Knuckler (39 page)

If I were going, wouldn't I have been in the meeting with those guys?

Francona, keeping a stoic face, asked Wakefield to take a seat. Wakefield simply couldn't get a read on his skipper. Francona began to speak calmly and then simply could not hold back his excitement, his happiness, his enthusiasm.
You're going to the All-Star Game, Wake. Joe Maddon picked you.
Francona, in typical fashion, had orchestrated the entire process as a prank, inviting the other five Red Sox All-Stars into his office separately so as to deliberately string Wakefield along. He convinced the players to go along with the prank and got Farrell's collusion in the scheme as well. And he kept a straight face right up until Wakefield was sitting in his office—at which point Terry Francona, incapable of keeping the secret any longer, broke into a knowing laugh.

"Knowing the voting and how it works, I know that it's tough. But if there's ever a year [Wakefield] deserves it, it's now," Francona said. "He's going to show up in St. Louis next week, and when they introduce his name he's going to be one of the proudest guys—and he should be. He's very worthy."

Wakefield wasted little time notifying Stacy, for whom the message was simple.
Remember that trip we go on every year? Well, this year we're going to St. Louis.

For Wakefield, being selected to the All-Star Game was a validation of his career, an appreciative acknowledgment of the sacrifices he had made. He had never considered himself a superstar. He believed in the concept of a team, and he knew that his own role in particular as a team member had required sacrificing the kind of individual statistics that lead to honors like selection to the All-Star Game. It had always been a trade he was willing to make to do his job more effectively.

But in 2009, finally, he had the chance to do both.

"You go and play professional baseball and always want to make an All-Star team. I had opportunities, just never got a chance," Wakefield said. "I think I appreciate it more now knowing how hard it is to be picked. If it had happened a lot sooner, I still would have appreciated it, but not as much."

Maddon, as expected, drew criticism for the selection, something he accepted and just as easily dismissed.
In my line of work, it's just part of the job.
Maddon had consulted with major league officials during the process, but the ultimate decision rested with him. By the middle of 2009, Tim Wakefield was in his 17th major league season and had never been to an All-Star Game. Not in 1995. Not in 1998. Not in 2005 or in 2007. Wakefield's opportunities were dwindling, and Maddon essentially admitted that Wakefield's selection to the team went beyond the wins and losses of any one season, that Tim Wakefield was, for lack of a better term,
a special case.

"Wakefield is having a good year, obviously, pitches in Boston, and he's had a tremendous body of work throughout his entire career," Maddon explained. "I just felt that getting him on a team was the right thing to do."

As it turned out, Wakefield did not appear in the game, though that was hardly the point. Being there was what truly mattered. Wakefield attended all of the All-Star Game festivities he could—the parties, the Home Run Derby, the game itself—and he relished every moment. The introductions felt like the World Series to him. He met President Barack Obama. Maddon had told Wakefield ahead of time that the knuckleballer would be his emergency plan—that is, the American League team's final pitcher if the game went to extra innings—and Wakefield, as always, graciously accepted the role.
Whatever you need me to do, skip.
He watched as the American League defeated the National League, ensuring home-field advantage if the Red Sox had the privilege of playing for a title again, and he felt more than ever that all of his contributions to the Pirates, to the Red Sox, and to baseball had been noticed all along.

Maybe people have been paying closer attention than I thought.

***

For any successful knuckleballer, longevity comes at a price. The longer the career, the more persistent the dips and turns. The turbulence always endures.

Shortly after the All-Star break, while throwing a side session in Toronto in preparation for an upcoming start, Wakefield felt pain in his lower back and had to cut short his workout. Within days, the problem had worsened to the point where the club had to place him on the disabled list. Through consultation with team doctors, Wakefield learned that he had a fragmented disc that was pressing on a nerve. The doctors told Wakefield that the only way to correct the problem was through surgery, which, if performed immediately, would leave open the possibility of coming back for the postseason. But given the club's needs in the interim, Wakefield instead agreed to a cortisone injection that would alleviate some of the pain and might allow him to contribute effectively in the shorter term.

