21
If a new year is supposed to inspire resolutions, a new millennium should motivate major declarations. And I made one when the calendar turned not just to another century but to the year 2000 (though it has been suggested that the millennium actually began in 2001). I had decided to stop smoking.
Granted, I got scared into it more than anything else. I learned for the first time during a visit to my cardiologist late one morning that I had a heart problem. It was suggested quite strongly that I stop puffing down cigarettes, a habit I started at age sixteen and that once peaked at three-and-a-half packs a day. The doctor did not indicate that smoking had damaged my heart or even contributed to the problem but emphasized that it could slow and even negate all efforts to return it to health.
My issue was atrial fibrillation, a rapid and irregular heartbeat. Doctors attempted everything from shocking my heart directly to working their way through the arteries in my leg to the heart to determine the possible benefits of cardiac ablation, a procedure that scars tissue in the heart to block abnormal electrical signals and restore a healthy rhythm. I was left with a therapeutic plan of medication and constant monitoring. The doctor determined that even a pacemaker or heart stimulator would not produce the desired results.
My recovery from alcoholism had apparently not rid me of an inclination to deny all personal problems. When it came to smoking cigarettes, I sought information that refuted claims that my habit endangered any opportunity to strengthen my heart. I was an addict and I continued to justify my desire to smoke.
But I was not the same person who years earlier would have clenched his teeth and refused to change. Not only had I matured as a man, I boasted a powerful ally. Her name was Eva. I sat down with my wife after pondering my health for a few days and discussed with her the possibility of quitting. I understood that nicotine was a very seductive chemical and that kicking the habit would be tough. I wanted us to do it together—she was a smoker as well. I figured we could give each other the strength to rid ourselves of our nasty craving. So we began to look into a variety of programs, products, and plans. We were initially discouraged. I saw virtually nothing but ineffective money makers.
Then one morning in dawned on me. The epiphany arrived as I shaved and it caused me to laugh. Eva looked at me like I had six heads. So I told her that the answer to my smoking problem was internal, not external. I needed no plan. I had myself. The man who had learned to beat the demon alcoholism could use the same strategy to defeat cigarette addiction.
Soon I was working with Eva to prepare for the games we needed to play to win the battle. I knew that my body would demand the feelings I got from nicotine such as energy, stimulation, relaxation, alertness, and a satisfaction similar to that of making love to my wife. No exaggeration. After four decades of smoking, I was really hooked.
I had to quit cold turkey but not immediately. I needed five days to wean off. So I continued to smoke for five days, but on each of them I would cut the cigarettes with a scissors to draw in less. My last day in the process was a Friday. At around 11:15 p.m. Eva asked me if I was coming to bed. I said no. I had forty-five minutes left to smoke and I was going to use every second. I almost did. I put the last one out at 11:55. That is how addicts act.
As the sinister demands of our bodies and minds reared their ugly heads and seemed overwhelming, we would discuss our feelings. I would explain to Eva based on my experiences in recovery what was happening and how we needed to defend against it to continue with our daily and nightly activities. Once we took the time to think about and understand the effect quitting was having on our bodies and minds, we could handle the situation. We gave each other support and beat it. Neither of us has puffed on a cigarette for twenty-one years. We still experienced urges. But with each passing day they dissipated a bit more. And since we understood that the demands of nicotine addiction can be evil and what forms they could take, we could more easily defeat them.
I have been asked what the learned, experienced Sam would tell Sam the child if time travel allowed him to return to the old homestead in Pittsburgh sixty or seventy years ago. The answer is easy. I would not say anything specifically. I would work to improve his self-esteem because that was the core problem that played a devastating role in his addiction. I believe the educational system in America has since let its children down regarding strengthening self-image. There was an emphasis on building self-esteem in our classrooms in the 1960s and 1970s that was left behind in the decades to follow as irrelevant to curriculum. Yet research clearly shows that one of the greatest tools to prevent poor behavior and issues in adulthood, including addiction and abuse, is boosting self-image during youth.
Yet despite the fog I lived in as a kid and young adult, as well as my narcissism and other negative personality traits, all of which resulted in my addiction and an inability to maximize my potential as a person and pitcher, I never look back in regret. Never. I do not agonize. This shocks some people who know about the talent I possessed, the results of my career, and what could have been. Indeed it has been claimed that I could have been another Sandy Koufax. But negative reminiscing is a reflection for fools. One must always try to look ahead with a positive mindset. It is a truism that we cannot change the past, we can only learn from it. That is what I have tried to do. I have used my experiences to help others and plan to continue in those endeavors despite having retired from counseling. That is the motivation for this autobiography.
