She fell from heaven, or so it seemed, landing right in the heart of Mashpee. This tale, improbable as it sounds, begins and ends in this windswept, mist-laden Cape Cod village. Picture a retired nurse, parked before a Stop N’ Shop ATM, her attention snagged by a pair of legs, oddly still, dangling from the backseat of a four-door Lexus.
Thank heavens for her curiosity. It could easily have been dismissed – just another soul succumbing to the Cape’s summer allure of whiskey, bourbon, and wine-fueled nights. Summer on the Cape draws a diverse crowd – from up-and-coming grunge bands to fresh-faced ballplayers and world-weary baseball scouts. But when you spot pasty white legs protruding from an open car at 7 a.m., the odds strongly favor a boozy night out at a local dive bar.
Yet, this 76-year-old nurse, driven by an innate sense of care, decided to take a closer look. Approaching the Lexus, she noticed a shock of white hair, a man seemingly unconscious, and a driver’s license resting deliberately on his chest.
Instinctively, she checked his pulse, a reflex honed over countless times – finding a faint, but present, beat. She promptly dialed 911, knowing the Mashpee fire department was just a couple of blocks away. She waited, a furrow in her brow, monitoring his vital signs, her eyes then drifting back to the driver’s license.
The name read Peter Gammons. A name that meant nothing to her.
If only she could have consulted Roger Maris. That name would have illuminated everything. Long before this Peter Gammons became, arguably, the greatest baseball writer of all time – a figure indirectly linked to ending the Red Sox’s 86-year World Series drought and the Cubs’ 108-year wait, and a catalyst for countless careers across baseball, music, and journalism – he was simply a 15-year-old boy, clutching a worn autograph book, trying not to be overwhelmed by Roger Maris’s piercing blue eyes.
It was the summer of ’61, the summer of the legendary Maris-Mantle home run chase. Peter and his parents, Ned and Betty, had driven from their Groton, Massachusetts home, a 45-mile journey to Boston for a Red Sox-Yankees series. It was a cultural July weekend – Thursday night at the theater, Friday night at Fenway Park, Saturday and Sunday afternoons back at Fenway, and Saturday evening at a concert. Of course, a concert. Ned Gammons, the music teacher at the prestigious Groton School, had instilled a deep sense of rhythm in his second son, Peter.
Peter Gammons: A Baseball Life in Numbers
Age: 78
Hometown: Groton, Mass.
College: North Carolina
Wife: Gloria, married 55 years
Career highlights: Boston Globe (1969-76; 1978-1986); Sports Illustrated (1976-78, 1986-90); ESPN (1990-2009); MLB Network (2009-current); The Athletic (2020-current contributor)
Writing awards: National Baseball Hall of Fame, 2005 (J.G. Taylor Spink Award); Cape Cod Baseball Hall of Fame, 2022; National Sportswriter of the Year, 1989, ’90, ’93; North Carolina Journalism Hall of Fame, 2021; Co-recipient of Harvard University’s Social Impact Award, 2023
Co-founder: Hot Stove Cool Music charity fundraiser (est. 2000), raised approximately $14 million
However, Peter’s musical passions extended beyond classical compositions. He was an aspiring Chuck Berry, adept at guitar and comfortable belting out blues and rock ‘n’ roll tunes. Later, he and his high school friends formed a band, The Fabulous Penetrations – “We almost didn’t graduate because of that,” he jokes – but he held profound respect for his father and dutifully attended the Boston Symphony Orchestra that weekend.
Peter possessed a remarkable duality, even at a young age. If his father hadn’t taught at the elite Groton School – a pipeline to Harvard and Yale nestled in a quaint town of just 4,000 residents – his family couldn’t have afforded to send him there. This background allowed Peter to connect with both the privileged prep school students and the local townies. He played Little League baseball with Bill Shaughnessy, who attended the public school, and whose younger brother Dan Shaughnessy, would become a renowned sports journalist himself. Dan Shaughnessy recalls the difference between the schools: if a Groton player hit a foul ball into the woods, they’d simply grab a new one. “We’d want to hop over to get ’em,’’ Dan remembers.
Peter absorbed the sophistication of Groton and the humanistic spirit of Ned, blending them into his persona. Refined, yet grounded. Adding his mother Betty’s fervent love for baseball – she endured every Red Sox game on the radio – he was well-prepared to politely approach any Red Sox or Yankee player for an autograph that July ’61 weekend.
