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February 25, 2003
Rob “Soma” Collins
Yanks-Suck.Com
Jeff Stone…You Are My Hero
There have been a seldom few, whom in my eyes, I would consider to have achieved the status of being a hero. First off, “hero”, is an incredibly loaded word that far too often is attached to individuals for such a bevy of inconsequential reasons, that any merit the term previously held has been significantly diluted. This is why I put such a premium on my use of the title, “hero”. Rarely is there a time when I find myself evaluating whether or not a particular person is worthy of being considered for my hero Hall of Fame. Recently, I have wondered if this is a product of the high standards to which I measure a potential candidate, or if is it simply a result of my own inflated ego? Whatever the case may be (and it is still up to debate), the fact remains, in order for someone to become a hero, they must have some intrinsic quality that separates them from all others. Whether it be a complete abandonment of personal fears when thrust into a life or death situation, as was the case on September 11, 2001, or an ability to “rise to the occasion” when your number is called. After some serious reflection, I have come to the conclusion that my idea of a real hero is somewhat of a mixture of those two criteria. In recent history, there is nobody more fitting of being dubbed “my hero” than one, Jeff Stone.
Jeffrey Kent Stone, was born December 26, 1960, in Kennett, Montana. As a child, Jeff developed an affinity for playing baseball. His solid frame and mercurial speed allowed him to rocket toward potential stardom. Scouts were awed by Stone’s abilities as an outfielder for his high school team. So much so, in fact, that the Philadelphia Phillies drafted and signed him to play for their South Atlantic League affiliate, the Spartanburg Phillies. As a 20-year old, he stole 122 bases, breaking the previous professional record (121) for stolen bases in a season. Unfortunately, however, his record would last less than a year, as Rickey Henderson (131), Vince Coleman (145), and Donnell Nixon (144) would all go on to break it over the following two seasons. Jeff continued his torrid base stealing pace over his 4-year minor league career, all the while progressing into a reliable hitter as well.
Success seemed to come as a second nature to Jeff Stone. His baseball abilities continued to develop, and the Philadelphia decision makers at the major league level were beginning to take notice. A 22-year old Jeff Stone would finally get his first “cup of coffee” in the bigs at the end of the 1983 season. What makes the story of his first go-round with the big club all the more interesting is that the Phillies were one of the powerhouses of the National League and were fighting their cross-state rivals, the Pittsburgh Pirates, for a chance to go to the postseason. The type of pressure involved in a heated September race is enough to break a major league player, let alone a green rookie. However, as he had always done, Jeff Stone threw his hand up in the face of adversity and pressure. While his initial stay in the majors was a very brief one, lasting but 9 games, he made the most of his opportunity. Despite getting only 4 at bats, Stone responded by going 3 for 4 with 2 triples, 3 runs batted in, and 4 stolen bases. His contributions are not lost on General Manager/acting manager, Paul Owens. The following season, Stone is awarded with a far greater role, that of the fourth outfielder on a team that just had made it to the World Series. Yet again, he performed admirably batting a remarkable .362 with 27 stolen bases in 51 games.
Despite all the accolades that he received, despite all of the praise that he got from the fans, Jeff Stone was a man on an island. Not due to his attitude or his demeanor, not due to his off-the-field antics, but for a far different reason, one that was even unbeknownst to anyone in the Philadelphia organization. Jeff Stone suffered from a myriad of mental deficiencies, and in fact, bordered on being classified as clinically retarded. Possibly the pressure finally got to him, or maybe he stopped developing as a player, but following his breakout performance of 1984, Jeff Stone seemed to stagnate as a major leaguer. His numbers along with his confidence plummeted over the following 3 seasons. By now, the Phillies were well aware of Stone’s shortcomings, both mentally and physically and decided to part company with the one time prospect, dealing him to the Baltimore Orioles just before the start of the 1988 season. His stint in Baltimore produced but 61 at bats and very meager .164 average and 4 stolen bases. He then moved on to the Texas Rangers for the 1989 season, where he continued to flounder, prompting then Rangers GM, Tom Grieve to deal him, mid-season, to the Boston Red Sox. This is where our story takes an unsuspected curve.
