Jeff Pearlman - The Last Folk Hero: The Life and Myth of Bo Jackson

To Joan Pearlman, my mother and hero.

When I was a kid, Mom worked as a probation officer.

Every man in her office carried a gun.

She was tough enough not to.

Paul Bunyan, (you have heard of Paul?)

He was the king pin of em all,

The greatest logger in the land;

He had a punch in either hand

And licked more men and drove more miles

And got more drunk in more new styles

Than any other peavey prince

Before, or then, or ever since.

T HE R OUND R IVER D RIVE

BY D OUGLAS M ALLOCH AND J AMES M AC G ILLIVRAY

A PRIL 25, 1914

Contents

The other day I was walking through the airport in Atlanta, working my way past security and toward the gate, when a TSA agent pulled me aside and asked, pointedly, Whats in your suitcase?

My L.L.Bean roller had just cruised through the X-ray machine, and now Carlton required an explanation as to the large rectangular blemish appearing on the screen before him.

Oh, I said. That.

Yeah, he replied. That.

Its a brick, I said.

Carltons face suggested disbelief.

A what? he snapped.

A brick, I said. Likeyou know. A brick.

Carlton didnt like bricks.

Sir, he said, you cant travel with a brick in your carry-on.

Really? I replied.

Really, he said. Theres really no good reason for bringing a brick on a plane.

Thats when I stopped him and explained I had the best reason in world history for bringing a brick on a plane.

OK, Carlton said. Tell me.

I cleared my throat.

Do you know who Bo Jackson is? I asked.

He looked at me as one stares down a moron.

Right, I said. Well, Im writing a biography of Bo Jackson. A definitive biography. Ive been working on it for well over a year. And yesterday I was at his childhood home in Bessemer, Alabama. Middle of nowhere. And he lived on this abandoned street, on this now-abandoned lot. And his childhood home is totally gone. Not there. But I was standing in the spot where he grew up, and beneath the leaves and the sticks and a whole lot of garbage were a few bricks from the houses foundation. So I took one, because its Bo Jacksons house, and Im obsessed with Bo Jacksons life. So why wouldnt I take a brick home with me?

Charged by two trenta cold brews, I kept going. And going. And going. About Auburn and Kansas City; about Los Angeles and Chicago and Anaheim. About scaling an outfield wall and breaking a bat atop his head and running over a mohawked, steroid-stuffed Seahawks linebacker. About boar hunting and hip replacements and a long-ago television show called Ben Casey.

A few days earlier Id attended services at the all-Black, side-of-the-road Mount Zion Baptist Church (which Bo attended as a boy), and the spirit of Pastor Dwight Millers sermon had moved me.

Praise Bo!

At long last I stopped, and Carlton called over a supervisor. Hey, Melissa, he said. This gentleman is writing Bo Jacksons biography. And hes trying to fly home with a brick from the guys childhood house.

Melissa picked up the brick. Smoothed it over with her hands. I smiled and nodded.

A brick? she said.

Yeah, Carlton replied.

Pause.

Hmm, she said. We dont get many bricks in suitcases. But Bo Jacksonthats a pretty big deal.

Melissa smiled.

Go on through, she said. Fly with Bo Jacksons brick.

J EFF P EARLMAN

A UGUST 15, 2021

On the night of September 15, 1991, the sixty-five members of the Chicago White Sox traveling party knew they were about to die.

This is neither exaggeration nor hyperbole.

No.

This is an airplane that seemed all but destined to crash.

Earlier that day, the White Sox wrapped a four-game series at the California Angels with a 92 victory. The players and coaches immediately retreated to the visitors clubhouse at Anaheim Stadium, where they showered, changed and bolted to nearby Ontario International Airport. They then walked toward the jetway and climbed up the steps onto the teams chartered Boeing 737-300, operated by America West Airlines.

As the pilots prepared for the three-and-a-half-hour flight to the Windy City, the players, coaches, and executives found their familiar spots. Carlton Fisk, the gruff veteran catcher, plopped down in the back row alongside Matt Merullo, his young understudy. Ozzie Guillen, the loquacious shortstop, found a seat a few rows up from Dan Pasqua, the slugger and regular midflight poker afficionado. Lance Johnson and Warren Newson, a couple of young outfielders, sat side by side.

For the first two and a half hours of travel, all was calm. The flight attendants offered drinks and food. Playing cards were dealt among teammates. Frank Thomas, the burly first baseman, listened to music on his Walkman. Robin Ventura, the young third baseman, started to

BOOM!

Everyone remembers the sounda loud, unsettling explosive reverberation that caused the aircrafts 126 seats to shake. Then Craig Grebeck, the utility infielder, pulled up the shade on his window, looked out toward the engine and spotted the flames. A huge flash, he recalled. Gobbling everything up.

Grebeck turned toward Tim Raines, the speedy outfielder. Rock, he said, the fucking engines on fire.

What? Raines said, before craning his neck to gaze outside. Oh, shit! Raines screamed. Ohhhhh, shiiiiiiit!

Pasqua dashed toward the window, saw the inferno, rushed back to his seat and buckled it as tight as possible. Donn Pall, a relief pitcher, pressed-pressed-pressed-pressed-pressed the flight attendant call button until someone arrived. Look out the window! Pall screamed.

Holy shit! the flight attendant said, then yanked down the blind.

Thomasthe 6-foot-5, 240-pound mountain of a mancollected every pillow he could find and cocooned himself in a preposterous nest of cotton and fleece. Scott Radinsky, relief pitcher, screamed (Almost Famouslike), Were going down boys! Were... allllll.... gonnnnnna... diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie. Barry Foote and Dave LaRoche, coaches and long-ago Yankee teammates, sat in silence and listened as a player two rows back called a friend to tell him the whereabouts of a hidden bank account. Others used the seat-back phones to reach out to family members.

Mom, I love you...

Dad, I love you...

Honey, I love you...

The plane banked hard left, the flames crawling up the metal, lighting up the crafts innards in a terrifying orange-red glow. Screams. Tears. Religious medallions rubbed between index fingers and thumbs.

And thenit happened.

The cockpit door swung open, and out stepped Bo Jackson.

Three decades later, many of the White Sox players can still see it. The worlds greatest athletethe two-sport phenom; the Bo Knows embodiment; the man who loved picking the brains of the pilotsmarching down the aisle, aware of the danger but shrugging it off, urging his teammates to buckle up. It was John Wayne. It was Clint Eastwood. It was Harrison Ford. It was...

Dont worry, everyone! Jackson commanded in his deep baritone. The crew knows exactly what its doing. Well be fine.

Jackson strutted from man to man before taking a seat. When the pilots somehow touched down at Des Moines International Airport, placing the jet between dozens of emergency vehicles, the members of the White Sox burst out in applause. Joey Cora, a young second baseman, turned his head to look at Bo Jackson.

That, he thought, is a hero.

There is a second version to this storyone also verified by multiple members of the Chicago White Sox.

The engine is on fire.

The passengers are terrified.

No one is moving.

Prayers are being said aloud.

The plane banks hard to the left.

And then...

I can tell you exactly what happened, said Merullo, the reserve catcher. He was twenty-six at the time, a struggling-to-stick once-upon-a-heyday prospect out of Winchester, Massachusetts. Merullo was sitting on the Boeing 737 alongside Fisk, bracing for impact and taking notes with his eyes.