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Jim Abbott became one of U-M's best and most beloved athletes, despite playing with only one hand.
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Sports
Lucky man
Jim Abbott was born without fingers on his right hand. But that didn't stop him from becoming one of the most admired athletes in U-M history.
April 14, 2009
Abbott found an unconventional way to deliver pitches. Click images for larger versions.
On April 18th, the Michigan baseball team will retire Jim Abbott's uniform, number 31. It is only the fifth jersey the team has retired in its 143-year history, and the only player honored solely for playing. The other four—Ray L. Fisher, Don Lund, Moby Benedict and Bill Freehan—all coached the team.
It is a remarkable tribute, especially given the list of Michigan greats Abbott has preceded, like Hall of Famer George Sisler and Barry Larkin, who might join Sisler soon.
Did you remember watching Abbott play? Tell your story here.
More remarkable, Jim Abbott was born without fingers on his right hand, but it never stopped him from fulfilling his dreams—dreams far out of the reach of all but a few people. His unique situation has, however, helped him help others in a way few others can.
Earning respect
Abbott was always bigger, stronger and more coordinated than the other kids, so sports came easily to him. Respect usually did, too—but not always.
When Abbott was still in grade school, one opposing coach ordered his batter to bunt, forcing Abbott to field the ball. Abbott pitched with his glove resting on his right hand. After he released the ball, he slipped his left hand into the glove, fielded the ball, then performed a nifty maneuver where he'd stick the glove under his right arm, let the ball fall into his left hand, and throw it to first base.
"I don't ever remember it being something I had to master," he says. "It was just something I did." He made the play as smoothly as a magician pulling a nickel out of your ear. One down.
Thinking it was a fluke, the coach ordered the next batter to bunt—and the next. Finally, after six batters had bunted, and Abbott threw all six out and the coach called off the experiment—making the coach the only embarrassed person in the park.
When Jim Abbott was a junior at Flint Central, former Michigan catcher Ted Mahan showed Abbott Michigan's campus, the ballpark, even the football stadium—but it wasn't necessary, because Mahan had already taken Abbott to Pizza Bob's on State Street.
"I had a torpedo sandwich and a chocolate chip mint shake," Abbott recalls, a quarter century later. "That's all it took. I was sold."
But Michigan wasn't yet sold on him. Most college coaches weren't convinced a one-handed pitcher could field the position at that level.
"In recruiting, I didn't do any favors," said Bud Middaugh, then coach at Michigan. "We were too competitive for that."
After Abbott arrived on campus in 1985, Middaugh's caution seemed justified. Abbott was homesick, worn out and overwhelmed. After a number of fruitless appearances, Middaugh called on Abbott to come on in relief against North Carolina, a perennial powerhouse.
Tie game, two outs, man on third. After Abbott's first pitch, his catcher tossed the ball back to him—and all hell broke loose. The Tar Heels' third base coach started yelling at his runner to steal home, thinking Abbott couldn't possibly get the ball out of his glove and back to the catcher fast enough. To the coach's surprise, Abbott made the transaction with time to spare, leaving the catcher with an easy tag to get out of the inning. When the Wolverines scored in their next at bat, Abbott got his first college win—for throwing a single pitch.
That minor triumph seemed to be all Abbott needed to regain his confidence. Abbott completed his career at Michigan in 1988 with a 26-8 mark, a 3.03 ERA, and an average of seven strike-outs per game. He cleaned up the hardware when he was named Big Ten player of the year, Big Ten male athlete of the year, the nation's best amateur baseball player and won the Sullivan Award, given to the nation's top amateur athlete, beating out such Olympic stars as David Robinson, Karch Kiraly and Janet Evans.
"I just hoped he'd be a competent college pitcher," Middaugh admitted. "He turned out far better than I imagined."
The big leagues
Abbott followed that up by winning the gold medal game at the 1988 Olympics over heavily favored Japan, and getting drafted in the first round by the California Angels. Everyone expected Abbott to start in the minors—including him. After all, only 15 players the previous quarter century had skipped the minors.
When the Angels made Abbott the sixteenth, some critics accused them of pulling a publicity stunt. Abbott vindicated his club by compiling a 22-26 record his first two seasons, and removed any doubt in his third, 1991, with a 2.89 ERA, an 18-11 record and a third-place finish for the year's best pitcher.
Before that breakthrough year, Abbott's baseball cards hid his hands behind his back or in his glove. It was only after Abbott established himself as a bona fide major league pitcher that the card companies showed him running the bases or pitching with his glove resting on his right hand.
"I'm glad for that, I'm proud of that," he says. "I want to be remembered not for having to overcome anything, but for making the most of what God gave me. If there wasn't some ability, and with that, some accountability, I'd probably just be remembered solely as the guy who pitched in the majors with no right hand."
The bush leagues
Abbott enjoyed a solid ten-year run in the majors, highlighted by his no-hitter for the Yankees in 1993. The low point is just as easy to identify: 1996, when he lost 15 of 16 decisions, including 11 straight. And that's how Abbott found himself warming up in a bullpen in Scottsdale, Arizona, preparing to make his minor league debut at age 28, when most pitchers have retired.
"People are always saying, 'Well, you've overcome adversity before,'" he told me at the time. "But this is the first time I've had to make a deep examination of myself. When you're young, your natural ability carries you through. You can say, 'I'm just going to rear back and whip this one past you,' but it's not a very deep examination. You just do it.
"This is harder."
Struggling was new to Abbott, but throngs of fans seeking him out was not. No matter how small or out-of-the way the ballpark, no matter the score or how late the game ended, dozens of kids would find him, many handicapped in one way or another.
One of the youngsters, a kid named J.D. Cole, had a face Norman Rockwell painted a hundred times, and two fingers on his right hand. He was six-years-old, born two years after Abbott pitched his first game in the majors.
J.D.'s mother smiled bravely when she told the famous pitcher what an inspiration he'd been for her son, but before she completed her sentence her eyes betrayed her, glistening with tears.
Abbott asked J.D., "What position do you play?"
"All of them!" J.D. said.
"And there's nothing you can't do, right?"
"Right!" J.D. said.
"Well, you keep it up," Abbott said, and passed J.D.'s baseball card back to him. The two said good-bye, then shared a left-handed hand-shake.
When J.D. walked away from Abbott, he gazed down at his card. His glowing smile gave away his secret: something inside him had changed. Anything was possible. He'd seen it for himself.
Abbot is certainly among Michigan's very best ballplayers, but it's hard to say if he was the absolute best.
Just the greatest.
is Michigan Today's sports columnist. He coauthored Bo's Lasting Lessons with the late Coach Schembechler. He also teaches at U-M, where he won the 2009 Golden Apple Award for outstanding teaching. His website is www.johnubacon.com.