During Friday night’s series opener, Maris slugged his 36th home run, and Mantle followed with his 37th. A magical Fenway evening unfolded. The next morning, the Gammons family had a relaxed breakfast at their hotel, the grand Park Plaza, where the Yankees were also staying. Moments into their meal, Betty spotted Maris dining alone at a nearby table and encouraged Peter to seek his autograph. Peter had his autograph book ready, but hesitated, telling Betty he didn’t want to intrude on Maris’s meal.
Later, as the Gammons were leaving, Peter heard a voice from behind, “Son …” It was Maris, a twinkle in his eye.
“I overheard what you said,” Maris told Peter. “And I appreciate your consideration for my privacy. Would you still like an autograph?”
Maris signed Peter’s book, then asked about their Fenway plans for the day. “Around 11,” Peter replied. True to his word, at 11 a.m. sharp, Maris was waiting for 15-year-old Peter in the hotel lobby.
“Here son,” Maris said, handing him a signed piece of paper. It was Mickey Mantle’s autograph. A thrill coursed through Peter, a wave of understanding washing over him.
Roger Maris had become the first Major League player, not the last, to be captivated by Peter Gammons.
Peter Gammons, a fixture in the press box, has been a character in the baseball world since the beginning of his career. His insightful reporting and unique voice have made him a legend in sports journalism.
If only she could have consulted Dean Smith. In the mid-1960s, Peter enrolled at the University of North Carolina, becoming a curious reporter for the campus’s Daily Tar Heel newspaper. Influenced by Ned Gammons’ inclusive nature, Peter was particularly drawn to the burgeoning head basketball coach, Dean Smith, who was about to make Charlie Scott the university’s first Black athlete. On a notorious day in 1965, after a painful loss to Wake Forest, Smith was hung in effigy. Peter, sitting near Smith on the team bus, was struck by the coach’s unwavering composure. Peter had already become friends with several players, especially future All-American forward Larry Miller, who spoke of Smith’s selfless character. Peter was intrigued.
Smith, incredibly perceptive, noticed Peter’s rapport with the players and occasionally allowed him to observe closed practices. “He just took a liking to me,” Peter recalls. “Dean reminded me a lot of my father. I always thought of him as a schoolteacher who happened to be a basketball coach. And perhaps because my father was a teacher, it deepened our connection.”
This connection grew to the point where Smith offered Peter pivotal career advice: “You’re a good listener. You could make a living writing.” Not long after – perhaps on a day Peter’s college band, “Little Gam and the Athletes,” finished a jam session – Peter received an urgent message at his fraternity house to meet Smith. “I figured I’d written something he was really mad about,” Peter says. Instead, Smith informed him that Sports Illustrated’s acclaimed writer Frank Deford was coming to profile him, and Peter should observe “how a giant in the industry” conducts an interview. Peter sat in, captivated, his career path now crystal clear.
Dean Smith – perhaps guided by his own servant’s heart – had set Peter Gammons on the path to becoming a sportswriter.
If only she could have consulted Bill Lee. On June 10, 1968, just days after RFK’s assassination, Peter, about to begin his senior year, started a summer internship at the Boston Globe sports department. On his first day, he and another intern – the talkative Boston College graduate Bob Ryan – were tasked with detailing MLB’s plans to honor Kennedy. Peter called each American League team, while Ryan contacted every National League club. Their joint byline appeared on the front page of the afternoon edition that very day. Already friends, they headed to Boston’s Eire Pub for a beer, dreaming of careers as “ink-stained wretches.” Peter was completely hooked.
Early days at the Boston Globe: Peter Gammons and Bob Ryan (right) began their illustrious newspaper careers together, forging a friendship and professional bond that would last for decades.
Peter quickly impressed Globe editors with his distinctive, whimsical writing style. At Carolina, his Journalism 41 professor once distributed a predictable exam, saying, “If you all write the same lead, I’ll be a successful teacher.” Peter, trying to be respectful, raised his hand and said, “That’s not going to work, sir.” Peter felt bad, but believed journalism should be driven by “your curiosity,” and “how you related” to the subject matter. “I didn’t want to be the byline,” he explains, “I wanted to be the story.”
The irreverent Globe shared Peter’s philosophy. “Forget the five W’s of journalism: who, what, when, where, why,” Ryan says. “The Globe let us run wild.” So, the winter after Peter’s internship, in February 1969, they contacted him during midterms: “Can you come to Boston next Monday and start full time?” He dropped out of college and drove north immediately.
