate with a man on 3rd and one out and doing whatever you humanly could do to lift the ball in an effort to get a sac fly.  Sometimes in your attempt to lift the ball to the outfield you would pop up and the runner wouldn’t score.  But even when you popped up we all still loved you for it because we knew what you were trying to do.  Smart intelligent fans appreciate that kind of thing.  And most of the time after a situation like that you would lose it either internally or externally.  We could see the anger in your face.  And that was all we needed.  I like to think of myself as a unique fan because I don’t need to always see the result.  I can appreciate the thought process and the effort.  We’ve all tried at things and failed so we can relate.  And we’ve all had some successes and so we reveled in your triumphs as well. 

I loved when Clemens was on the Blue Jays and you guys would have your battles.  Both of you were so locked in.  You both had the look like you would kill the other guy to win.  And that was the thing about you.  As Yankee fans, and as anyone else who watched you play, we knew what we were getting from you.  You weren’t leaving anything in the tank.  It was full throttle on every pitch.  Who had that kind of day-to-day 162 game intensity?  According to Mike Stanton, “No one else but you.”  And there’s a nation of us that agree with him.  The once-a-week nature of Football makes it relatively easier to get up for 16 games a year.  But the grind of 6 months, every game, every inning, every at-bat, every pitch?  Intensity or insanity?  I’ll take both. 

I almost forgot some more big moments.  Game 5 of the 1997 ALDS.  2 outs nobody on.  Top of the 9th.  Jacobs Field.  Yanks down 4-3.  You launch a double to the wall, but playing on a wounded leg, your running made it at a contest with the throw to 2nd.  But in typical Warrior fashion in the biggest of situations you got the job done.  You slid into 2nd  base safe on a beautiful hook slide while in agony with your ailing hamstring.  You gave the Yanks another at-bat to keep their 1997 Season alive. 

Then there was Game 5 of the 1996 World Series at the last game at Atlanta’s Fulton County Stadium.  2 outs.  1 runner on.  Yanks up 1-0.  After a marathon at-bat reminiscent of the battle you would have with Benitez four years later, John Wetteland threw a 3-2 fastball to Luis Polonia.  A fastball that he would later admit to bullpen coach Tony Cloninger, “I cookied in.  I didn’t let it go.”  Polonia pulled a rocket to right.  You limped like a wounded deer, racing towards the ball with all of your might.  If you miss it, Polonia probably legs-out an inside-the-park homerun, the Braves win Game 5, 2-to-1, and Luis Polonia is forever etched in the history of Baseball (ala Sid Bream) with one of the greatest plays ever.  But of course you made the catch with a last second lunging stab of the glove (almost falling down) and with a slap of your left hand against the wall in exclamation.  And poor Luis looked like he had just died as he rounded 1st base, almost seeing his career and his whole life being turned violently back to the bottom.  (Polonia was always a great pinch-hitter.)

And I almost forgot the homerun at Safeco Field in the 2001 ALCS.  Another obscure moment that doesn’t get remembered the way it properly should.  At 38 years old and after the toughest Yankee year of your career (.267 batting average) the Mariners didn’t show you the same respect as they would have when you where in your better seasons.  And yet that unsuspecting, day-game homerun helped the Yanks win the game, the Series, and sent a final F.U. to Lou Piniella after all those years of trying to hit you.  The 116-win Mariners went down, and you moved on.

There was Game 4 of the ’99 World Series when you played the series-clinching game, even though your Dad had died earlier that day.  How unworldly mature.  How unspeakably professional.  Words won’t do that moment justice.  I feel sacrilegious to even try to write about it.

But you never bragged. You never talked.  You just played.  My favorite quote about you was from Joe Torre.  He said, “When he hits a single it should have been a double.  When he hits a double it should have been a homerun.  And when he hits a homerun he didn’t hit it far enough.  Paul really works it and grinds it every day, and for that I have a lot of respect for him.”

There are many Warrior moments.  Big and small.  But the Derek Bell play (though not remembered by many people) was the most clutch defensive play I have ever seen in my life.  And it easily defined who you were and what you meant to Yankee fans.

I still imitate you to this day.  On that Friday night in April this year after the Yankees lost a 9th inning meltdown and extra inning walk-off to the Dread Sox, I angrily stomped home from the bars, and when I got to my apt. I violently threw my keys against the wall.  And if there were a Gatorade Water Cooler in sight, I would have unmercifully unleashed hell on it.

We miss you Warrior.  We wish you could have been cryogenically frozen into an anti-aging state in which you could have played forever.  If that were the case the Yankees would surely have more World Series trophies.  It’s not about the money you make.  After all you reportedly turned down $8 million per year from the Rays to re-sign with the Yankees for $3 million less.  How many others would do that?  But you were different.  You understood your place in Yankee history.  I can’t ever remember you making a base-running mistake, or a mental error.  I can’t ever remember you dropping a fly ball.  (As David Wells can attest when you one-handed and then fist-pumped the final out of his perfect game.)  It’s not about the money.  It’s about the effort, hustle, energy, and the baseball intelligence.  And you had all of it.  You cared to an insanely high level, and that trickled down to teammates who turned up the volume on their own performances.  And in turn, that helped he Yankees to win and made them who they were.  CHAMPIONS. 

Long live the Warrior.  There will never be another. 

-Vince Russo      

 

If you would like to comment on this letter, Vin can be reached at vince.m.russo@gmail.com (please include your name and town).

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