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If only modern me the counselor could accompany a child psychologist into a time machine and travel back seven decades to explore the feelings and motivations of childhood Sam. I can just imagine the pain and suffering that could have been avoided in later years.
What we would see would be a joyless boy. I never felt loved. My achievements went unpraised but I could not recognize that my parents refused to praise me. I did not know I was experiencing an unhappy childhood because happiness was a foreign concept to me. I cannot say I was either happy or sad. I did not even understand I was depressed as it was my constant state to which I had nothing to compare.
But I was always in some form of depression. I did not react to humor that inspired laughter from others. I did not see the beauty in things that most people did. I simply plodded along as the black sheep of the family. I craved attention and acted out in negative ways to get it. I was generally in trouble, trying to get away with bad behavior, always going against the grain, displaying a genetically infused alcoholic personality that I would not grasp until well after my baseball career.
The seeds had long been planted. The mixture was one part narcissism, one part depression, one part low self-esteem. This reality remained far beyond my comprehension for decades and negatively affected all aspects of my personal and professional life until my recovery began and continuing education led to enlightenment.
The difference between right and wrong escaped me as a child. Only a lack of motivation toward illegal or dangerous activities rather than any sense of honesty or morality prevented me from engaging in petty theft or bullying. But I was dishonest. I would lie about anything, spewing out even the most insignificant claims. And I certainly misbehaved. I rebelled against my parents. They would warn me not to leave the house or befriend those they considered undesirable characters and I would leave the house and befriend those undesirable characters. I spent money from my paper route that was supposed to be paid on Saturdays, forcing my mother to take the funds from the family pot. Rather than turn in the payments, I would then stop at a wonderful Italian delicatessen and use the money to buy cream puffs and candy. I would also tell neighbors on my route that I was going away for a week or more so they needed to pay me for their papers in advance.
My disobeying often resulted in a spanking or paddling, but I remained undeterred. No discipline meted out by my parents directed me toward the straight and narrow. I was unknowingly following the narcissist creed “What I Want, When I Want, How I Want.”
And to Hell with good versus evil, a notion one would assume had been drilled into me growing up in a strongly Catholic home. Any positive effects derived from religious teaching were more than negated by living within a highly dysfunctional family that engendered little affection from parent to child or sibling to sibling.
Only through a lesson in genealogy could I recognize the stifling negativity that permeated the McDowell household despite the many positive qualities exhibited by Mom and Dad. My parents and grandparents were born and raised in the United States. My father’s side of the family had Irish roots; my mother’s ancestors were Scottish. Both my parents were alcoholics though my mother hid her drinking well as a response to menopause. Her addiction became obvious only later in life.
I had no knowledge as a kid how their experiences as young adults that shattered their career aspirations negatively affected their parenting. I cannot blame myself for that—most children are far too needy and self-centered to care about things like that. And they are certainly not advanced enough intellectually to understand how the experiences of their parents alter their mental and emotional states.
Fate had dashed the hopes and dreams of Tom and MaryIrene McDowell. My dad, who came from a stable family, played quarterback for a University of Pittsburgh team that qualified for the Rose Bowl. During his college years he toiled as a part-time salesman for Firestone, which served as a local supplier for the Pittsburgh area. He not only boasted a background in engineering but was pursuing a career in dentistry when World War II interrupted his studies. Though his marital status with one child precluded him from being drafted, his education resulted in a request to monitor magnetism in the steel plates being produced because the Japanese were planting magnetic mines that were blowing up American ships in the Pacific. His work there ended his dentistry career. He continued toiling in steel mills for more than three decades.
My mother was the product of a wealthy family. She had lofty goals as a budding concert pianist while studying at the University of Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. But she settled into married life and motherhood. Her upbringing in a well-to-do setting headed by a father who owned stockyards near Pittsburgh that supplied the entire tri-state area made her detest any reference to our own family neighborhood as part of the lower economic strata of the city. None of us kids ever really wanted for things others may have had such as bicycles, fancy clothes, spending money, watches, and jewelry. We were all were so busy with sports we didn’t have time for that stuff. We always had food, clothing, a roof over our head and parents who cared about everything we were doing.