That summer, he first encountered Red Sox rookie pitcher Bill “Spaceman” Lee, an unconventional lefty from USC who dared to throw a slow, looping Eephus pitch – or “Space Ball” – to Major League hitters. Peter loved it. Legend has it, Peter himself once threw an Eephus pitch at Groton School to a standout hitter from Boston Latin named Bobby Guindon. Guindon, who played briefly for the Red Sox in ’64, smashed it about 300 feet, shattering an art department window.
Regardless, Spaceman and Gam (Peter’s nickname) shared a pitching philosophy, and they quickly became friends, much like Peter’s bond with Larry Miller at Carolina. With his shaggy hair, walrus mustache, windbreakers, and sandals, Peter became a familiar and welcome sight at Fenway, or “the Fens,” as he called it. By the summer of ’71, Peter was a backup Red Sox writer, handling side stories. He asked morning sports editor Fran Rosa if he could write a weekly column about the Red Sox farm system, modeling it loosely after Dick Young’s three-dot column in the New York Daily News. He called it “Majoring in the Minors.” Baseball’s first notes column was born.
Early camaraderie: Peter Gammons (left) enjoying a drink with former Red Sox pitcher Bill Lee during his early days covering the team. Their shared passion for baseball and unique perspectives fostered a lasting friendship.
Will McDonough at the Globe was already writing notes on the NFL, and Ryan on the NBA. But Peter’s Sunday notes column, especially after he took over the Red Sox beat full-time in ’72, became baseball gospel. He was now majoring in the majors. These were detailed, insightful 2,000-word journeys into the heart of the game. “He was like a gonzo journalist in sports and baseball,” says Dan Shaughnessy, who later joined the Globe himself.
Peter’s dedicated routine made it all possible. He would wake up as early as 5 a.m. to exercise and read the newspapers. Then, he’d call as many scouts, agents, and GMs as he could reach. He’d arrive at Fenway, or wherever the Red Sox were playing, by noon to watch early batting practice or, even better, shag fly balls himself.
That’s where the real insights emerged. By ’75, bench coach Johnny Pesky was hitting him pregame fungos, and Carl Yastrzemski would purposely hit BP line drives towards Peter in the outfield gap. Through it all, he’d gather nuggets and backstories. He’d then shower, visit the opposing manager, and produce original copy brimming with trade rumors, clubhouse anecdotes, and profiles of future stars. “I don’t know anyone who loves anything as much as Peter Gammons loves baseball,” Ryan states.
His Sunday notes column became so influential that Globe sports editor Vince Doria says editors from other cities had it airmailed to them every Monday. GMs would seek Peter’s opinions as much as he sought theirs. One year, he advocated in print for the Red Sox to hire Orioles manager Earl Weaver. When Weaver was inundated with phone calls, he exclaimed, “What did that [bleeping] Gammons write this time?” Someone replied, “That the Red Sox need you and even if it’s $1 million a year, they gotta pay it.’’ Weaver responded, “I’ve always liked that Gammons.”
Peter’s music references added a hip edge to his column. In season previews, he’d assign a team song to each MLB franchise (Baltimore’s was “Duke of Earl”). Inspired by the Warren Zevon song, he often referred to Lee in print as “Excitable Boy.” John Curtis and the 300,000 college students in Boston loved Peter. He brought his guitar on road trips, introduced Globe writer Lesley Visser to blues singer Bonnie Raitt. “Peter was talking about Bonnie Raitt before anyone else was talking about Bonnie Raitt,” Shaughnessy notes.
His writing was filled with music, sarcasm, and New England nuance. Doria’s editorial philosophy was that he wouldn’t edit Peter if even one in five readers “got it.” To describe a disjointed Red Sox team, Peter wrote: “25 guys, 25 cabs.” When the Red Sox blew a crucial game on national TV in August of ’74, Peter wrote: “Like Richard Nixon, the Red Sox went on national television to announce their resignations from the race.”
But his game stories showcased his lyrical brilliance most profoundly, and nothing elevated his profile more than the 1975 World Series between the Reds and Red Sox. As the baseball world converged on Boston for Game 6 – with the Sox trailing three games to two – Peter produced what is arguably the greatest game story ever written under deadline pressure. Crafted on a typewriter in just 55 minutes, it remains timeless for every New Englander with a pulse.
Initially, the game was unremarkable. The Sox looked defeated in the eighth inning until Bernie Carbo launched a missile three-run home run – “There was this whoosh,” Peter remembers – tying the score at 6. Peter meticulously took notes in the press box, prioritizing the game’s defining moments: Dwight Evans’ spectacular catch in the 11th; third base coach Don Zimmer’s “No, no, no” to baserunner Denny Doyle in the ninth, which Doyle misheard as “Go, go, go,” leading to him being thrown out at home plate. But in the 12th inning, Carlton Fisk eclipsed everything with a dramatic, game-winning home run down the left-field line, famously waving it fair with arms outstretched. Peter’s opening three paragraphs were pure poetry:
And all of a sudden the ball was there, like the Mystic River Bridge, suspended out in the black of the morning.
