(…slightly fictionalized with a firm nod to staying very close to the actual events)
Just by scanning their faces, Steve could tell the tension was at the highest level any of them had faced in their lives. They had been in tough spots over the course of the last six or seven years, and mostly came out on top, but this was different. Only a handful of times in history has the chase for the Pennant gone down to the seventh game of the League Championship Series, and even fewer times has it gone to extra innings for that seventh game. Yet that is exactly where Steve and his teammates stood, the bottom of the eleventh inning of the seventh and final game of the series to determine who would win the Pennant and move on to the World Series. The men in the other dugout weren’t just competitors, they were the Red Sox, enough said.
For the most part, the men Steve patched up weren’t usually concerned with the guys from Boston. There really wasn’t much of a rivalry as far as they were concerned, but George Steinbrenner, the Yankee “Boss,” thought differently and he ratcheted up the pressure every time they played. Not that it was needed. When Babe Ruth was traded from the Sox to the Yanks in the early 1920s, the Yankees had clobbered them every year since. It was called the “Curse of the Bambino,” and the Boss wasn’t about to allow that to change on his watch. He made sure that everyone from the locker room attendant to the General Manager knew that the Yankees belonged in the World Series, and the Red Sox belonged at home watching them on T.V. In George Steinbrenner’s world, there was no taking of prisoners, and with the Red Sox you were supposed to torture them before you stretched the rope.
This corporate pressure definitely made it into Steve’s world, and he was held accountable for making sure there were as few guys on the injured list as possible. Steve was constantly reminded this meant his ass was on the line if anyone stayed injured more than a game or two. When it came to the second season, the playoffs, that timeframe shrank to an inning or two. Built like most trainers, Steve has a pretty big ass, so he did his best to tape up any problem and keep his teammates confident that they could still perform injured or not. During the playoffs, it wasn’t as big a deal. Sure there were prima donnas on the team, but once a World Series Ring was on the line, Steve’s job became a little easier, at least for the basic aches and pains.
Still, this year had been incredible, with Karsay blowing out his elbow in spring training, Jeter dislocating his shoulder in the first game of the year, Mo aggravating his groin pull from the year before, Giambi nursing a bum knee that would have sidelined even the toughest guy, Bernie out with a shoulder and a blown ACL, Boomer getting his teeth knocked out in a street fight, and just a few days ago, Zimmer straining his neck from getting thrown to the ground by an egomaniac Red Sox player half his age – it had been one hell of a year. Steve’s direct boss Gene Monaghan, the Head Trainer for the team, spent most of the year handling all the different doctors. The surgeries and major problems were beyond what Steve and his ace bandages, whirlpools and ice packs handled without the consent of a medical specialist. There were millions of dollars invested in each one of these guys, and even though Steve was as skilled as the best orthopedist and physical therapist rolled into one, the liability and potential insurance claims needed Gene’s full attention. Normally, Gene would be there by Steve’s side, but now he was perpetually upstairs dealing with the team executives and the different player’s doctors. This meant Steve, the Assistant Head Trainer, had little support most of the time in the day-in-day-out job of getting forty guys ready for work. Something like this rarely got to Steve, he was from a tough neighborhood, and he earned his way into the job through the school of hard knocks, but from February through November Steve worked just about every day. In his line of work, weekdays and weekends are meaningless, and every day means just that – but at this moment with Yankee Stadium buzzing, it was the last thing on his mind.
Amazingly in the 100-year history of these two teams, this was the first time they had faced each other in the postseason. From where Steve sat in the dugout, it was also amazing that they were still in the game. The Yanks were down by three runs, and except for a few Jason Giambi solo home runs, Pedro was throwing darts and shutting down any chance for a comeback. During the Yankee at-bat in the sixth inning, Aaron Boone ended up on the bench sitting next to Steve. Aaron had experienced a dreadful second half of the season at the plate and was mired in a 3 for 24 slump thus far in the playoffs. Uncharacteristically, he even had a poor October in the field. Playing third base, he had committed an error in just about every other game. Not surprisingly, Yankee manager Joe Torre had him riding the bench in the most important game of the season.
In the sixth, Aaron noticed Steve was bewildered and came over and put his arm around his neck and pointed towards Pedro out on the mound. He spoke softly into Steve’s ear telling him to relax and take a hard look at the Boston pitcher.
