Up, Up, and Away: The Kid, the Hawk, Rock, Vladi, Pedro, le Grand Orange, Youppi!, the Crazy Business of Baseball, and the Ill-fated but Unforgettable Montreal Expos by Jonah Keri Page A
Authors: Jonah Keri
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Montreal. He hit .274 with 10 home runs and played solid defence, holding his own as a 21-year-old rookie. Parrish was another player often remembered as much for his personality as his numbers: when the Expos eventually grew into contenders, many cited Parrish’s intangibles—his ability and willingness to play hurt, his leadership—as key factors.
“When Parrish had his best year, he was playing with a wrist that he could barely move,” said long-time Expos trainer Ron McClain. “Finally, the doctor had to put it in a cast. That was the only way to stop him from playing.”
Not for long, though. Parrish sat for only six days before getting back in the lineup. In that peak 1979 season, even with that badlyinjured wrist, he played 153 games, hit .307, and smacked 30 home runs. When Parrish’s later departure coincided with a downturn in the Expos’ fortunes, his ouster would become a big part of the narrative.
Andre Dawson was yet another Florida find, a Miami guy like Cromartie. But he didn’t get nearly as much attention initially, partly because he was damaged goods. Playing football for Southwest Miami High School in 1971, Dawson severely injuredhis right knee after taking a direct shot from a teammate’s helmet. He rolled on the ground in agony, and couldn’t put any pressure on his leg. The team trainer said he only had a strained ligament, but Dawson felt something far worse.
Dawson went to the hospital the next day and learned that he’d torn both cartilage and ligaments, and required surgery on the damaged knee. Medical technology in the early ’70s was nearly prehistoric compared to what it would become later, as was the advice proffered by doctors. After the surgery, Dawson got fitted for a brace and was told to just wait a couple weeks and see. No one prescribed any physical therapy, nor did Dawson pursue any. He tried to play on the knee in his senior year, but his mobility was shot. That injury helped drop him all the way to the 11 th round before the Expos scooped him up.
When sportswriters talk about a player’s work ethic, the tone can get hyperbolic in a hurry. We want to ascribe heroic traits to athletes, so we conjure up the most glowing descriptions imaginable: about how they worked out 22 hours a day in the snow, bench-pressing 18-wheelers while running to Bhutan and back. If a player is perceived as limited athletically, the gushing even escalates—as scribes vie to lionize the scrub who, through sheer force of will, made himself into a ballplayer.
Dawson was no scrub. He was a gifted athlete who would surely have generated a lot more buzz among scouts without the knee injury. But it’s unlikely he would have wound up in the Hall of Fame if he hadn’t pushed himself as hard as he did.
Not long after his surgery, Dawson started experiencing fluid buildup in his knee, and it only got worse from there. Doctors diagnosed the knee as arthritic. Another operation followed; cartilage was removed, leaving the knee as bone on bone. The diagnosis was grim.
“The docs said I’d be lucky if I played four years,” Dawson said.
These weren’t obstacles besetting an aging ballplayer at the twilight of his career. Dawson’s knee was deteriorating—and his window to play seemingly shrinking—just as he was entering his early 20s. So he started attacking the problem as aggressively as he could.
The medical procedures were intense and never-ending. He’d get his knee drained three times a year: once at the end of spring training, once around the All-Star break, then again near the end of the season. He also got multiple cortisone shots every season, the number rising as his career progressed. The maintenance regimen was long, at times mind-numbing. Massages and icing, but also showing up before all his teammates for marathon stretching sessions. He’d get his knee taped before batting practice, then re-taped 45 minutes before the game. After the game came 20 minutes of additional icing,
“When Parrish had his best year, he was playing with a wrist that he could barely move,” said long-time Expos trainer Ron McClain. “Finally, the doctor had to put it in a cast. That was the only way to stop him from playing.”
Not for long, though. Parrish sat for only six days before getting back in the lineup. In that peak 1979 season, even with that badlyinjured wrist, he played 153 games, hit .307, and smacked 30 home runs. When Parrish’s later departure coincided with a downturn in the Expos’ fortunes, his ouster would become a big part of the narrative.
Andre Dawson was yet another Florida find, a Miami guy like Cromartie. But he didn’t get nearly as much attention initially, partly because he was damaged goods. Playing football for Southwest Miami High School in 1971, Dawson severely injuredhis right knee after taking a direct shot from a teammate’s helmet. He rolled on the ground in agony, and couldn’t put any pressure on his leg. The team trainer said he only had a strained ligament, but Dawson felt something far worse.
Dawson went to the hospital the next day and learned that he’d torn both cartilage and ligaments, and required surgery on the damaged knee. Medical technology in the early ’70s was nearly prehistoric compared to what it would become later, as was the advice proffered by doctors. After the surgery, Dawson got fitted for a brace and was told to just wait a couple weeks and see. No one prescribed any physical therapy, nor did Dawson pursue any. He tried to play on the knee in his senior year, but his mobility was shot. That injury helped drop him all the way to the 11 th round before the Expos scooped him up.
When sportswriters talk about a player’s work ethic, the tone can get hyperbolic in a hurry. We want to ascribe heroic traits to athletes, so we conjure up the most glowing descriptions imaginable: about how they worked out 22 hours a day in the snow, bench-pressing 18-wheelers while running to Bhutan and back. If a player is perceived as limited athletically, the gushing even escalates—as scribes vie to lionize the scrub who, through sheer force of will, made himself into a ballplayer.
Dawson was no scrub. He was a gifted athlete who would surely have generated a lot more buzz among scouts without the knee injury. But it’s unlikely he would have wound up in the Hall of Fame if he hadn’t pushed himself as hard as he did.
Not long after his surgery, Dawson started experiencing fluid buildup in his knee, and it only got worse from there. Doctors diagnosed the knee as arthritic. Another operation followed; cartilage was removed, leaving the knee as bone on bone. The diagnosis was grim.
“The docs said I’d be lucky if I played four years,” Dawson said.
These weren’t obstacles besetting an aging ballplayer at the twilight of his career. Dawson’s knee was deteriorating—and his window to play seemingly shrinking—just as he was entering his early 20s. So he started attacking the problem as aggressively as he could.
The medical procedures were intense and never-ending. He’d get his knee drained three times a year: once at the end of spring training, once around the All-Star break, then again near the end of the season. He also got multiple cortisone shots every season, the number rising as his career progressed. The maintenance regimen was long, at times mind-numbing. Massages and icing, but also showing up before all his teammates for marathon stretching sessions. He’d get his knee taped before batting practice, then re-taped 45 minutes before the game. After the game came 20 minutes of additional icing,
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