When it finally crashed off the mesh attached to the left field foul pole, one step after another the reaction unfolded: from Carlton Fisk’s convulsive leap to John Kiley’s booming of the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ to the wearing off of the numbness to the outcry that echoed across the cold New England morning.
At 12:34 a.m., in the 12th inning, Fisk’s histrionic home run brought a 7-6 end to a game that will be the pride of historians in the year 2525, a game won and lost what seemed like a dozen times, and a game that brings back summertime one more day. For the seventh game of the World Series.
Ever since that night, Bostonians young and old have revered Peter’s Game 6 lead as local legend. “Like the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere,” says former Globe and Herald sportswriter Jeff Horrigan. If Peter and Lee went out anywhere in Boston – from Faneuil Hall to Southie to Cambridge – locals would greet Spaceman first, then recite the Game 6 lead verbatim to Peter.
“Hey Petuh! … And all of a sudden the ball was there, like the Mystic River Bridge, suspended out in the black of the morning. … You’re a wicked pisser, Petuh!’’
What he had told his Carolina journalism professor had come true. Peter Gammons was the story.
If only she could have consulted Ted Williams. Peter’s star shone so brightly that even the notoriously media-averse Splendid Splinter, Ted Williams, would summon Peter for bourbon and tonic-fueled story sessions. Did you know that in 1941, Ted would receive updates on Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak from a Fenway scoreboard operator in left field and shout them over to Dom DiMaggio, Joe’s brother, in center field? Peter knew. But then, suddenly, baseball writing was over for Gam. Finished.
He had become too successful for his own good. Sports Illustrated – Frank Deford’s Sports Illustrated! – offered him its NHL beat in 1976. Peter accepted, thinking he’d eventually transition to baseball. He knew hockey well enough and connected with Bruins legend Bobby Orr. But SI required him to move to New York, and Peter admits he missed “the frenetic fandom of New England” and the smell of tobacco chew. While in Toronto for a Maple Leafs story, he wandered over to the first-ever Blue Jays game. He made an unannounced appearance at Brooks Robinson Night in Baltimore. He lasted two years covering hockey.
Mentorship and Influence: Peter Gammons with Paul Epstein and Theo Epstein (right). Peter’s guidance and support played a role in shaping Theo Epstein’s successful career in baseball management.
He returned to the Globe, and with a renewed perspective, he began to pay his sportswriting success forward. He was his father’s son, Dean Smith’s protégé. He would help those coming up behind him. He informed his friend Dan Shaughnessy about the Orioles beat opening at the Baltimore Evening Sun; shared his Sunday notes with Jayson Stark at the Philadelphia Inquirer; helped 23-year-old John Lowe secure an interview with the Chicago Tribune.
Countless writers have similar stories. When Dale Murphy dismissed Lesley Visser from the Braves’ clubhouse, Peter waited outside with her. When Rangers beat writer Tim Kurkjian sensed a trade was imminent, he called Peter, who confirmed, “Yeah, you guys are dealing for Cliff Johnson.” He kindly alerted Baltimore Sun beat writer Richard Justice that the Orioles were signing Don Aase and Fred Lynn. Justice called Orioles executive Larry Lucchino, who asked, “Where’d you hear that?” Gammons, Justice replied. “Well,” Lucchino said, “Gammons isn’t wrong very often.”
An entire generation of baseball writers aspired to be him. Justice even wore the same New Balance sneakers Peter wore and bought the same brand of steno pad. Peter was the envy of them all. Baltimore all-star Eddie Murray famously avoided the media, but Gammons would still walk up to Murray’s locker and chat. When Justice later said to Murray, “Hey, I thought you weren’t speaking to the press,” Murray retorted, “That ain’t the press, that’s Gammons.”
Fenway was Peter’s second home. He and his wife, Gloria – whom he met teaching Sunday school at church – bought a house at 46 Glen Road in Brookline, just 1.1 miles from the Fens. Peter wanted to walk to games. His new next-door neighbors, the Kennedys, had an admiring young son named Sam who watched Peter leave for night games at 10 or 11 a.m. – “I borderline stalked him,” Sam admits – and overheard Peter’s confidential conversations with GMs across the backyard fence. Peter’s access to baseball powerbrokers was unparalleled, and trade deadlines were like Christmas for him. He had his finger on the pulse of every potential trade, and GMs were smart to take his calls. “He was really a special assistant to about 30 teams,” says A’s GM Billy Beane, who would become a close confidant.
