You Let Some Girl Beat You? (23 page)

I selected Pete Newell, another coach whom I admired very much. Known for his Big Man Camps, I first approached Coach Newell back in '77 after Anna's Banana's had won our first of three AAU Championships and asked him to do a Tall Women's Camp. The camps were mostly about footwork. Years later, while pregnant with Drew, Pete and Pete Jr. invited me to be a coach at USA Basketball. Pete gave a demonstration on how to set a pick, so I ran into him, barreling him down. Nobody outside family knew I was pregnant, so I chose that night at dinner to share the news.

“Imagine that,” Pete said, looking dazed. “I can't remember ever working a pregnant woman so hard.”

The only other woman to be inducted that year was someone I hadn't seen since 1986, Uljana Semjonova. The Russian Giantess who had been my rival on the courts was now my comrade, of sorts. She and I suddenly belonged to an exclusive club. Don had been inducted into Cooperstown nine years earlier, which meant he and I were now the first married couple to be enshrined in our respective sport's Halls of Fame. For me, it was the crowning glory to an athletic career that had been a dream come true. And yet, now it feels like a lifetime ago.

After the basketball enshrinement, I flew to New York with Donnie for the Baseball Hall of Fame dinner at the Waldorf. It seemed this hotel kept popping up in my life. I'd stared out the door at its famous façade when I'd stayed across the way at a smaller hotel the first time I played USA ball. Now I was staying at the place as a wife and mother—who'd just been inducted into the Hall of Fame.

When we got back home, it was nice to relax after the whirlwind of activity, but Donnie and I only had a few days together before he had to go on the road again, this time to Montreal.

On Friday, July 2, I turned on the television before the Dodgers game so the boys and Drew could see Daddy on TV, something I did often, especially when the team was playing away and I knew he wouldn't be home to tuck them in. Don would come on before Vinny, do the opening, and the kids would go up to the TV and kiss him, often asking why Daddy didn't say hi to them.

I thought Don looked good, if a little tired, but I didn't think much of it. He said he'd popped a blood-vessel in his eye from a fall at Dodger Stadium a few days before, and I figured maybe it was bothering him.

“How'd they do?” I asked him about nine ‘o clock that night. It was three hours later in Montreal. The Dodgers had played the Expos, and Donnie had just gotten into his room after riding up the elevator with Ross Porter.

“We came in first.” Donnie would usually put it that way. They came in first or second, but they never won or lost. “Have you gotten anything for Kelly, yet?” The following day was his daughter's birthday, and the boys and I were going to Kelly's place for her party.

“I ordered the flowers. I'll run out tomorrow and pick something out.”

“Make sure it's something special. Wish I could be there with her and you and the kids.”

I couldn't have agreed more. “We wish you could, too, but we'll see you when you get back.”

“I love you,” he said. The sound of his voice still made my heart sing. “Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite. And if they do, get your shoe…”

“And smack them with your crackers and stew…” I finished the limerick with him, told him that I loved him, and hung up.

7:30 the next morning, I called knowing it would be 10:30 in Montreal, but there was no answer. I figured he was off having coffee with an old acquaintance or working a business deal. I put the kids in the car and headed up to Manhattan Beach. It was the 4
^th
of July weekend, so we knew the place would be packed. I planned to drop Drew with Kelly so they could have time together, while I took the boys to the beach. When I got to her place, I asked if she'd heard from her dad. She said no. Now I knew something was wrong. He would have called to wish her happy birthday. Before heading out, I tried phoning Don again. Still no answer.
What's going on?
It was noon already. By now we'd normally have spoken at least two or three times. I didn't know whether to be mad or worried. I called Mom and told her that if Don called looking for me, she should tell him to ring Kelly's.

It was a perfect beach day; yet as beautiful as it was I couldn't help but feel uneasy. By the afternoon, the boys were covered with sand. When we got to Kelly's I saw her standing there holding the baby.

“Has your dad called yet?” I asked, taking Drew into my arms.

“No.”

The game was about to start, so I couldn't try calling him now. I headed to the TV to turn on his broadcast so the kids could watch Daddy and Vinny, but with party guests arriving, Kelly didn't want the TV on.

At about 4:20 p.m. I received a call from my sister, Cathy. “They've been looking for you Annie. You need to call Mom.” When I called she gave me Peter O'Malley's phone number and told me to call him immediately.
Why's Peter calling me?

“Don's had a heart attack,” Peter said.

