Wakefield is like a Boston sports time capsule. When he was plucked off the scrap heap by then-general manager Dan Duquette on April 26, 1995, Cam Neely was still playing for the Bruins, Curtis Martin, voted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame this month, had been drafted by the Patriots days earlier, Dominique Wilkins was the Celtics’ leading scorer, and TD Garden was five months away from opening.
His longevity achieved by throwing a pitch so capricious and fickle is a testament to his resiliency and fortitude. No Red Sox pitcher has recorded more double-digit-win seasons than Wakefield’s 11. Roger Clemens had 10. No Sox pitcher tossed more innings (3,006) or made more starts (430). Only the Rocket struck out more batters.
Wakefield so endeared himself to the Fenway Faithful that not even serving up the second-most-painful home run in Red Sox history could sully his career. Wakefield surrendered the stake-in-heart homer to Aaron Boone of the Yankees that decided Game 7 of the 2003 American League Championship Series. But no one turned Wakefield into a Buckner-esque figure of scorn, instead all the blame went to manager Grady Little for letting Pedro Martinez wither on the vine.
Yes, sometimes watching Wakefield pitch was like getting a root canal without anesthesia, but if it was that tough to watch, imagine what it was like to be the one on the mound. People always got it wrong, the knuckler didn’t make Wakefield’s career easier. It made it harder. Throwing the knuckleball for a living should enhance Wakefield’s legacy, not diminish it.
The converted first baseman pitched his entire career with a chip on his shoulder because of his signature pitch, his successes attributed to the flukes of a fluttering ball and his failures presented as condemning evidence of why a knuckleball pitcher couldn’t be relied upon.
But even knuckleballers run out of gas eventually.
