In his nearly 60 years in the organization, John Michael Pesky has epitomized what it means to be a member of the Boston Red Sox. He’s basked in the tragic losses; he’s celebrated on the diamond during the sweetest victories. He’s even heard his share of boos. Johnny Pesky has earned his Sox after scores of years caught up in the bittersweet drama that is Red Sox history.
As a player, he set the table for Ted Williams, batting leadoff during the Hall of Famer’s prime. He was on the bench as a coach when Carlton Fisk willed a foul-destined monster-shot to stay fair during the World Series in 1975. He was on the same bench when “he who shall not be named” delivered the stomach turning blow from the Yankees in 1978. He managed Mo Vaughn in Pawtucket; he mentored Nomar to stardom during his early years. He was in the Yankee Stadium dugout when Aaron Boone took Wakefield deep in extra frames as the Yankees paraded to their 39th pennant. A nation shared his joy when Boston ended its World Series draught during the storybook season of 2004.
Through all the tears of bliss and sorrow, few were more touching than seeing number 6 raised to the right field facade a day after his 89th birthday. It’s hard to imagine that the Sox actually had to “break” the rules to allow Pesky to join the likes of fellow greats Bobby Doerr, Joe Cronin, Carl Yastrzemski, Carlton Fisk, and good friend, Ted Williams. Heck, the right field foul poll was unofficially named after Pesky before Fisk was even born!
The rules say that a player must play at least 10 years in a Red Sox uniform to be honored with a retired number, and it seems nearly unfathomable that Pesky only played seven and a half years with the club. If he didn’t serve the US for three years during WWII, he most certainly would have reached this benchmark.
In his playing days he was well-known as an overly enthusiastic spark plug. A spray hitter, he was no stranger to 200-hit seasons, racking up three straight to begin his career. His childlike enthusiasm has stayed with him over the years, as well as his ability to spray to all parts of the park—still pining to hit fungoes, when most are pining for rocking chairs.
“When I lose my enthusiasm, I will say the heck with it and get out of the way,” said Pesky in a 1990 interview with the Boston Globe. “But right now I don’t feel that way.”
At 89 years-old Pesky still hasn’t lost his spark. For the Red Sox organization, fans, and baseball fans, we are damn lucky. It’s been 60 years, and we haven’t been able to get rid of Pesky. Now, we never will. Now, he will live on the facade beside his former manager, Cronin, double play counterpart Doerr, Fisk and Yaz whom he managed, and good friend Teddy Ballgame—forever.
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