My heart started racing and an acrid taste lined my tongue. My first thought was that I needed to make sure he had the best doctor. “What hospital?” I asked, trying not to sound as frantic as I felt. “I have to get there, so I can take care of him…”

“No, Annie. He didn't make it.”

“What? No! I need to be with him,” I insisted. I don't know what I was thinking. My mind alternately went blank, and then raced with thoughts of plane flights into Montreal. Every cell in my body ached to be near him.
If I could just be with him, he would make everything okay.

“I'm sorry, Annie. I didn't want to have to tell you like this. We've been trying to reach you all day. I didn't want you to hear it on TV…” Peter went on to explain something about other news channels already broadcasting his death and Vinny's announcement that night—how they'd tried to postpone it. Peter's voice was just a jumble of sounds now, and I was off somewhere too far away to decipher any of them.

How can I tell Kelly? And Don's parents? How will they survive it?
Kelly could see that something terrible had happened, so her friend, Alex, took the phone and talked to Peter, then broke the news to Kelly.

The children were in the back room playing, so I turned on the T.V., and there was Vinny. “Friends, we've known each other a long time,” he said slowly, “and I've had to make a lot of announcements, some more painful than others. But never have I ever been asked to make an announcement that hurts me as much as this one. And I say it to you as best I can with a broken heart.”

As Vinny continued, I prayed that Scotty and Verna weren't watching, but of course, I knew they were.

“Grief is the price we pay for Love.”
~ Queen Elizabeth, II

I took the boys into Kelly's bedroom, sat them on the bed and talked to them. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever done in my life. I knew I couldn't break down because it would only scare them. I told them as gently as I could that Daddy was in Heaven. D.J. understood more than Darren did, but Darren could still sense that something terrible had happened. When both the boys started to cry I pulled them in close to me and held them tight as tears streamed down my face.

Meanwhile, the details came flooding in. The Dodgers had sent Billy Delury, the longtime Dodgers secretary, to look for Don when he didn't show up for the game. He had died in his room of a massive heart attack.

Donnie died on July 3, 1993, on the 34
^th
birthday of his oldest child, Kelly. His number was 53; the two boys were five and three. The baby was three months.

My mind sped ahead in a fogged haze. In a few weeks D.J. would be turning six. The previous cakes all had Don's name on them as well as D.J.s because they shared the same birthday. I couldn't suddenly leave Don's name off this cake. Before I could worry about any of that though, I had to make it through the funeral.

I called Ueckie and asked him to speak, but I told him I wanted him to keep it upbeat. I didn't want it to be any more difficult for Don's parents, our children, and everyone else who loved him than it already was. There had been no warning, nothing to prepare any of us. Donnie had needed an angioplasty a few years earlier, and two of his uncles had died from a heart attack in their forties. But Donnie always seemed so invincible. He was this strong, hulking man who was in great shape and so full of life. And he was so happy. He loved me and his children. Everything seemed so perfect. Even when I couldn't reach him that day, I wouldn't allow myself to think that something terrible had happened. And I think part of me still refused to believe it.

On July 12, with D.J. on one side and Darren on the other, I carried Drew in my arms as we made our way to a designated area in the first pew at the Hall of the Crucifixion-Resurrection, an auditorium large enough to accommodate eight hundred people at the Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale. Several Dodgers had already been laid to rest at Forest Lawn. Three weeks earlier, Donnie and I had been there for Roy Campanella's service. I remember sitting there with him, and for no reason, he suddenly turned to me and said, “Don't hook me up to wires. When the time comes, let me go quickly.” Now I felt numb.

I walked up to the lectern to thank everyone for coming.
Just focus on the words.
I didn't want to break. I read ten or twelve lines, never looking up, keeping my eyes glued to the paper that trembled with my hands.

Then Ueckie spoke. He talked about Donnie knocking him on his rear end, and what a great guy he was
out
of his uniform; but in it, how he'd bean his own mother if she was standing at the plate. He talked about how competitive he was and how if you put the two of us together, Donnie and me, you had yourself a small army. He also told the glass story, how Donnie would clean up after him whenever he came to visit. He made everyone laugh, and for a moment it felt like Donnie was right there alongside me, just like always. When reality set back in, the tears rolled down my cheeks. And then after a moment, a wave of peace crept over me, strong at first, then diminishing, as though Donnie were squeezing me tight and then relaxing his embrace the way he always did whenever I was upset. Whether it was the power of the mind, or the power of love I'm not sure. A little of both probably.