By then, Tigers pitcher Jack Morris had nicknamed him “The Commissioner.” Peter says three or four MLB teams offered him front-office positions. Legend has it that Peter once proposed a three-way trade to Red Sox GM Lou Gorman, who responded, “I haven’t thought of anything like that.” To which Peter replied, “Well, by God, you better start thinking of things like that.”
The epitome of his influence occurred during the ’85 World Series. It was Game 7, Cardinals-Royals, and the tense St. Louis manager Whitey Herzog had locked himself in his clubhouse office beforehand. But Peter knew Whitey’s secret knock. He knocked, paused, knock-knocked, paused again, and knock-knock-knocked. Whitey let him in.
Peter had outgrown the local scene. SI – Frank Deford’s SI – called again in ’86, this time with the baseball beat. Managing Editor Mark Mulvoy promised Peter he could remain in Brookline or his Cape home and even urged him to buy Red Sox season tickets to ease his Fenway withdrawal. Peter found seats just seven rows behind home plate, next to the scouts, and accepted the SI job. He would write an “Inside Baseball” column and delve into the human interest stories he loved. He visited Yankee Don Mattingly’s hometown of Evansville, Indiana, discovering that Donnie Baseball learned to hit to the opposite field because a large tree blocked fly balls to right field in his backyard whiffle ball field.
Mattingly respected Peter – like Maris before him – and agreed to a three-way conversation about hitting with Ted Williams and Wade Boggs, which Peter chronicled. When Williams hosted a Jimmy Fund fundraiser in Boston, including Joe DiMaggio, Peter asked Ted if he could write about the Williams-DiMaggio relationship for SI. Ted agreed. But when DiMaggio arrived, he declared, “I don’t talk to Sports Illustrated.’’
Williams bared his teeth at DiMaggio and growled the ultimate tribute to Peter Gammons:
“This is my event, this is my city, and it’s my f***** friend,” Ted Williams stated. “And you’re going to talk to him.”
And Joe DiMaggio did.
Musical Talents and Connections: Peter Gammons (center) showcasing his musical side, jamming with Bernie Williams (left) and blues legend Buddy Guy. Gammons’ passions extend beyond baseball, encompassing music and charitable endeavors.
If only she could have consulted Theo Epstein. Theo happened to play Little League and high school ball in Brookline with Sam Kennedy, Peter’s neighbor’s son. Under instructions from Sam’s father Tom, a minister who had become close to Peter, Sam had to be cautious about inviting friends over who might eavesdrop on Gam’s backyard GM calls.
So, for years, Theo Epstein was just a name Peter knew. Sam would mention Theo was at Yale, then interning for the Orioles. “I’d always say, ‘Keep an eye on this guy,’” Sam recalls. Peter filed it away in his baseball brain.
Sam himself wanted a baseball internship and sought Peter’s advice. Peter encouraged him to write to every big league club. In the spring of ’93, Sam finally heard back from a team: Mattingly’s Yankees. The Yankees asked Sam for three references. “My first was Peter Gammons,” Sam says. “So that was pretty good.”
While SI made Gammons a literary star, ESPN transformed him into a national sensation. The network, under John Walsh’s insightful leadership, had entered the information age. No more tractor pulls or fluff pieces. Walsh wanted to feature sportswriters on SportsCenter, regardless of their appearance. If Peter resembled 19th-century president Andrew Jackson, so be it. Walsh hired him from SI in 1990, making him the first sportswriter ever to appear on ESPN.
Initially, Peter’s peers scoffed, especially considering Gam himself used to call local TV reporters “barking dogs and frauds.” But he was paving the way for them all. That is, if he didn’t flop. Walsh’s genius was understanding Peter’s connection with everyday people. So, at Peter’s first ESPN spring training, Walsh filmed him interacting with fans. “Hey, Petuh! How the Sox gonna be, you wicked pisser?” Peter charmed them all. Back at ESPN, Walsh showed Peter the fan interaction tape and said, “See, that’s your job. It’s no different from people coming up and talking to you. Only now you just look in the camera and do it.”
That was the breakthrough. During his ESPN years, Peter had exclusive interviews with controversial players (A-Rod and Albert Belle), admired players (Bernie Williams and Derek Jeter), and rock stars (Johnny Ramone and Huey Lewis). President George W. Bush called him “Petey.” He traveled to Cuba with his trusted producer Julie Chrisco Andrews, saw teenage prospects Kendrys Morales and Yuli Gurriel, and knew they were future big leaguers. He filed it away in his baseball brain.