Stone finished out the ’89 season with the Sox in the same unimpressive fashion as the past few years, and thus found himself back in the minor leagues. That brings us to the 1990 baseball season, which to any fan in the know, goes down as one of the most memorable seasons for the Red Sox in the last 15 years. All season long, the Sox were battling rival and defending divisional champion, the Toronto Blue Jays for entrance into the postseason. Little did I know, that the tickets which my parents had purchased for my cousin and I way back in March, would hold such significance come September. Knowing that my cousin and I were diehard Sox fans, my parents generously treated us to tickets for an entire weekend series against the Toronto Blue Jays, games that fell on Friday, September 28 through Sunday, September 30.
So, let us pick up the story that Friday, the opening game of the now monumental series, because the Sox find themselves tied atop the AL East at 84-72 with none other than the visiting Blue Jays. The series would essentially decide who would win the division and advance to the ALCS. The match up featured two of the premiere hurlers in the AL that season, Mike Boddicker for the Sox, and Dave Stieb, fresh off his first career no-hitter, for the Jays. The Blue Jays, to the disgust of the Fenway Faithful, carried a 2-run lead into the 9th inning. Toronto manager, Cito Gaston, summoned his all-star closer, Tom Henke, out to finish off the game and vault the Jays back into sole possession of first place. However, my friends, there was a chill in the air that night, almost as if the baseball gods were breathing down on the Fens. For this was to be a magical night, one that Boston had not seen in some time, and would not see for some time more.
The crowd cheered in disbelief as the Sox manage to push a run across against the normally unflappable closer, but it was apparent that this team would not be denied and would not be satisfied going into extra frames. The Sox pressed on and managed to load the bases with 1 out in a 6-6 game. Manager, Joe Morgan, in an attempt to get a run home in the 8th had essentially emptied his bench, which meant that 8th inning pinch runner, Jeff Stone, a September call-up with just one previous at bat that season, incidentally a strikeout, would have to walk up to the plate with the game on the line. So, in one of the more unbelievable twists of fate, and in only the way the baseball gods can script it, Jeff Stone was about to become an immortal in Boston lore. There we are, our hearts pounding, an unknown Jeff Stone with the weight of Boston resting on his bat. Time-out. Cito Gaston emerges from the dugout, and signals to centerfielder, Junior Felix, to play very shallow in an attempt to throw a tagging runner out at the plate. Time-in. Henke delivers a fastball that Stone swings right through. His second offering is another heater that sails up high, to bring the count to 1 and 1. It was clear that Henke was not going to fool around; he was dealing only his money pitch, the fastball. So on the 1-1 count, Henke mails another smoker in toward Stone, unfortunately for Henke, it got a wee bit too much of the plate. Jeff Stone, in what turned out to be his last major league at bat, slammed the pitch way over the drawn-in Junior Felix, who just turned and watched it bounce 20 feet before the warning track. Ellis Burks scampered home with the winning run pushing the Sox up a game on the Jays, a lead they would not relinquish in the final five days of the season.
From that moment on, Jeff Stone has been forever cemented into my psyche. Years later, I tried to follow up on what ever became of him, but never found anything of note…well until I had the displeasure of reading a Dan Shaugnessey article that was brought to my attention by a fellow Sox fan. In his article, which dated back to around 1990, CHB took vicious shots at the mental capacities of Stone. He cited some of the things that Stone had said and done over the course of that season and maliciously poked fun at them. To this day, CHB continues to tastelessly reference Jeff Stone when trying to point out someone’s lack of judgment. As if this were not enough, further adding intrigue to the Jeff Stone story was this bit of information that came over the wires in January 2002. It turns out that Stone was brutally stabbed 4 times by his then wife and was in critical condition from the attack. His wife was later charged with first-degree assault.
So as you can see Jeff Stone is officially a hero in my eyes. When one considers the difficulties that he had to overcome in order to make it, it leaves you speechless. A man who was not blessed with what would be considered “average” intelligence picked himself up and made himself a success, albeit a minor success. It could not have been easy to navigate through life with so many ignorant people trying to tear him down (see CHB). While Jeff Stone may have not been the greatest player the world has ever seen, he has to be considered one of the most courageous and awe inspiring. While some would see his lack of mental ability as a hindrance and worthy of being hidden away, I see it as something that made Jeff Stone the man and player that he was and still is. Nothing better captures the boyish innocence with which he played the game of baseball than his following quote, when asked at an upscale Boston restaurant whether or not he cared for a shrimp cocktail, “No thanks. I don't drink.” I hope my words opened some eyes to the story of this obscure Boston legend.
Email Somarob.
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