Curt Schilling is the best big-game pitcher of his generation, but he’s just as well known for his relentless opinions on everything. For both reasons, almost everyone wants to tear him down.
In writing about major-league baseball since 1996, I have never come across a more unpopular player. You might say Barry Bonds. And I say you’re wrong. Bonds was a spoiled brat, annoyingly distant and equally mean. Schilling was the kind of guy who gives himself a nickname. Imagine if Alex Trebek could pitch — that’s Curt.
Think back to 2001 for a second. After the Sept. 11 attacks, Schilling penned a letter to America — why he thought the country would care is a great question, but he wrote it nonetheless. Nationally, it was seen as a patriotic act. Inside the clubhouse, teammates jokingly referred to him as “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and Luis Gonzalez blurted, “I didn’t know he was a poet.” Their point? Curt doesn’t speak for us.
A few weeks later, Schilling pitched remarkably on three days rest in the World Series, which I covered. When he exited the game at Yankee Stadium, you could clearly see him tell manager Bob Brenly, “I am done.” Yet in the postgame interview room, he questioned Brenly’s decision to remove him. All that was missing were the bus tracks on Brenly’s jersey when he came to the podium.
None of this was new behavior. While with the Phillies, then general manager Ed Wade referred to Schilling as a “horse every fifth day and a horse’s (rump) the other four.” Schilling can’t help himself. He believes the world is a better place with him not only in it, but to explain it.
He manipulated the media, then eventually bypassed the press, operating without a filter on his entertaining blog 38pitches.
When he announced his retirement last week — his final appearance was a World Series victory over the Rockies — Schilling wrote his baseball obituary: “Four World Series, three world championships . . . There are men in Cooperstown who never experienced one.”
OK, Trebek, don’t strain your rotator cuff patting yourself on the back.
Yet, it doesn’t matter what I think of Schilling’s act. The issue is whether he’s a Hall of Famer. And in an institution that has racists and drug addicts, his personal habits are irrelevant.
While many think he’s a bubble candidate, I don’t. I will vote for Schilling. Life is about defining moments. And when it mattered most, Schilling was at his best. He’s 11-2 with a 2.23 ERA in the playoffs. He helped Arizona win the title in 2001. And he delivered on his promise to end the Red Sox’s curse.
His bloody-sock performance in the 2004 ALCS — as legend goes now, his ankle was held together by duct tape, chicken wire and three Junior Mints — was stupid good.
That game symbolizes Schilling. He needed 30 SPF while bathing in the spotlight but backed up his bravado.
Schilling only had 216 regular-season victories, far short of many who are in the Hall of Fame. For me, it comes down to this. The guy who shows up for work for 20 years gets a cake and a gold watch. The guy who saves the company during a hostile takeover gets a plaque.
Schilling’s should be in Cooperstown.
Troy E. Renck: 303-954-1301 or trenck@denverpost.com