His scout friend Billy Beane had become the A’s GM in ’98, and Peter suggested he draft lefty pitcher Mark Mulder with the second overall pick. “The first person who told me about Mulder was Peter Gammons,’’ Beane acknowledges, who indeed drafted Mulder. Peter spent summers on Cape Cod, watching Mulder pitch for the Bourne Braves in 1997. Peter was royalty on the Cape, and his baseball mind had cataloged every prospect there.
His ESPN duties included “SportsCenter,” “Baseball Tonight,” and Diamond Notes for ESPN.com. “He was a volume guy, and ESPN and SportsCenter was a volume place,” Walsh says. But Peter eventually needed help. Channeling his father and Dean Smith, Peter told Walsh, “Get Tim Kurkjian.” Later, “Get Jayson Stark.” And then, “There’s this young guy who just went to the New York Times, Buster Olney.”
Around the same time, Peter set his sights on Theo Epstein, who had become director of player development for the Padres. During Game 3 of the ’98 Yankees-Padres World Series, Theo was in his usual spot behind home plate, using a speed gun to input pitch velocity and type onto the scoreboard. Suddenly, Theo says, Peter “appeared out of the ether.”
While other writers were in the press box, Peter was behind the batter’s box, picking Theo’s brain. He had long remembered Epstein’s name and now they were finally meeting. Throughout the game, Theo accurately predicted Padres pitchers’ pitches and locations. He saw Trevor Hoffman warm up for a save opportunity and told Peter, based on Hoffman’s arm speed alone, that he would struggle. Hoffman indeed blew the save.
From that day on, Peter consistently wrote about the insightful Theo Epstein. Peter also admired Beane, whose “Moneyball” theory was revolutionizing baseball. When the Red Sox offered Beane $12.5 million to become their GM in 2002, Beane drove to the Cape with his daughter Casey to consult with Peter. It was a clear, fogless day in Cataumet, and Beane considered how he could adjust to New England. This scene, however, was omitted from the “Moneyball’’ movie – Billy and Peter on Cape Cod, discussing Jason Varitek. “Peter may be partly responsible for my flirtation with the Boston Red Sox,” Beane admits. “The whole ordeal: my going, not going. Peter was very much a confidant for me. He wasn’t just a writer, a journalist. He was a friend.”
When Beane declined the job for family reasons, Epstein ultimately got it, aided by Peter’s constant endorsements. “Peter became a huge advocate for me in the way he’s done for countless others,” Theo says. “I’m sure he smoothed my path when I got to Boston, both as assistant GM and when I became GM.”
When the Red Sox finally broke the 86-year Curse of the Bambino in 2004, Peter arguably deserved a ring. He helped create Theo. In fact, Peter was creating many things, including music. Along with Horrigan in 2000, he had launched the antithesis of a charity golf event – a charity rock ’n’ roll concert called “Hot Stove Cool Music,” initially featuring bands named “Thurman Munson” and “Carlton Fisk.” Over the years, Peter brought in Paul Barrere from Little Feat, Kay Hanley from Letters to Cleo, and Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam. “How could that be?’’ Kurkjian marvels. “He covered Eddie Murray and played with Eddie Vedder.’’
Pitcher Bronson Arroyo made his musical debut for Peter’s event. Bernie Williams, Peter, and Buddy Guy jammed onstage together. Soon, Theo and his twin brother Paul merged their charity, “The Foundation To Be Named Later,” with Hot Stove Cool Music, raising significant funds to send kids to college through a program they named “Peter Gammons Scholars.”
A force of nature, Peter – who named his dog after Bonnie Raitt – was not only writing original music but also releasing an album in the summer of 2006, titled “Never Slow Down, Never Grow Old.” The album was authentic, featuring self-deprecating songs like “Bad Teeth” and “NyQuil Blues.” But perhaps the most resonant song was about a girl raised to be perfect who learns that imperfection can be liberating.
Its title: “She Fell From Heaven and Landed on Her Face.”
Continuing Connections: Peter Gammons never misses an opportunity to connect with Red Sox players, like Justin Turner, demonstrating his enduring passion for the game and the people within it.
Days before the album’s release, on June 26, 2006, that retired 76-year-old nurse, Agnes Rockett-Bolduc, did indeed fall from heaven. Not on her face, but in that Mashpee parking lot beside a dying stranger named – what was it on the driver’s license? – Peter Gammons.