Pedro was a gifted athlete from the Dominican Republic, who for the previous 5-6 years had dominated the Major Leagues. He had won a couple of Cy Young Awards (given to the year’s best pitcher) and had won more games than just about anyone. In short, he was a winner with a huge ego and a short fuse. He backed this up with a confident style and a command of the art of pitching that comes around only once in a lifetime. Pedro, unusual for a guy his size, was a power pitcher who for the most part blew his pitches by opposing batters. Yet being only 170 pounds, and after years of pitching this way, time was beginning to catch up to the abuse this was doing to his body. Pedro was too proud to allow this to affect him, so for the last few years, he had begun to transform himself into more of a finesse pitcher. This was a guy who threw his pitches at varying speeds and curved the ball in different directions as it approached the batter. Many a pitcher had worked an entire career in such a way. The great Sandy Koufax was in Cooperstown on the basis of the best curveball ever thrown, yet at times Pedro’s ego got the better of him and in pressure situations, he reverted to his roots.
From the second inning through the sixth, in the most pressure-filled game of his career, Pedro had thrown more fastballs than in any game all year. Aaron calmly pointed out to Steve that Pedro was taking a bigger stride on each pitch to the plate, and he was also slowing down the pace between each pitch thrown. They watched him pitch the entire at-bat to Bernie Williams with Aaron making various points about the subtle changes Pedro had made since the game began. Steve began to recognize what only a handful of people could notice, Pedro was wearing himself out. Steve started to relax and was sure that the great Joe Torre had noticed it too. As the sixth inning ended with no runs and the score 4-1 Red Sox, Aaron looked Steve in the eyes and said “Have no fear Stevo, next inning we’ll kill him. I hope I get a shot at him, but either way, Pedro is toast, ”
Between innings, Steve went into the clubhouse to get Jason Giambi off the stationary bike. Jason usually plays the field at first base, but this year he partially tore the ACL in his knee. He’ll have arthroscopic surgery after the season to repair it, but he’s been playing with excruciating pain for most of the year. When he’s not waiting to bat, he jumps on a stationary bike to keep his knee loose, but he usually overdoes it, and if Steve doesn’t remind him, he can ride himself to an 0-4 night pretty easily. Luckily, Steve got him off the bike in time. and in the bottom of the seventh inning, Giambi hit his second solo home run of the game to close the Sox lead to two runs. It’s the little things on a team that goes unnoticed that can mean so much to its success. Without a guy like Steve, you’d have to ponder how many hitless nights Jason would have, how many Clemon’s curveballs would be hit for home runs, or how many fly balls would be out of Bernie’s reach in center field.
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Like most future athletic trainers, Steve Donahue had dreams of being a great athlete. Also like most future trainers, he was born with the physical gifts that ensured he never would. After competing with average guys in sports all the way through high school with a bowling ball-shaped body and a stature too short for just about anything, Steve promised himself just one thing, he would do whatever he could to somehow remain around the competition. He was continually made fun of, always picked last for games, and tortured by prima donnas that had less character than Steve carried under a fingernail, but he still loved the games.
When he graduated from high school, Steve had pretty lousy grades. He never really cared about science or math and knew that you didn’t need great English skills to make it in the gym. It wasn’t that he had a low IQ, quite the opposite, but he only had motivation for sports. Steve came from a pretty typical Irish Catholic family that was less than flush in the financial area, so a fancy college was out of the question. Unfortunately, he realized too late that the best place for him to go was to a school that had a decent sports program. His grades sunk that option before his family’s bank account even came into play. Living 40 miles north of New York City, in a blue-collar area, Steve pretty much was surrounded by mediocrity. He knew one thing, if he found a way out, he wouldn’t let hard work get in his way. Coming up on graduation, his high school guidance counselor gave him a brochure for SUNY New Paltz. It was only an hour or so up the Hudson River and, being a small state school, it was cheap. Also with pretty low academic standards, Steve would be able to get in, and they did have several sports teams.
Some people feel we each have a guardian angel looking over us. Others feel that fate can shine positive rays on those who inwardly scream for redemption, but outwardly seem incapable of amounting too much. It’s the timing or sixth sense used in noticing these moments in life that can determine which direction our lives will take. Whether an angel nudged him or fate intervened, that moment presented itself to little Stevie Donahue, and he chose to go to the only place that would take him.
New Paltz State was mostly known for being the closest college to Woodstock and, during that three-day festival of love, naked hippies, and psychedelic drugs, this little teachers’ college would transform itself into one of the most notorious drug schools in the country. As Jimi Hendrix was packing up and the festival ended, thousands of hipsters walked the fifteen miles to New Paltz to continue the party. Several years later when Steve arrived on campus, they were still there. You’d have to think he had the deck pretty well stacked against him and that he couldn’t have picked a worse place to go. Not only had he chosen a drug school where the rock concert budget was ten times larger than the athletic budget, but also the New Paltz Hawks sports teams had not had a winning season in any sport for almost 25 years. Even with all this, fate was in the gym rat’s favor, even in this wasteland of college athletics, because Steve’s deck of cards was about to be dealt by Joe Donovan.
