Boston Legends Officially Retires #34

Arlington, Texas, late July 1999

Jimy Williams winced as Greer coasted into second base with a stand up, bases-clearing double, bringing the go-ahead run to the plate. It looked like Wasdin wasn't going to get an out this inning. Williams glanced at the scoreboard in center field and saw the temperature through the Sunday afternoon haze: 103 degrees. He steeled himself for the move he knew he had to make. As the donut from Juan Gonzalez's bat met the earthen on-deck circle with a resounding thud, Williams dragged his creaky joints up the dugout steps. He held up a wrinkled finger in the direction of the bullpen, and legendary reliever Rich Garces squeezed his 5'10, 275 pound frame through the door in the outfield fence to initiate what the television advertisers had been looking forward to: the 12-minute pitching change as he ambled towards the mound in the Texas heat.

The veteran manager knew the risks of going to El Guapo in this situation; a one-run game on the road was hardly the place for the fan favorite whose prowess dropped precipitously when taken away from the raucous Fenway crowds. Williams and Kerrigan knew the numbers all too well, opponents were hitting more than 50 points higher against Garces on the road. The coaches, however, were not thinking about the situation from a sabermetrician's point of view, but as concerned friends. It couldn't be healthy for a man of his enormity to be exerting himself in this heat, and their minds went back to the four bacon double cheeseburgers and supersize fries they had seen him polish off in the clubhouse immediately before the game. Unfortunately, the 13-inning marathon in last night's humidity had sapped the bullpen's strength, and Jimy was out of options.

As Garces squinted through the sweat dripping down from his forehead, he let out a wheezing, labored sigh. He had been hoping he could escape this series without an appearance like he usually did on these short road trips. The rotund righty delivered his final warmup pitch: a two-seamer that slipped out of his sweaty hand and nearly tailed into the slugger making his way to the plate. The umpire shot him a warning glance as he walked up to dust off home plate. Garces shrugged, wiped his palm on his pant leg and reached for the chalk bag.

El Guapo stood behind the mound, tucked his glove in his armpit, and took off his cap to wipe his forehead. The sweaty jersey sleeve he dragged across his face felt like it had recently been fished out of a swimming pool. He said his customary silent prayer, accepted the ball from Varitek, and toed the rubber.

Two outs later, the two coaches exchanged a knowing look as the big man missed up and away on a 3-0 count. None of them had even been close. It looked like the nine pitches it took to get Gonzalez and Palmeiro were all they could ask of the legend who now crouched on the infield grass, struggling to regain his breath.

Jimy Williams lumbered up the dugout steps and raised his wrinkled finger one more time, hoping Wake could find a way to get the last seven outs.