Just back from a White Sox-Astros series in Chicago, he had driven alone to his favorite gym early that morning to speed-read four sports pages on the StairMaster. But en route, his head began to throb and pulsate intensely. It was beyond a headache. Though his vision was still clear, he erratically pulled into the Stop N’ Shop lot, parked crookedly across two spaces, and staggered to his backseat to lie down – leaving the door ajar. Somehow, he managed to place his driver’s license on his chest. “I remember nothing about that,’’ Peter says. “It was just one of those inexplicable things humans do.”
The nearest hospital was 11 miles away in Falmouth. But once the EMTs realized in the ambulance it was a brain aneurysm, not a heart attack, they ordered Peter airlifted to Boston’s Brigham and Women’s Hospital. Then fate intervened again.
Dr. Arthur Day, chief of medicine at the hospital, was supposed to be golfing that day but was available because his golfing partner didn’t show up. A highly confident brain surgeon, Dr. Day explained to Gloria that the aneurysm was a “two-percenter,” meaning Peter had a 2% chance of a full, good-as-new recovery. The Red Sox had once had a zero percent chance of ever winning a World Series before Theo arrived – so she embraced the 2%.
Because doctors don’t give post-surgery interviews, the subsequent events are pieced together from conversations with Peter’s close friends, including his ESPN producer Andrews and Cape Cod friends Keith Carroll and John Keenan. Apparently, the moment Dr. Day opened Peter’s skull, the aneurysm ruptured. If Nurse Agnes hadn’t fallen from heaven, if the doctor had played 18 holes, if Falmouth Hospital hadn’t arranged the airlift, the greatest baseball writer of his generation would have been lost.
Dr. Day completed the repair, but the situation was critical. Doria, now an executive at ESPN, called Kurkjian that night in a hushed voice, “Tim, I need you to write Peter’s obit. Just in case.” Kurkjian, whose entire ESPN career was due to Peter, was devastated. “I wrote Peter Gammons’ obituary in full tears,’’ Kurkjian recalls. “I mean, I was weeping as I was writing. Hardest story I’ve ever written in my life.’’
Peter was initially restricted from visitors. Bobby Orr was turned away. No one dared tell Peter it was the trade deadline, fearing overexcitement. Soon, Theo arrived with Sam Kennedy – who would later become Red Sox president – and the visit deeply affected them both. Peter spoke incoherently about baseball from the ’40s, ’90s, and ’70s, stories jumbled as if his baseball brain’s catalog had been overturned.
“Peter wasn’t Peter for those few days,” Sam says. “The file cabinets in his brain, I think, were shuffled a bit. I remember Theo and I walked back up Brookline Avenue to Fenway from Brigham and Women’s Hospital, talking about ‘Oh my God, Peter might never be the same.’”
One day, a FedEx package arrived from Don Mattingly. Gloria opened it to find a large, gaudy, rapper-style cross. Peter smiled and put it around his neck.
He hasn’t taken it off since.
Three months later, Peter was back. It was miraculous. Andrews knew he was lucid when, recovering at Mashpee’s Rehabilitation Hospital of the Cape and Islands, he noticed a baseball game on TV. “Wait a minute,” Peter asked, “when did Austin Kearns become a National?”
Andrews had to tell him, “Peter, you missed the trade deadline. That’s when the Reds traded Kearns to Washington.” “Ah,” he said. The card catalog in his brain was functioning again. Dr. Day encouraged him to drive alone to Fenway for a September Red Sox-White Sox game to prove to himself he was healed. He could visit Chicago manager Ozzie Guillen, chat with Theo and Sam.
Peter was hesitant, but he navigated the Route 128 traffic and arrived at the Fens. He sat in his seats, seven rows behind home plate. The Commissioner was back. In the following weeks and months, he returned to ESPN, ran a 5K, and walked five miles daily all over the Cape, wearing headphones, talking to Beane and other GMs.
Kurkjian finally confided, “You know, Peter, I wrote your obituary,” and Gam replied, “Yeah, I should read that sometime, I guess.” Eventually, he left ESPN for MLB Network because, according to Doria, Peter felt ESPN was prioritizing football. “He wasn’t incorrect in that assessment,” Doria admits.
MLB Network was a better fit, building a studio for him on the second floor of his Cape home, overlooking the water. They sent him to the 2016 World Series to witness the Cubs – and Theo as GM – win their first title in 108 years. Peter’s Theo.