That my parents showed no affection toward their children was as much a reflection of the times as it was a reflection of character. Their philosophy was that praise weakened rather than strengthened offspring. The result for me was a feeling that it was impossible to please them so why try by behaving well? They provided no warmth, no comfort, no compliments, no acknowledgment of a job well done. I will never forget pitching a no-hitter in Little League and my father refusing to stop on the way home for a celebratory ice cream treat, instead criticizing me all the way back for perceived mistakes I had made during the game.
Only through the admiration of his old high school football teammates during a luncheon decades later did my dad finally show me even the slightest appreciation. After a local newspaper told the story of my recovery from alcohol addiction and his gridiron buddies at a high school reunion expressed pride to me about the enormous obstacles I had overcome, he shook my hand and tearfully acknowledged that he too was proud. It would be the last time he praised me. And though I took pleasure in that one fleeting moment, I realized that it was far too little, far too late. Many parents back then didn’t praise, but we all knew they cared. In fact if anyone saw a parent kissing or hugging their child, we’d make fun of that boy or girl. We’d call them a “sissy” or a “mama’s boy.”
Some might speculate that my parents grew bitter when their career ambitions never materialized but I can neither accept nor deny that. The financial and personal responsibilities of raising a family certainly became a priority. They not only brought up six kids but took in my grandfather and uncle to live with us. My father was employed at the Homestead steel mill, the largest of many that kept Pittsburgh humming during and after the war. I recall the hardships my parents endured during worker strikes that left them scrambling for enough money to pay the bills. The free powdered milk, cheese, and stale bread the union supplied the households of strikers did not keep a family of ten well fed.
The work stoppages took a financial toll on all of us and an emotional toll on my dad. He became angry that they resulted in only a small bump in pay. He railed against what he perceived as a lack of employee power compared to the union bigwigs who demanded strikes. My dad told us stories of serious intimidation as well as physical damage done to any worker or family member who went against union wishes. On one occasion my dad went to Pittsburgh Hospital to visit a friend and colleague who had been beaten severely because he dared to make a statement about family conditions without a paycheck. The workers ultimately gained a decent wage from their persistence, but my father and his colleagues went through Hell getting there.
That pressure contributed to his alcoholic binges. He did not take a social drink or two. When he would drink he usually got drunk, be it accidentally or intentionally, a practice with which I became personally familiar as a young adult and beyond. He did not booze it up on a regular basis. But when he did at a party or during a stop at a bar after work, he gulped down enough to get snockered.
Yet despite his issues that I became painfully aware of, I yearned throughout my childhood to follow in his footsteps. I felt an admiration for the positive contributions my father made to the family and not simply to our pursuits of athletic excellence. I recall vividly his ability to assemble television sets or radios from scratch. He even used his wiring talents to build a heater that warmed the family during those chilly Pittsburgh winters. He remodeled our bedroom and bathroom and constructed a backboard and basketball hoop that he attached to the disconnected garage. Though never formally trained in wiring, plumbing, carpentry, cement work, or refinishing furniture, he was amazing. He read books from the library or manuals, picked up parts others threw away or from the junkyard to bring home, and eventually you’d see a finished product you would swear came from a furniture or electronic or appliance store. No automobile would break down that he could not fix. It was not all about saving money. He enjoyed making things. I used to watch him wiring or plumbing and he would explain what he was doing, what an alternating current was, what a short was, what direct current was, why he was using copper wire or copper pipes, and how to solder joints so they would not leak.
His influence on my career in sports cannot be overstated. My passions were not limited to baseball, football, and basketball. I even became quite proficient in tennis after befriending the children of a local psychiatrist who worked at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center and competing against them with an old wooden racket I found in our attic.