After Ueckie, Vin Scully gave a beautiful tribute. Vinny had watched Donnie's career, calling his historic shutout for the fans, while marveling at the feat himself. Then, much later, Donnie would get a feel for Vinny's side of the game along with Ross Porter. Game after game, the trio formed their own little rotating team of partners, a family wedded by baseball. Now Vinny and Ross had lost one of the family.

“The tragedy of life is in what dies inside a man while he lives,” Vinny began, “There was only life in Don and an awareness to feel the pain and glory in others and himself.”

He went on to finish, and I know it was hard for him. It was hard for all of these guys. They had lost a close friend. I suppose everyone expected Sandy to speak next, but he wouldn't. He couldn't. Donnie and he had practically been boys starting out, and they ended up changing the way players were treated forever. I imagine, for Sandy, it might have felt like losing a brother. Gene Mauch, who had been Donnie's best man at our wedding, didn't want to speak, either, but he did. It was tough for all of us when his voice started to crack a bit. Same thing with Tommy Lasorda.

Toward the end, we played Donnie's favorite song, Frank's version of “Fly Me To The Moon,” against a backdrop of video clippings and stills from Donnie's years with the Dodgers and family snapshots.

It was a maze of sad faces who had come to honor a wonderful man—Al Michaels was there with Dick Enberg, Don's family, my family, and all of Don's teammates, Ross Porter, who had read a beautiful poem, Orel Hershiser, Duke Snider, and so many others I don't even remember. After the service, we all filed into limousines and buses to make our way over to the Clubhouse at Dodger Stadium where a reception was being held. It was mid July. The sky was blue and everything else, green.

“You'll survive this, Annie,” Mom said squeezing my hand. “I promise.” But we both knew there was no easy way she could rescue me this time.

The entire funeral had been orchestrated from beginning to end by Peter O'Malley and his sister, Terry Seidler—from bringing Don's body back from Montreal, to arranging the transportation now. They had done the same for Campy three weeks earlier.

The Dodgers were family.

The next day, I contacted Tommy Lasorda. We all called Tommy, ‘Izzy' because that's what Donnie had called him, and asked if the boys and I could crash the team's batting practice sessions.

“Of course,” he said. “And I'll throw them pop flies.”

The boys loved Izzy, and he was remarkable after Don's passing. While we were at the Pasadena rental house, we were close enough to visit him in the stadium every day until school started back up. Izzy would let the boys into the clubhouse and dugout before each game. It was as I'd hoped, Dodgers Stadium made me feel like Donnie was just away somewhere, working.

That first day, though, we did something Donnie would have never allowed. I palmed three baseballs in my left hand, and pitched them underhanded, one at a time to the boys who stood ready at home plate. Donnie never let the boys on the field while he was broadcasting. He felt that it was wrong, since he was no longer a player himself. But I sensed now he was giving us his blessing,
Go ahead. Just this once
. As we left the field, four-year-old Darren said, “Carry me like Daddy did,” loud enough for Izzy to hear, and it made him cry.

There was a lot of crying that first year. D.J. had refused to blow out the candles on his sixth birthday cake that bore both his and his father's name.

And when we released white and blue balloons up to Daddy, one at a time, which was our way of blowing kisses to him in Heaven, D.J. decided he wanted to stop. He had also refused to take the mound in Palm Springs when we were invited to throw the first ceremonial pitch for the California Angels' Class A Team.

“Why can't I die and go to Heaven to be with Daddy?” D.J. would ask. It was the inevitable question. It must have seemed a logical solution to a six-year-old. Once he even tried to open a car door while it was in motion. “I want to die so I can be with Daddy,” he kept saying that first year.

I didn't know how to console him.
How could God take the only man I'd ever loved when we still had three young children who needed him? How could Donnie be gone when just a few months ago had been the happiest time of our lives? How can I console my young son when I'm inconsolable myself?

I don't know how I made it through that first year. In fact, I don't remember much of those first few years, except that there was an endless outpouring of kindness. Several NBA teams asked me to broadcast for them, including the Chicago Bulls. This was during the Michael Jordan-Scottie Pippen era. The Bulls had just won the NBA championship two years in a row, and our dear friend, Jerry Reinsdorf, was offering me a huge amount of money—money that I was not currently making.

I liked Chicago and I loved Jerry. Heck, I'd grown up outside of Chicago and had lived there for six years with Don while he was broadcasting for the White Sox and I was broadcasting for Sports Channel. I loved it—even during the frigid winters, when a biting wind could whip over the lake and chill to the bone.

