Schilling Earns Hall Pass in October

This is where I have the chance to be a bigger man than Curt Schilling. This is where I ignore his jerk quotient -- clubhouse politician, Capitol Hill steroids waffler, attention moth, blogging fool -- and state unequivocally that he belongs in the Baseball Hall of Fame. Some writers hold grudges when confronted with voting decisions about prickly players, forgetting that our responsibility is to history and not our tattered feelings.

Me? I see through the blowhard and look inside the heart. And no one's ever was larger in October, when Schilling was the most indomitable of all pitching competitors. He went 11-2 with a 2.23 ERA in the postseason, ranking him among the all-time leaders in both categories. He strolled into Boston, declared he would crack the Curse of the Bambino and did just that, bleeding through his sock in an extraordinary display of courage and commitment. He bailed out his team four times in four win-or-be-eliminated games. He helped win three championship trophies for two ballclubs, the Red Sox and Arizona Diamondbacks, that didn't know the aroma of bubbly.

Now, he is history himself, off to a career involving commentary for Boston radio station WEEI and tending to his own entertainment company, called 38 Studios. For a moment, we thought he might pitch one more season and attempt to shatter the 101-years-and-running hex of the Chicago Cubs, which would make Schilling the mother of all curse-busters. Instead, he chose to announce his retirement on his blog. What else would you expect?

"Turn out the lights, the party's over," he wrote. "I used to wait with bated breath for Don Meredith to start singing that on `Monday Night Football.' Normally, it was sweet music if the Steelers were playing. If I could get him to sing it again, I would. This party has officially ended. After being blessed to experience 23 years of playing professional baseball in front of the world's best fans in so many different places, it is with zero regrets that I am making my retirement official."

I believe him, too. Why regret anything about a career that was so fulfilling, so colorful and so damn loud?

When Schilling pitched in autumn, with the crackle of chill in the air, it was as close to a fait accompli as any assignment in sports. Seems the annoyances that made him such a drama queen also were the traits that made him such a dominant S.O.B. when it most mattered on the mound. I don't care that he won only 216 games, a low figure for Cooperstown. I don't care that he doesn't have a Cy Young Award, no-hitter or ERA title, which would make him the first starting pitcher who began his career after 1950 to make the Hall without any of the three honors.

October is sacred. Those who master it deserve the ultimate cred. Curt Schilling not only mastered it, he lifted it into thick romanticism, which made him a perfect lyrical fit amid the poetry of Red Sox Nation. Much like the New Englanders, he was driven to win because he was afraid to lose. He delivered twice for them, making him a folk hero in the baseball holy land and an immortal who deserved a plaque.

"He would dress up all-black like he was Tony Montana," marveled Red Sox slugger David Ortiz, referring to the `Scarface' character. "He'd get in and spread confidence to everyone around. That's what I remember. He used to come up to me sometimes and tell me, `It's on, baby.' When I looked at his face, I would be like, `It's on.' That kind of stuff puts you in the mood, man. I don't remember one day that he would go out there and give it up before the game even started. You could feel that in some people. You didn't get that from Curt, even when he was throwing 86 (mph). You know what I'm saying? The guy got it done."

"One of the things that people didn't realize about Schilling is that he was really motivated by fear, fear of failure," general manager Theo Epstein told the media. "He really did not want to fail, and he was very cognizant of his fear of failure. He worked himself up through his nerves to go out and dominate to the best of his ability every time he had the ball. That was where the 'clutchness' came from, the realization that he had about how much he hated failure and how much he feared failure."