Wakefield remained out until late August, when he returned to pitch seven strong innings in a 3–2 Boston win over the Chicago White Sox, but he was unable to pitch again until 10 days later, on September 5. His next start came 16 days later, on September 21. After that, he didn't pitch again for another nine days, on September 30. All in all, Wakefield made just four starts after the All-Star break, none closer than nine days apart. The nerve irritation in his back caused him to lose more than 50 percent of the strength in his left leg. He couldn't run. He couldn't bike. And with each outing, the problems seemed to intensify.

Every time I throw, the problem gets worse.

Intent on returning at full strength in 2010, Wakefield approached the Red Sox about having back surgery immediately so as to have as much time as possible to rehabilitate before spring training. Fearing the potential for a mishap during the playoffs that would require Wakefield to pitch anyway, the club asked him to delay the procedure. Wakefield complied. After he finally had the surgery on October 21, 2009, the doctors expected him to make a full recovery, but they also gave no guarantees.

Amid continuing speculation about his future—he was, after all, 43 by then—Wakefield reminded himself, and others, that he had pulled
himself out of contention for a playoff spot only two years earlier, in 2007, before the American League Championship Series.
Lots of people thought I was done then, too.
Wakefield spent the subsequent winter strengthening and rehabilitating his right shoulder, then went on to win 10 games while making 30 starts and pitching 181 innings in 2008. He made the All-Star team in 2009. Now he was experiencing back problems that he regarded as merely another bump in the road, no matter how many others regarded his latest ailment as perhaps the
coup de grâce
that would effectively end his career.

Of course, Wakefield had other designs, though Red Sox officials now clearly had their doubts, too. Despite having exercised the regenerating option on Wakefield's contract on an annual basis since its inception, Sox officials contacted the pitcher's agent, Barry Meister, about reworking Wakefield's deal again after the 2009 campaign. While Red Sox general manager Theo Epstein was publicly stating that the Red Sox had concerns about an escalating payroll and the club had to do some creative accounting to avoid eclipsing a $170 million payroll threshold that would result in having to pay what baseball calls the
luxury tax,
Wakefield saw the discussions with the team in an altogether different light.
They're putting me on the clock.
At this stage of his career, Sox officials indicated, they were placing Wakefield's ceiling in 2010 at roughly 100 innings. In their minds, he did not have the same value anymore. The pitcher's regenerating option was thus replaced with a finite, two-year deal valued at a guaranteed $5 million—$3.5 million in 2010 and $1.5 million in 2011. Because of major league rules, the deal allowed the Red Sox to list Wakefield's salary at $2.5 million (the average over the length of the contract) instead of $4 million (the value of his original option), but such a savings was relatively trivial for a franchise worth nearly $1 billion. The way Tim Wakefield saw it, the Red Sox were accomplishing something altogether different.

They've drawn the finish line for me.

But I can still break the record for wins.

On many levels, the 2010 season proved to be an enormous disappointment for Wakefield, producing just a 4–10 record and a 5.34 ERA. Still, in the aftermath of back surgery, Wakefield remained entirely
healthy from the beginning of the season to the end, amassing 140 innings—a whopping 40 percent more than the club had projected for him.
You guys were wrong about that one.
The Red Sox jettisoned him to and from the bullpen with such regularity that Wakefield was reminded of the Joe Kerrigan years. Without any consistency in his routine, he did not pitch well and became increasingly frustrated. Neither a starter nor a closer, he was stuck in the netherworld between the two. The Red Sox seemed to use him only when their starter had failed and they faced a significant deficit—what veteran baseball people call
mop-up time,
meaning that a pitcher has to be summoned solely to clean up someone else's mess.