If I took this position, I knew I'd be committing to living in a city without the support of my family and Don's. I knew I would be at the arena every day by 5:00 p.m. and not home until after midnight. I knew I would be in for long seasons because the Bulls routinely played well after the NBA's 82 game schedule ended. I said no. Jerry continued to ask me and I'll always appreciate him for that. There were other lucrative offers from several other organizations, and I said thank you, but no, to each of them. My children came first.

That autumn, Don's daughter, Kelly was overseeing the Don Drysdale Charity Hall of Fame Golf Tournament in Newport Beach for a seventh time. Hall of Famers from every sport arrived to shoot fifty-six holes and to grieve. The kids and I had moved back to the desert home for school, but they came out to watch the tournament. Don's friends meant well when they told D.J. that he was the man of the house now, but it was incredibly frightening and overwhelming to a six-year-old.

Meanwhile, the phone continued to ring with offers which I still felt I had to decline. And each time the president of some team called, he heard Don's voice saying there was no one home and to leave a message. My excuse was that changing the outgoing message wasn't a high priority. The truth was that I didn't want to erase what I had left of him. I couldn't touch his clothes, or get rid of any of his belongings. Some nights I'd grab a sweater that still held his scent and hold it next to me in bed, and just cry until I fell asleep.

My dreams were much kinder. Donnie would appear vividly and I could feel him there with me. And then I would wake up and, just as quickly, he was gone. On those mornings it was especially hard to get out of bed.

I needed Don. But I had to go on because my kids needed me.

I had never been a stay-at-home-mom in the traditional sense, but without Don, I didn't want to commit to anything that would keep me away from the children too long. I begged out of covering the '94 Goodwill Games for TNT, giving them plenty of time to find another broadcaster. I knew I would have to do something to help support us and to help me move on. I didn't feel like doing much of anything, though, especially that first holiday season.

In December, Mark and Frannie celebrated their 25
^th
wedding anniversary, and they threw a huge celebration. I knew I had to go, but it was difficult. The pain of losing Don was still so raw. I tried to put on a good face, and everyone was extremely gracious and conscientious of my feelings, but that almost made it worse. I could tell some of the guests felt uncomfortable about celebrating Mark and Frannie's long, happy marriage in my presence. I clapped when they blew out the candles on their cake, willing a smile that didn't want to be there. Guests came over and offered me their condolences, and it felt like each kind word was chipping away at my carefully constructed emotional dam, until I thought it might break. As much as it hurt, I told myself that this had to be part of the healing process.

On Valentine's Day, friends dragged me out to the Charthouse, a one-time Rancho Mirage landmark restaurant that had been chiseled out of a large rock formation that hugged the hillside. The inside was dark wood and rock, keeping with the cavernous, inconspicuous feel, and I'm sure my friends figured it was a good place to bring someone who was reluctant to go out. They didn't realize it was the first place Donnie had taken me back in 1980 when I visited him in the desert.

We hadn't been seated long when I noticed Frank and Barbara Sinatra dining at a table nearby. I didn't want to go up and say hello, even though I knew that's what I should do. However, I had long ago promised myself I wouldn't let opportunities pass me by so that I ended up thinking
I wish I would have done this or said that
. The little regrets that stack up during the first half of a shy person's life can be wonderful motivators later on.

Frank and Barbara had always been very gracious when I'd visited their home with Donnie, or attended the Frank Sinatra Celebrity Golf Tournament. And when each one of the children was born, they sent beautiful Tiffany rattles and frames. But when Donnie died, Frank wasn't at the funeral.

They were just now finishing up, so I knew I wouldn't be interrupting dinner. I went over. “Hello Barbara, Frank.”

The way Frank looked up at me said everything. “It's not the same without Donnie, Jilly, and Chuck.”

There was genuine pain in that deep wonderful voice. Jilly Rizzo passed in 1992 and was Frank's closest friend. But Frank had carried special affection for Donnie and Chuck Connors, who went on to star in the long-running
The Rifleman
after ending his baseball career. I suppose Frank must have wondered how the three of them could be gone, when he was still there. As fitting, Frank mourned Don's passing his way.

As for me, I decided that rather than mourn the future we had planned, I would watch the sunsets, make birdies on the golf course, and raise our children to be strong, capable, contributing members of society for both of us. I wanted my kids to remember their father, and I would often sit with Drew, who was still just a baby, and point at pictures of her dad. “Who's that?” I'd ask her. “Is that Daddy? Do you see Daddy?”