Fortunately for the sake of the family my mother’s alcoholism did not become pronounced until after menopause. Though my mom, like her husband, did not embrace the necessity of displaying love and affection as a parent, she did dedicate herself to the basic financial and physical well-being of her family. She meticulously cut out coupons to save money on food and clothing. Rather than spend on new clothes for her sons she insisted that we all wear hand-me-downs from an elder sibling. My mother would go food shopping every Saturday, prepare a wonderful Sunday dinner, then spread out the leftovers to make casseroles and create meals for the rest of the week. Her expertise and influence in food preparation remains with me to this day—I still love leftovers. She insisted on preparing healthful fare or at least what was considered well-balanced in the 1940s and 1950s. We always had starches and vegetables, as well as a meat, except on Fridays. She was a true matriarch. She controlled the finances judiciously enough to allow her family to make ends meet.
And though neither of my parents showed love, my mother did drill into me a need to perform well in the classroom. The notion certainly clashed with my penchant for bad behavior early in my life. I battled against it with all my will. When she started insisting we sit down after dinner so she could help me with my homework, I rebelled by claiming I had none or by intentionally failing to bring my books home from school. So she hit back where it hurt the most. Knowing my love for participating in baseball, football, basketball, and cross country, she ruled that I could not play any organized sports unless I earned all As and Bs on my report card. Her strategy worked so well that she upped the ante a year later by banning all sports activity unless I received nothing but As. I did just that over my last two years of high school. I did not find acing all my classes particularly difficult.
While most of my classmates often skipped school to hang out somewhere around town, I dutifully attended daily, even if I was sick. My motivation was not necessarily academic. I realize looking back that I felt I would garner more of the attention I craved in school rather than away from it. It was not a perfect outlook but it certainly helped me blossom into an excellent student.
My mother was a devout Roman Catholic who indoctrinated my father in the same religious beliefs before they married. Both tried to keep me on the straight and narrow through religion. We attended mass every Sunday and holy day without exception. It did not matter if Mother Nature threw all her fury at Pittsburgh in the winter. Even if we could not escape the snow in our driveway, we followed the streetcar tracks by foot and rode it to church. I served as an altar boy along with my brothers through high school and even during my first two years of professional baseball. I even served the same role at my sister’s wedding during my second year in professional baseball.
Neither of my parents helped foster positive sibling relationships, though I wonder if that could even be achieved given our competitive personalities. My relationships with my four brothers—one older and three younger—were not ideal. We were all accomplished, talented athletes. But there was no healthy competition among us. Rivalries resulted in harmful jealousies. I was not the only one adversely affected. And none of my siblings’ athletic pursuits had a happy ending. Though I was considered perhaps the finest baseball prospect in the country when I reached my senior season at Central Catholic High School, I can state unequivocally that my older brother Tom Jr. was a more talented pitcher. He also excelled in football. But all his college scholarship offers were withdrawn when he contracted polio. The football aspirations of my younger brother Warren, whom we called Butch, were destroyed when he broke his arm on a rushing attempt during a college game. And my youngest brother Donny proved simply too lazy and stubborn to maximize his vast athletic talents.
We were lucky as kids in regard to sports. The school playgrounds for which the Pittsburgh Parks and Recreation Department provided a variety of activities were right across the street. We played baseball in a fenced-in area and basketball on the hard court. Tom—five years my senior—emerged as a brilliant athlete. He excelled with a sandlot baseball team managed by my father, who even let little eight-year-old Sam wear a uniform and sit on the bench. We all got our exercise even before and after the game, trekking five miles up and down a steep hill to the Caddy Grounds park.
That is where I displayed the first spark of baseball talent, bolstered by competing with and against older kids. Even though I nearly exclusively had my butt planted on the pine during games, my father allowed me to practice with the team. But one day he surprised everyone by summoning me to play center field. He figured it would give me confidence and that our six-run lead was safe enough—I could not do much damage. I not only avoided disaster, I helped preserve the advantage. I fielded a one-hop single that bounced my way and heaved a throw to home plate that nailed a runner trying to score.