Joe Donovan, Coach D by everyone that knew him, was in his early fifties and he was known as a coaching fixer. He would move every three to four years from one college or high school to the next and each place had as woeful a winning record as the one before. Coach D was a turnaround specialist, who was able to quickly make the changes needed to turn losing into winning. Along the way, he won a lot. He won the NY State High School Basketball Championship, held the longest winning streak in high school baseball for 40 years, coached Niagara University to an NIT Basketball Championship, and coached the world record holder for the high jump in track and field. What made him unique was that he shared everything he knew with everyone he knew. Anyone who worked with him benefited, and he was particularly keen on mentoring his assistants, eventually urging them to take on their own challenges. Men such as Larry Costello, coach of the 1971 NBA championship Milwaukee Bucks, Frank Layden the NBA’s Utah Jazz coach for 15 years, Jimmy Valvano coach of the 1983 NCAA basketball champions NC State, and Hubie Brown, former New York Knicks head coach and current TV NBA commentator, all at one time mentored at the foot of Joe Donovan.
Coach D also had another lifelong pursuit besides winning games – Athletic Training.
After serving in World War II, Joe took advantage of the GI Bill and after getting his BS from Ithaca College, he earned his Master’s in Athletic Conditioning from Cornell. In the early 1950s, he became a founding member of the National Trainers Association (now the industry’s largest with 25,000 members). Thereafter, at every stop in his career in addition to coaching, he was also made Head Trainer. Joe loved training, although you couldn’t tell by looking at him, since Joe also exhibited the favorite trainer’s physique – big and round. Needless to say, Joe knew most of the trainers at the largest college sports factories and many of the guys in the pros.
When Coach Donovan met Steve, he didn’t think much of him, but Steve quickly knew he found someone who could have a profound effect on his life. Steve knew nothing of coaching or training, but after taking a few body mechanics classes with Coach D he dedicated his every waking moment trying to learn as much as he could from him. Eventually, Coach D began to take notice of this young kid that hung around practice, shagging balls, or sweeping the floors. He saw that Steve had a completely unselfish way about him. He was the type of kid that would do just about anything you asked of him, and yes, he would even give you his last dollar if he thought you really needed it. Most importantly, it was real. There was nothing contrived or phony about him. It wasn’t long before he was helping out in the training room, picking up tidbits from Coach D that was akin to what students were learning in the best physical therapy schools.
Over the course of the next four years, Steve slowly became part of Coach D’s family. It seemed he spent as much time at their dinner table as any of the coach’s five kids, and the younger ones hung out with Steve in the college training room every day after school. Most importantly, Steve had latched on to an idea for a profession that had never occurred to him. If it hadn’t been for Joe Donovan, Steve probably would have ended up like most guys from his hometown, a bus driver, a janitor, or some similar type of work. He found nothing wrong with that type of work, but Steve wanted to make it in sports.
He began to grow and expand his knowledge and confidence, and as the years flew by, he eventually found himself running the school’s Training Room and mentoring the underclass student trainers. By the time he was ready to graduate, Coach D’s hard work as a coach had finally begun to pay off on the court too. The basketball team won 20 games and went to the playoffs for the first time in almost 30 years and Steve was able to be an integral part of the success as the Head Trainer for the team. Steve graduated with honors and Coach D helped him land a trainer’s spot on Denny Crum’s basketball team at the University of Louisville. Steve took it from there and began carving out a career that still makes Steve want to pinch himself to be certain it’s real. After Louisville, he worked for other major college programs and moved to the pros as a trainer for the NFL’s New York Jets before landing his position with the Yankees.
Over the years, Steve kept in touch with Coach D and never forgot him. Even on the morning of a Yankee World Series game, Steve found the time to drive up to New Paltz for Coach D’s induction into the school’s Sports Hall of Fame. He only was able to stay for a short time, but gave a meaningful introduction of the Coach that brought tears to his eyes, and then drove straight back to the city to get back to work. Coach D had long retired by this time and people say that he was never more touched by anyone’s actions than by Steve’s. Joe Donovan died shortly thereafter, and Steve of course was at the funeral and gave a heartfelt eulogy. The old coach of course would have been flattered at the nice things that Steve had to say, but he would say what a bunch of hogwash it all was. He would tell anyone who was listening that he only pointed Steve down a path – he did all the rest.