His insecurities, which family and friends say started when he was a high-school outcast, also turned him into a monster. He might not have had a major-league career if Roger Clemens, recognizing talent beneath a bad attitude, didn't have a heart-to-heart talk with Schilling when he was a young prospect. Back when he emerged as a star with the Philadelphia Phillies, his teammates grew to dislike him because he craved media attention. He was a pontificator as much as a pitcher, and eventually, he turned on management after the Phillies hit a losing spell. Said general manager Ed Wade, who finally traded Schilling to Arizona: ""One out of every five days, he's a horse -- and the other four, he's a horse's

The leper aspect of Schilling only grew worse in his championship years. He began hearing criticism that he was too self-absorbed and pompous, and he lashed back by ripping media. He has called me names. Dan Shaughnessy of the Boston Globe is the "Curly-Haired Boyfriend." But anyone who disliked Schilling was forced to acknowledge his brilliance. No pitcher was more dominant at the start of this decade. No pitcher has had better control since 1900, demonstrated by his best-ever strikeout/walk ratio of 4.38 among those with 1,500 innings or more. He and Randy Johnson were the tandem that brought a championship to the desert, and not long afterward, Schilling was talking himself out of Arizona and into his wildest challenge.

Perhaps no athlete has been better suited to a team than he was to the Red Sox. Their fans needed a reason to believe, after 86 years of heartbreak and darkness, and he laughed in the face of despair. In particular, he stared down the hated New York Yankees. "When you use those words -- mystique and aura -- those are dancers in a nightclub," he said dismissively. From that point on, the Yankees lost their mojo and the Red Sox went on to win two World Series titles with him. For all the legendary athletes who have performed in New England, few mean more to the people than Curtis Montague Schilling.

"I think it was the right time in his career," Red Sox manager Terry Francona said. "Boston was looking for that last piece. He was looking for a way to pitch on a championship team. It was a great fit. Obviously, it worked out well. The stage was perfect for him. He was looking not to back away and go somewhere where he could just pitch innings and get wins. He wanted to pitch where he had a chance to win a championship."

"The Red Sox were perfect for him, because he likes the big stage, the history of the game," Epstein said. "He likes to be the center of attention."

Sometimes, we loathed him for it. Why did he use baseball as a platform to endorse political candidates? And why, after lashing out at players who used steroids, did he wimp out at the Congressional hearings and then unload on Jose Canseco for exposing some of the cheats? But then you would remember his charity work in fighting ALS, or his clean record off the field, and forgive him.

He grew on us that way, never more than the night of Oct. 19, 2004. With his ankle seemingly dangling from his foot, he agreed to a quick and mysteriously explained surgical repair job by the team doctor. Down 3-2 to the Yankees in the American League championship series, he talked his way into the start and produced the most remarkable seven-inning gutcheck in postseason history. The sutures were ripped apart, allowing blood to flow onto his sock, and the drama was vintage Schilling. Somehow, he allowed just one run and four hits, and this was the inspiration that led to the astounding smackdown of the Yankees and the long-awaited World Series title.

"I expected him not only to pitch, but to win," Francona said. "He had the ability to reach back for more about as good as anybody I've ever seen."

"I don't know if we're standing here where we're at, having won two world championships, without Curt," catcher Jason Varitek said. "What he brought was his preparation as a winning commodity and a winning pitcher, somebody that strived for this organization to do well and to work toward what this team and this organization hadn't done in 86 years."

In his farewell blog, Schilling was classy, not ripping a soul. OK, he tweaked football legend William Perry a bit. "To say I've been blessed would be like calling Refrigerator Perry 'a bit overweight,' " he wrote. "The things I was allowed to experience, the people I was able to call friends, teammates, mentors, coaches and opponents, the travel, all of it, are far more than anything I ever thought possible in my lifetime. Four World Series, three world championships. That there are men with plaques in Cooperstown who never experienced one - and I was able to be on three teams over seven years that won it all - is another 'beyond my wildest dreams' set of memories I'll take with me.

"The game always gave me far more than I ever gave it. All of those things, every single one of those memories, is enveloped with fan sights and sounds for me. Without the fans, they would still be great memories, but none would be enduring and unforgettable because they infused the energy, rage, passion and 'feel' of all of those times. The game was here long before I was and will be here long after I'm gone. The only thing I hope I did was never put in question my love for the game, or my passion to be counted on when it mattered most. I did everything I could to win every time I was handed the ball."

Consider it the beginnings of his 2014 Cooperstown speech. And my teeth are not clenched as I say that. The big loudmouth earned his Hall pass in the month that matters most.