In the meantime I enjoy my hobbies, some of which helped me through the darkest days and continue to provide peace of mind and a sense of accomplishment. Among the most important is painting. I enjoyed drawing pictures when I was six to ten years old and that passion has continued throughout my life. My medium is acrylics. After signing my first baseball contract, I took a three-year correspondence course with the Famous Artists School. My love for painting has remained with me ever since.
I recall the Sports Illustrated article that featured me in 1970 and listed my hobbies, including painting, collecting guns, constructing model boats inside bottles, selling organic cosmetics, training German shepherds, as well as running a family pool hall. Critics claimed that the variety of activities, all of which had nothing to do with baseball, indicated that I was a man without direction. But writer Pat Jordan observed that several of those pursuits could be worked at in solitude and isolation, away from the judgmental eyes of others.
He was right. And the cynics were wrong. My motivation for embarking on a variety of diversions was based on interests in those pastimes and a desire I had that my entire existence be well rounded. Baseball had never been my driving force, my primary focus in life. Later in my career and for several years after I could not concentrate on anything through my alcoholic haze. But the deep desire to expand my horizons, to quench my thirst for knowledge, to learn and grow, never left me. The difference after my recovery was that a clear mind and a healthier body allowed me to pursue and achieve those goals.
During my career many people did not understand. They grew more critical as I aged and it became apparent to them that I would never maximize my pitching potential. They could not fathom in that era, nor could they have known, that personal problems and not my hobbies were holding me back. I annoyed fans and folks inside the game who believed I treated those diversions with the same reverence as I did my pitching. What they did not realize was that I put my heart and soul into one and all. I worked hard at my craft. Why else would I have been so angry at those who handcuffed me and prevented me from learning the science of pitching?
But I was not about to quit all my other interests to focus solely on baseball. When one lives for challenges, as I did, he can place all his energy in each one individually. My varied positive diversions did not weaken my concentration and effort on the mound. At one point I even took up photography and rather than sending my shots away I developed them myself. It was all part and parcel of my escapism. I could float on any cloud of whatever I was doing and for that period of time not be forced to deal with the real world. Anyway, the last thing I needed in 1970 was more time to drink.
It was sobriety that turned my life around and allowed me to re-engage in all my passions, including those that were handed down. Among them was home improvement, a hobby I picked up from my father. I do not boast the skill to construct at the level of my father but I do enjoy renovation and restoration. I am proud to have helped build our residence in Monroeville and am still capable of fixing things that break around our Florida home, just like my dad would have done. I appreciated my father and tried to embrace the same motivations. I always have. When I was a kid and given the rare opportunity to spend a little money, I often purchased model planes, boats, or cars. They were comparatively simple, plastic models. And though I could not enjoy my hobbies as other kids did because my alcoholic personality prevented me from experiencing genuine joy, I did receive a sense of satisfaction putting those models together.
Later in life, the fun was in building my ships in bottles. Upon finishing my work I would give or throw them away, though a few years ago I was offered $1,000 for one of my ships. I then began buying a semi-kit for $400, spending several months constructing it, then selling it. It has worked out well but I do not receive what my time and effort are worth. I am driven by self-satisfaction. The money is of no consequence. I’ve built probably seven or eight USS Constitution s of all sizes. A friend offered me $4,000 for one of them but I could not take his money. I gave it to him, and he had been building ships himself for many years. I also showed him how to wire ships using LED micro lights and transistors and transformers so that if you cut the power, the LEDs flicker as the candlelight did back in the days of those old ships. Pretty cool.
My motivation is not only relaxation or calmness. I also seek to gain knowledge, pride, and pleasure. I still purchase and soak in educational programs. Among these is a virtual workshop on new research and data about addiction and recovery. I also read about budding therapeutic approaches. Some of them are worthless. They simply patronize the addicted to make money. But I do like to keep up even though I am retired from counseling.
That retirement brought Eva and me to the Villages of Hadley in 2013. I had always been impressed by the cleanliness and beauty of this large Florida community so we moved in. Its medical facilities are important as well—heck, I am now seventy-eight years old. And though I rarely look back on my baseball career, I need no reminders from myself. The folks here remember my playing days quite well and regale me with their own baseball stories at a supermarket or restaurant. Some of them know more about the modern game than I do.
And that is fine because I am happy, an emotion foreign to me most of my life. I feel a strong sense of self-esteem, achievement, contentment. My recovery has allowed me to give of myself to colleagues and family. I can be a good friend, a good father, a good husband. I am unaffected by the past horrors in my personal and professional lives, yet use what I learned from them to help others.
I am thankful for those who have loved and cared about me. They supported me through my darkest days. Life is a journey, and mine at one time was stormier than most. But now I sail in peaceful waters. It feels wonderful.