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One of the career-defining moments for Steve came earlier during the first round of the playoffs against the Minnesota Twins. The Boss stopped by the training room and in front of Joe Torre and most of the team he made a point of loudly telling Steve that he was as much responsible for the team being in the playoffs as any of Giambi’s home runs or the Rocket’s fastballs. It was one of Steve’s proudest moments. In his sixteen years with the Yankees, he could count the number of times on one hand that Mr. Steinbrenner had spoken to him. He has never taken for granted that he works where he does, and if the guys can pull out this one last game, they will move on to the biggest stage of all. If Clemons, Pettitte, or Mussina need a file to rough up their curveball calluses, Steve will trot out to the mound with close to fifty million people watching him. Already after five previous trips to the World Series where they won four times, he still regularly shakes his head in disbelief that he’s part of it all.
By 2003, many of the Yankee players from the amazing late 1990s Yankee “dynasty” were aging and on their last legs. The king of the Yankee pitchers, Roger Clemons, needed incredible attention just to get up on the mound. On his pitching days, he would have Steve cover his entire naked body in “hot stuff,” an incredibly potent cream that felt like coating your body with Carolina Reaper Ghost Pepper sauce to get himself ready to pitch. He would literally snort like a bull from the heat before pulling on his number 22 Yankee jersey and heading to the bullpen to warm up. Like Clemons, many of the guys were approaching their mid-30s, a time for ballplayers to start thinking about retirement. They had only known how to win, but it was becoming tighter to achieve the same level of success.
The pressure of the last game of a seven-game series where, if you lose, you go home after 174 games played, was enormous. Different people handle pressure differently. Where Aaron Boone can gleefully yell encouragement while losing by three runs, guys like Alphonso Soriano, the youngest Yankee, are so tight they can barely speak. Those who have been there before tend to perform the best under immense pressure. Over the course of the next few innings, Steve would witness this phenomenon up close and personal.
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Although the Yankees had closed the gap to 4-2 with Giambi’s second solo shot, the Sox quickly added another run in the top of the eighth with a homer by Sox great David Ortiz to increase their lead back to three runs at 5-2. In the bottom half of the eighth, the Yankee bench was quietly excited as Pedro confidently strolled out to the mound to pitch to the heart of the Yankee batting order. Just as Aaron had predicted, the Yankee bats came to life against a tiring Pedro who immediately began to struggle. Derek Jeter hit a double and Bernie Williams slapped a single. With runners on first and third and no outs, few in the Yankee dugout was surprised to see the Sox manager Grady Little stride out to the mound. They were all psyched to have finally knocked the great Pedro out of the game. Steve could hear Mike Timlin’s name murmured with trepidation up and down the bench as the next likely Sox pitcher. Timlin had controlled the powerful Yankee lineup every time he came out to face them in this series, not allowing a single hit.
After a brief meeting on the mound, shockingly, the entire bench became completely quiet as Grady strolled back to his dugout. For a full 30 seconds or so, everyone just sat there and watched him walk slowly to his bench. Everyone on the Yankee’s bench was so ingrained to have the starting pitcher yanked at the first sign of trouble, that when Grady left his guy in there, they were amazed. It now became clear to everyone what had occurred to Aaron an inning earlier, that Pedro was primed to be tattooed. The next two batters, Matsui and Posada, both hit doubles to tie the game at 5 runs each.
Sure Grady blinked as the heat of the most pressure-packed game in decades bared down on him. He wasn’t the only one that felt it, Pedro’s arrogance wouldn’t allow him to tell Grady that he was through. It’s not as if Grady was going out to get the ball from an average pitcher that had met his match. This was the legendary Pedro Martinez who had pulled out more games like this in his career than any other pitcher in baseball. Still, if Grady could read the minds of Steve’s teammates, he would have made a different choice, as they all couldn’t wait to get a bat in their hands and take a swing against him. Pedro had completely lost his mental edge of invincibility and the Yankee players made him pay.
In Steve’s mind, it was only a matter of time before the Yankees would win the game and head to World Series. It took three innings of incredible relief pitching by closer Mariano Rivera, who hadn’t been asked to pitch three innings in years. to hold off the Red Sox (he was series MVP). In the end, of all people, it was Aaron Boone with his miserable hitting slump who would end it.
He had entered the game as a base runner in the eighth inning, and his spot in the batting order finally came up as a lead-off hitter in the top of the eleventh inning. He told Steve he hoped he’d get a chance, and when it came, he didn’t waste it as he hit a home run on the first pitch of the inning in the bottom of the eleventh for the win. As he crossed home plate the bench erupted around him in celebration, Steve smiled knowing that he had just witnessed one of the greatest games in baseball history from the catbird seat. He took a moment to watch the guys piling on each other around home plate, and headed back to the training room to get ready for the post-game aches and pains that he was sure would need his attention – at least once the celebrating ended.
Although he would certainly have many glasses, his champagne would have to wait; there was still a lot of work yet to be done.