After 16 years with the Red Sox, Tim Wakefield wasn't sure if he wanted to clean up messes anymore. He believed he could still pitch, but he had no way of convincing the Red Sox of that, and he had no desire to pitch anywhere else. He wanted a more meaningful role—in the middle innings perhaps—and his success throughout his career in filling gaps suggested that he could succeed. In Wakefield's mind, the
long man
or
mop-up
role was an entry-level position in the major leagues, a place for a young man to prove himself and earn greater responsibility. It was not a grazing pasture for a veteran. Wakefield felt like the club regarded him as nothing more than an insurance policy for the starting rotation, and yet the club simultaneously employed him in a role that made it difficult for him to be effective.

I want to pitch, but I want to stay in Boston.

He was stuck.

Late in the year, with the Red Sox grinding through an injury-filled season that ended when they missed the playoffs for just the second time since the start of the 2003 season, the team was playing in Oakland when general manager Theo Epstein approached Wakefield about a meeting. Wakefield's unhappiness had been obvious, though he often wondered if club officials misinterpreted his stance.
I don't mind pitching in relief. I just feel like you never really gave me a chance.
Wakefield arrived in the cramped clubhouse at the Coliseum and changed into his uniform, then strolled down a narrow corridor and into a shoebox of a manager's office, where he and Epstein sat, behind closed doors.

The Red Sox had five starting pitchers under contract through at least 2012—Beckett, Lester, Matsuzaka, newcomer John Lackey, and youngster Clay Buchholz—and Wakefield could do the math as easily as anyone. He was on the outside looking in. Wakefield sat and listened as Epstein delivered his message, leaving little doubt that Wakefield was truly near the end and faced a decision.

"When players get to the end of their careers, they envision something in the way of a parade," Epstein told him. "For most guys, it doesn't end that way."

Wakefield listened, yet wondered.

Why not? Why can't it end well for everyone? Why does it have to be that way? Maybe they want me to retire. Maybe they're going to release me.

By the time 2010 ended, Wakefield had 179 career wins with the Red Sox, 13 short of Clemens and Cy Young, 14 short of number one on the team's all-time list. Overall, including his time with Pittsburgh, Wakefield had won 193 games, just seven shy of a tidy 200. Wakefield had been in this kind of position many times before in his career—"I feel like I've been in survival mode for 19 years," he noted—and he had persevered before. He had quit his first college team and been granted a second chance. He failed as a positional player in the minor leagues and was given a second chance. He succeeded and then failed with the Pirates, only to receive a second chance in Boston. And his time in Boston had been filled with a succession of unpredictable dips and turns, from Kevin Kennedy and Jimy Williams to Joe Kerrigan, Grady Little, and Terry Francona. Wakefield had started and relieved, won and lost, and endured most everything in between, pulled along by the mystifying pitch that had been responsible for all of his accomplishments.

At that point, Wakefield seriously considered retirement. He felt as if he had spent the entire year—as he had spent his entire career—trying to prove himself. He entered spring training believing that he was going to be a starter. Instead, he ended up as a reliever and insurance policy for the preferred starting five. The entire series of events had frustrated him, failed to meet his expectations, and yet, physically, he
felt better than he had in some time. In 2011 he would celebrate his 45th birthday, and Wakefield knew that Phil Niekro had pitched until he was 48.

Tim Wakefield had to decide whether he wanted to risk being disappointed again.

In the immediate aftermath of any season, the clubhouses at every stadium in the major leagues look the same: with open cardboard boxes and rolls of packing tape scattered about the room, the scene very much resembles a college dorm during the last week of spring semester when students repack their belongings and return home for the summer. Players seal up their belongings in boxes and put those boxes in the care of team personnel, who then ship them out. Red Sox players shake hands and embrace one another, saying a permanent
good-bye
to some, an optimistic
see you later
to others. When they walk out the clubhouse door and into the real world, many of them are cherishing the chance to lead normal, private lives, even if only for the next three or four months.

Tim Wakefield had long since learned that moving day was no time to make decisions, that he usually needed more distance from the season to make rational, prudent choices. Still, this case was different. The team's fade from contention, along with his own move into an unfulfilling role, had given him weeks and months to examine how he felt. Wakefield remembered something that seemed especially relevant now: an excerpt that a friend had sent him from a speech by Teddy Roosevelt.