This shocking display of arm strength for a kid five years younger than his teammates was a wake-up call to my dad. He began grooming me as a pitcher. His knowledge and background in engineering came in handy as he constructed my windup and delivery. He taught me how to throw a fastball and curve using lessons about the different muscle groups in my back and arm and illustrating what was required of me to maximize the effect on the ball. People have asked me how I could have developed so many pitches to a major league level before I’d ever played professionally. It was mostly because my father explained to me how my arm was supposed to move for each pitch and how the muscles worked to make the pitch work. He used the same technical knowledge to teach my brother Tom how to create a spiral on the football to maximize distance as a punter.
Neither of my parents worked to bolster my sagging self-image, though in their defense they were not aware of it or trained to do so if they had been. But they certainly put time and effort into preparing us for the future athletically, academically, and morally. My father toiled so tirelessly it is a wonder he ever slept. He worked a rotating shift of mornings, afternoons, and nights at the steel mill. He ran errands for his wife. And he still found time to share his expertise in athletics with his sons. Some parents who excel in sports—such as my dad, who not only played quarterback at Pitt but performed well as an amateur baseball player—burn out and do not pass their expertise to their offspring. My father did so willingly and enthusiastically.
Our family eventually moved to Highland Park, which was located across a great ravine known as Morningside and a bit closer to the Caddy Grounds. At age twelve my parents enrolled me in a Little League system that played its games about five miles from our new home. I again was forced to trek there and back—with six children in the family I could only hope to be lucky enough that my parents would drive me to practices and games. But they were often hauling one of my siblings somewhere.
Our Morningside team, for which I pitched and played shortstop, was a powerhouse. We captured so many championships around town that we were invited to Williamsport to compete in the Little League World Series. We featured many fine athletes—it still amazes me, having witnessed their talent firsthand through high school, that I was the only one who emerged as a professional ballplayer. Our team fell in the second round.
It is a shame as I look back at my childhood that I was incapable of feeling a sense of joy over my accomplishments for I certainly racked up many during my Little League days. One inducement aside from personal satisfaction was an offer from a pharmacy located right next to the field of a free pint of ice cream to any player who hit a home run or pitched a no-hitter. I hurled three no-hitters that year but only cashed in on two containers of that yummy treat. My father forbade me from grabbing my prize after one of those mound masterpieces. That was the time he claimed I’d made too many mistakes in the game to be deserving. I was upset over his refusal to allow me to pick up the ice cream I believed I had earned, but my dad was an extremely headstrong person. What he proclaimed could not be disputed.
Unlike many kids of the modern era who focus on one sport, those in my day played several even if they realized that they only excelled in one. I remained undiscouraged as I occupied the bench during my first season of grade-school basketball. I improved my skill level to land a starting spot the following year and found my niche on the gridiron as well, moving from wide receiver to quarterback. But by the time I entered high school it had become obvious that my greatest athletic talent was as a baseball pitcher. I would eventually become the most sought-after prospect in America, a distinction for which I was ready neither mentally nor emotionally.
Nothing I achieved positively affected my self-esteem or brought me pleasure. Never mind all the no-hitters. Never mind the praise from the media, which began to take notice of my talent. Never mind the scouts buzzing around me. It was not only that my success on the mound failed to bolster the image I had of myself. I had no image of myself. I was emotionally numb, even while pitching. I performed robotically. That was bad enough. My alcoholic personality eventually placed me in more dire circumstances. But nobody among the students at Central Catholic High School or those who followed the exploits of the baseball team, least of all me, grasped the dangers of my emotional state. They were too busy fawning over my mastery on the mound, which soon became known far beyond western Pennsylvania.
I attended the same high school as Hall of Fame quarterback Dan Marino. Pittsburgh and its surrounding area became legendary for producing premier sports standouts, including football stars Mike Ditka and Joe Namath and baseball slugger Dick Allen. During the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, over sixty professional athletes came out of the area. Pittsburgh remains a hotbed for baseball players despite their inability to play during the winter as do prospects in California and Florida. But none has ever left the area with greater notoriety than Sam McDowell.