For this issue, Thanks for Nothing, I wanted to go genuinely thank someone for a real nothing, taking the sardonic tone from the usual colloquialism. From that perspective, there was one particular person that I needed to talk about, and two particular nothings: the late Roy “Doc” Halladay. 

There are two, beautiful “nothings” in baseball: the “no-hitter” and the “perfect game.” Both are talked about like spiritual rituals lost to time, in hushed whispers where no one might hear, uttered with religious reverence. Nevermore than when one is in progress – as if speaking the words will whisk away something beautiful like an apparition that mustn’t be seen. Baseball, once America’s beloved sport, is no longer the dominating game in the States, overtaken by football’s massive spectacle and stakes, and the high-flying physical anomalies of basketball. But those sports simply do not recreate the magic of the no-hitter or perfect game.

In Philadelphia, 2010 stands distinctly in sports history. The Phillies didn’t recreate their 2008 magic and didn’t come away with any titles, but an all-time Philadelphia hero made his impact. Roy “Doc” Halladay. On May 29th, Doc tossed a perfect game. I hate to reuse a word like this, but it was spiritual. It was against the Marlins in Miami, on a warm day. It was Doc’s first year with the Phillies, and had high expectations, but not this high. Doc, who was never really an elite strikeout pitcher, was dealing his sinker and in short, really had his stuff. He cooked. The infield was locked in, Jason Werth and Shane Victorino were sure, and while there was never a doubt, there were many doubts. It’s not just that a perfect game is rare, it’s fragile. The magic all can disappear in a moment. One walk, and it’s a no-hitter. One ground ball the wrong way with a speedster, and it’s just an impressive game. And baseball, being the drawn-out game that it is, really emphasizes the pressure. Baseball isn’t soccer or basketball. There’s no way to immerse yourself and lose your thoughts in the game. You have to sit down and wait. Nobody says the words until the screens ays FINAL, and nobody is more aware of it than the pitcher. Doc didn’t mind. He just pitched, and he just did it. 

 In my own life, I was a 13 year old kid in the Pennsylvania summertime. I still played baseball (not for much longer), and my favorite athlete in the universe was Phillies catcher Carlos Ruiz. I had tried to be a pitcher, but it was maybe the thing that, to this day, I was worse at than anything else. I was just terrible. Instead, I ended up as a catcher, and a pretty decent one. Naturally, that was my favorite position to watch. What people don’t always think about is that while a perfect game is credited to a pitcher, it’s really a pitcher and a catcher. Chooch was a mastermind in that game. He chased down the close ground balls and lasered, and he called a stellar game. Doc only shrugged off a signal once. He picked the spots and the pitches and Doc delivered. For me, my youthful hyperfocus on the catcher really is what brought the game into such a vivid memory. I stared and studied Chooch’s spots and calls, and was mystified as Doc put it in leather over and over. In an unexpected twist, for a kid who played infield and catcher, the game made me embrace the pitching more than ever. It’s kind of funny, in one of the most iconic pitching performances of my life, the standouts are Ruiz behind the mound, and my other favorite, center fielder  Shane Victorino. Victorino maybe made the biggest play of the game – early in the bottom of the ninth, Mike Lamb ripped a ball to deep center field, and Victorino sprinted it down and saved the day. Incidentally, it would have been a home run in Philadelphia, but SunLife Stadium has a deep field and it stayed in. It’s a vivid, masterful performance that will live on forever.

Incidentally, Doc threw another all-timer that year – the second no-hitter in postseason history. Against the Reds in the NLDS, Doc threw 9 innings and gave up only one walk in the game. Similarly, it was an astounding, wonderful, historical performance by an all time great in a Philadelphia uniform. I remember this vividly as well – beginning by listening in the radio in the car with my mother, who nearly murdered me when she heard me say “no–” (I was wise enough to stop the rest when I saw the fire in her eyes). A no-hitter is hard, but a postseason one is a different beast entirely. For one, you’re not getting a tired team, or a lazy one, or a bad one. You get the best of everyone in the playoffs. And Doc didn’t mind one bit. He got it done anyway. Incidentally, the solitary hit Doc allowed was against Jay Bruce, who was acquired by the Phillies just this past season. I cursed his name when he walked and vowed him as a mortal enemy, which I abandoned when he hit a walk-off home run this year and allowed me to tweet “Jay Bruce Almighty Send Tweet.” Anyway, it was a similar experience. Just sitting, listening, watching, being wowed by the poignant phenomenon of knowing that history is being written before your eyes, that a human is making themselves immortal and all you can do is sit back and watch.

But being thrust into immortality can’t free you from mortality.

Roy “Doc” Halladay died on November 17th, 2017, at the age of 40. He had retired from Major League Baseball only 4 years earlier. Doc was an avid amateur pilot and didn’t survive his vehicle crashing into the Gulf of Mexico. He was the only passenger. The plane was quickly known to be Doc’s, since he had tweeted about getting it only a few weeks earlier. He had morphine, Ambien, amphetamines, and alcohol in his toxicology report. 

This took processing. Doc Halladay was not only young, he was a living legend who suddenly had become just a legend in a moment. A man I had so revered had lost his immortal plating in an accident that can be attributed to pretty extreme drug use in the most dangerous circumstance possible. It’s tough to really describe the swirling emotions and processing errors that registered in my head, and certainly the cities of Philadelphia and Toronto (where Doc had spent most of his active years.) It was a day that taught me that heroes die too. That the great can do wrong. That success and adoration don’t satisfy. That even the greatest, most spectacular of lives end suddenly. 

Doc Halladay was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2019, but it almost felt like a formality. There was never a question. Doc was a Hall of Famer for years and years before he was inducted, for years before he retired. The Toronto Blue Jays retired his number 32, and the Phillies suspended 34.. Superstar acquisition Bryce Harper will not wear his 34 to honor Doc, wearing 3 instead. The man was mortal. His legacy is immortal.

So thank you, Doc. Thank you for the nothings. The perfect game and the playoff no-hitter will live forever in my mind. I won’t forget either. Thank you for the nothings, but also, for thank you for everything.

Photo via Matthew T Rader on Unsplash

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