If Peter was generous before his aneurysm, he became even more so afterward. He and Gloria never had children, but “sons” of Peter were spread throughout baseball. For example, his friend Scott Bradley, a fellow Tar Heel and Princeton head coach, asked him to help his former player Mike Hazen find a job. Peter had Hazen scout the Cape Cod League, and Hazen’s reports were so detailed that Peter distributed them across MLB. Cleveland hired Hazen immediately, then Theo brought him to Boston. Now Hazen is the GM of the Diamondbacks.
“Peter lives his life with this incredible sense of justice,” Theo says. And he continues to do so despite new challenges. For the past three years, Peter has battled multiple myeloma – a blood and bone disease – requiring periodic chemotherapy. “I tell people I’m like a 1995 Volvo with 160,000 miles,” Peter jokes. “I have to be maintained for the rest of my life.”
But he still produces essays for MLB Network, writes for The Athletic, and has half a million Twitter followers. He still considers returning to Carolina at 78 to finish his journalism degree. He still defends Bill Buckner, still wears Mattingly’s cross, remains close with today’s players like Bo Bichette, still sings Pearl Jam, still signs autographs on Andrew Jackson $20 bills, and still hears, “And all of a sudden the ball was there, like the Mystic River Bridge, suspended out in the black of the morning. Petuh, you’re a wicked pisser!”
Eventually, the nurse who fell from heaven, Agnes Rockett-Bolduc, figured it out. Not from Roger Maris, Dean Smith, Bill Lee, Ted Williams, or Theo. She figured it out from her husband a few months after the aneurysm. He had been scolding her for approaching a mysterious man in a deserted, foggy parking lot, fearing he could have been dangerous.
Just as he was saying this, Peter’s picture flashed on their TV.
“That’s him,” said Nurse Agnes.
“Peter Gammons!” her husband exclaimed. “Thank God you stopped!’’
Tributes to Gammons: Voices from Baseball and Journalism
Dan Shaughnessy, Globe columnist: “A game didn’t happen until you read Gammons’ account of it.”
Vince Doria, Former Globe Sports Editor: “Peter created this whole sensibility about the Calvinist winds of doubt that swept through New England about the Red Sox, sort of married the Red Sox to the roots of New England.”
Bob Ryan, The Globe: “He knew the quirks and oddities of the game. He found out Carney Lansford was a direct descendant of Sir Francis Drake.”
Jayson Stark, The Athletic: “I went to a Cape League game with him, and it must have been like walking through Independence Hall with Benjamin Franklin in 1784. And the giveaway item of the night was a Peter Gammons baseball.”
Stark on the best baseball writer ever: “Grantland Rice is on that wall, Ring Lardner is on the wall and Red Smith is on that wall. But Peter stands up above everyone. Everyone.”
John Walsh, Former ESPN executive editor: “Peter’s the bard of baseball. Boz [Thomas Boswell] the poet. Murray [Chass] the treasurer. Peter, the muse.”
Billy Beane, A’s executive: “He’s one of those guys who are sort of the center of the spoke for baseball. Certainly, in my lifetime, he’s maybe the greatest ambassador the game has had.”
Sam Kennedy, Red Sox President: “Everybody says his passion is baseball, and that’s true. But when I think of Peter, his true passion is people.”
Lesley Visser, Former Globe writer: “If you got to be around Peter, it was like landing in Oz and it all turns color.”
Bronson Arroyo, Former Red Sox pitcher: “You hear the stories about Salvador Dalí walking into a party in New York City and the music stops. In a lot of ways, Peter has become that guy.”
Gammons on Gammons: Insights and Preferences
Favorite song lyric: “I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on” – from Pearl Jam’s “Wishlist”
One of his least favorite Red Sox trades: Jeff Bagwell to Houston for Larry Anderson. He pulled over to the side of the road and cried.
One of his least favorite Fenway traditions: Neal Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.”
Best auctioned item at a Hot Stove Cool Music charity event: Theo Epstein’s gorilla suit for $13,000.
Gammons on covering the Red Sox for the Boston Globe in 1970s and ’80s: “It’s almost like you’re writing a letter to someone every day in a town like that where people really care.”
Gammons on writing game stories: “In my brain, it was a long song. It was like Bob Dylan writing like a nine-minute song. Because it was easier to write in rhythm.”
Gammons on his famous MLB notes column: “I still get people who stop me and say ‘I love your Sunday column.’ I haven’t written a Sunday column since 1985. But it’s all right because I’m so flattered by that.”
Gammons on writers who’ve gone to TV: “[Tom] Verducci’s a terrific kid. I think of all the guys that have gone through the newspaper business into TV, I really think he’s pretty close to being the best, if not definitively the best.”
