The letters come from Saratoga, Calif., from Fairfax, Va., from Monmouth Beach, N.J., written by determined mothers, desperate fathers and sometimes the children themselves. The content can be remarkably similar. A boy is born without the use of one hand. A doctor suggests that he try soccer, but the boy is interested only in baseball.
And before anyone can change his mind, he finds out that somebody played major league baseball despite having one hand, accomplishing more in the majors than most of his peers did with two. The boy is introduced to the legend of
Of course, none of them were alive 20 years ago, when Abbott went the distance for Team USA to win the gold medal game at the Seoul Olympics. None of them were alive 15 years ago, when he threw a no-hitter for the New York Yankees. And none of them were watching nine years ago, when he tossed his last pitch, for the Milwaukee Brewers. Abbott wonders why, now that he's 40 and long retired from baseball, boys and girls keep writing him letters. Perhaps it's because they know he writes back.
Officially, Abbott is a motivational speaker, hired by corporations such as Prudential, Exxon and Wells Fargo to tell his story. Unofficially, he is the repository for everybody else's story. Abbott receives approximately 20 e-mails or letters a month, all of them heart-wrenching, many of them about children who are missing a hand, or part of a hand, or feeling in a hand. He responds to each one personally.
"To Blaise," reads the note to Blaise Venancio. "I just wanted to wish you the very best of luck with baseball this year. Hopefully you are having a great time playing. I know it is sometimes hard to do things a little differently from other kids. But believe me, if you stick with it, you can be just as good. Always believe. Anything is possible."
Blaise, from Monmouth Beach, N.J., is a natural left-hander who was born with Poland's Syndrome, which cost him the use of his right hand. When he started playing baseball, he wanted to wear a glove on his right hand, like all the other southpaws. His father, Matt, tried five different mitts, bathing them in oil to soften the leather, but Blaise couldn't close any of them. Finally in March, Matt showed Blaise the video of another lefty with a similar problem. Blaise decided then to copy the man in the video.
In May, wearing his glove on his left hand, Blaise ran in from center field to cover second base, making a backhanded pick-up of an in-between-hop throw. When asked how he did it, Blaise said, "Jim Abbott. He's my friend."
Abbott lives on a cul-de-sac in Corona del Mar, Calif., within walking distance of the beach. He spends his summers in Northern Michigan, at a house in the woods on a lake. He and his wife,
Abbott started meeting them shortly after he joined the California Angels in 1989, after an All-America career at Michigan. Sitting in the clubhouse, he would feel a tap on his shoulder, from a coach or a clubby. He knew what the tap meant: There was an aspiring baseball player outside who wanted to meet him. "They would always have their gloves with them," Abbott says. "I'd ask them to show me how they switched their glove, and they would do it real fast. And then I'd show them how I did it. And we'd do it together."
It's not just kids who draw strength from Abbott's story. On May 29, Abbott delivered a speech at the Ritz-Carlton on Lake Las Vegas for a corporation called Investors Capital. After Abbott's talk ended with a standing ovation, he walked into the lobby and was greeted by 36-year-old
Schenk and Abbott sat in the lobby of the Ritz for more than an hour, two guys talking baseball. Schenk recited all of Abbott's big league statistics -- an 87--108 record, 888 career strikeouts and a 4.25 earned run average. "You know," Schenk told him, "it wasn't a very good record." Abbott nodded knowingly.
After he retired in 1999 Abbott got a call from
Still, "I don't want to talk about my playing days forever," he says. "You can't live in the past. You have to find the next phase, the next passion. Tell me: Where do I go from here?"
The answer lies in all those letters. They come from 13-year-olds like
Abbott does not like to be portrayed as an ambassador, but that will be his next job description.
Romano knows policy, but Abbott knows people. He knows so many, in fact, that it is impossible for him to remember all their names and faces. So when he thinks of them all, he often thinks of just one.
"His name is