CINCINNATI -- The freak, early-morning
snowstorms and low temperatures
Monday had melted away by the time the anthems were sung, and a glistening
ray
of sunshine had managed to penetrate the gloom and bathed those on
the field
in a soft warm glow.
Those present had tasted the thrill
of having former Manager Sparky
Anderson back in Riverfront for the first time in 17 years, the spectacle
of a
parade on Opening Day in Cincinnati, and the simple joy of having baseball
back again.
John McSherry must've loved it.
Last season, the 25-year National League
veteran missed out on Opening
Day, locked out and walking the picket lines outside stadiums instead
of
walking the baselines within.
So, just the idea of working on Opening
Day must've made the still
slightly-overcast sky seem as blue as he'd ever seen it, the worn-out
green
turf and even that weird purplish pitching mound out at Riverfront
Stadium as
inviting and vibrant as any field he'd ever seen.
He watched the parade of horses, children,
elephants and canines round
the field and head out. Saw the stands gradually fill up with smiling
fans
perhaps finally ready to forgive and forget for all the strike business
of the
last year or so.
At that point, at the center of all
this activity, McSherry must've felt
totally alive.
The homeplate umpire and crew chief
pulled on his mask and made a few
jokes with Reds catcher Eddie Taubensee.
``Eddie, you call the first two innings,''
he told Taubensee.
``Hey, all right, let's go!" Taubensee
replied.
Taubensee settled into position. Reds
starter Pete Schourek went through
the windup and delivered his first pitch to Expo leadoff batter Mark
Grudzielanek. And on the first pitch of 1996, McSherry, 51, as he'd
done so
many thousands of times before, called a ball.
After Grudzielanek hit the next offering
to Reds right fielder Reggie
Sanders, Expo second baseman Mike Lansing went down fishing, striking
out on
three straight pitches.
Maybe by then McSherry was aware something
was wrong. Perhaps that
tickle in his chest he'd figured was just nerves hadn't gone away like
it
normally did after a couple batters.
But if he were alarmed, he didn't show
it, remaining in place as Rondell
White stepped in and looked at strike one.
Taubensee threw the ball back, Schourek
looked in, wound up and
delivered his seventh pitch of the season.
McSherry made no call. Instead, he raised
his right hand, silently
calling a timeout and motioning for second base ump Steve Rippley to
come to
the plate.
``John, you all right?" Taubensee asked
over his shoulder as the umpire
began awkwardly walking off the field.
McSherry didn't answer.
He'd had health problems before. More
than once, he had to leave games.
But those all came on hot days, when being a 320-plus-pound man under
numerous
layers of protective gear was even more uncomfortable than it usually
was.
And he knew he had heart arrythmia.
Had even put off plans to have it
checked out until today, originally scheduled as an off-day.
No way was he gonna miss Opening Day.
Maybe all he needed was to get off-field.
Sit down. Relax a moment or
two. That's all. Then come back on the field and finish up for the
day.
He never made it. Five feet from the
doors that led up to the umpires'
locker room, his left leg started to wobble. Then his right. He started
to
pull his mask off, his face an ugly shade of blue.
Five minutes after the game started,
and just seven pitches into 1996,
John McSherry crashed to the turf of Riverfront Stadium.
They say he died just about 50 minutes
later, at University Hospital in
Cincinnati.
But those who saw the man collapse know
he died right then.
Suddenly.
Perhaps before he knew what hit him.
It's a sad fact people just run out
of time and, on this chilly April
day in Cincinnati, time ran out on McSherry.
McSherry, a man who had dedicated his
life to the sport he loved, had
just enough time left for one more Opening Day.