9302090013
DETROIT FREE PRESS
931026
Tuesday, October 26, 1993
METRO FINAL
1C
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1993, Detroit Free Press
UNSOLVED MYSTERIES? TRY THE WILD THING
NEWS ITEM: Pitcher Mitch Williams, distraught over the World Series and death
threats from Phillies fans, did not join the team when it returned from
Toronto. Some say we never will see him in a Phillies uniform again. His
whereabouts are unknown.
The year: 2018. Date: Oct. 26.
Ship's log, somewhere in the South Pacific.
A bad storm hit last night. The ship crashed against the rocks. I washed
up on this uncharted desert island.
Seeking shelter, I ventured into the jungle. Huge palm trees, strange
vegetation, the screeching sounds of parrots, macaws and other wildlife. Then
I heard this odd voice.
"Bottom of the ninth, two on, Williams pitching to Joe Carter, here's the
pitch . . . steeeerike! . . .
"Here's the pitch . . . steeeeeerike! . . .
"Here's the pitch . . . steeeeeerike! . . ."
In the clearing, I saw a middle-aged man, with a scraggly beard and wild
flowing hair. He was throwing coconuts at a target on a tree. The first one
missed badly. The second hit the ground. The third hit a monkey, knocking it
unconscious.
"Mitch Williams?" I blurted.
The man spun. "Who are you?"
Incredible. After all these years, I had stumbled upon the biggest AWOL in
major league history.
"You a scout?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"You sure?" He reeled back and hurled another coconut at the target. This
one missed the tree, but hit a snake, knocking it unconscious.
"I'm working on a curveball," he said.
Still spitting mad
As everyone knows, Williams, known back in the 20th century as "Wild
Thing," disappeared after the 1993 World Series, in which he gave up the
final home run in the bottom of the ninth.
He couldn't go back to Philadelphia. So he went underground. The following
spring, when the team reported, Williams was missing.
A search began. Someone discovered his car, parked at the beach, but all
that was inside was a pouch of Red Man tobacco with a note.
"For Lenny," the note said. "Think of me when you spit."
The Coast Guard got involved. The FBI suspected foul play. Meanwhile,
sympathetic callers to Philadelphia radio shows said, "Why waste money
searchin' for the bum? I hope a shark ate him."
In the years that followed, Mitch Williams became a forgotten man.
"What happened to you?" I asked now.
"Well," he said, offering me a cup of papaya juice, "after the Series, I
shaved my head and joined the Merchant Marines. I pitched for a while in
Japan, under the name Tame Thing. Nobody suspected it was me, until I hit a
guy with a pitch."
"That's not so terrible, hitting a batter."
"Not a batter. The president of Mitsubishi. In a luxury box."
He sighed. "Slider, got away from me.
"Anyhow, I bummed around here and there. I became disenchanted. I landed on
this island and I've been here ever since.
"I still can't get that World Series pitch out of my mind. The way it
cleared the wall. All those Toronto guys cheering. The horror . . . the
horror. . . ."
He shook his head. How strange. So many changes had taken place in
baseball, and he'd missed them all. The 24-second pitch clock. The designated
bunter. The new league minimum salary for rookies, $40,000,000,000.
"So," he said, "what happened to the Phils?"
Well, I said, Lenny Dykstra, of course, is president of Skoal Inc.
And David West, the middle relief pitcher, retired from baseball when his
ERA hit triple figures.
Kim Batiste won six straight Gold Glove awards, after he discovered,
somewhat late in life, that he was actually left- handed.
Larry Andersen still pitches. He is 112 years old.
Sen. John Kruk is doing well.
Still off target
"What about the other guys?" Williams asked.
The Blue Jays? Well, they broke up a few months after winning the
championship. Paul Molitor retired. Rickey Henderson sold himself to the
Florida Marlins, the only team willing to provide a limo to take him to the
bathroom.
John Olerud took an assertiveness training seminar, and is now a shock-jock
radio host.
Jack Morris was let go, and because nobody wanted him, he went to Japan,
where he earned the nickname "Jackass-san."
Williams shrugged. "What about Joe Carter?"
"You mean the prime minister?"
"Oh, great."
I sensed I had said the wrong thing. Especially when he got up and began
throwing coconuts again.
"Here's the pitch . . . steeerike!"
He hit a parrot, knocking it unconscious.
"Here's the pitch . . . steeerike! . . ."
He hit a turtle, knocking it unconscious.
I thought about bringing him back. Then I thought about the newspapers, the
TV and the Phillies fans who were still calling talk shows, demanding that his
name be deleted from all records.
I figured he was better off here. I left him in the jungle. As I headed for
the ship, I thought I heard him finally hit the tree with the coconut.
Then again, it might have been the monkey.
COLUMN