“If Ted’s body had been ordered out of Alcor, it would have sent John-Henry off the deep end,” Peter Sutton said. “That was the key to the whole situation. That’s why we fought Bobby-Jo so hard—because Ted would not have wanted to have his son blow his brains out over this problem. I sent Al Cassidy over there to watch him right away. It was scary. Very scary. He was losing it. I think it was the weight of the whole thing, the stress. Bobby-Jo was attacking him. The press was attacking him. It was just too much for him.”
But John-Henry, backed by Ted’s estate, had key financial advantages that Bobby-Jo did not, allowing him to string out the legal proceedings to drive up his sister’s legal fees. By September, Bobby-Jo signaled the end was near. John Heer told reporters she had spent $50,000 so far, mostly from her retirement savings, and he anticipated it would take another $60,000 for the case to go to trial. She had been able to attract only $2,500 through the fund-raising vehicle she had set up, Ted Williams’s Last Wish Fund, mostly in $10 to $25 contributions from the public.14
John-Henry could have prevailed through attrition, but he had another key chit at his disposal, which he used to settle the issue. Under the terms of an irrevocable 1986 insurance trust, Ted had left $600,000 to his three children, to be distributed equally. John-Henry asked the three trustees of the trust—Eric Abel, Al Cassidy, and David McCarthy, director of the Ted Williams museum—to give Bobby-Jo her $200,000 share immediately if she agreed to drop any legal challenge and let Ted’s body remain at Alcor. Abel said that Ted, in revising his will in 1996, asked him verbally not to distribute Bobby-Jo’s full share in a lump sum because he was afraid she would spend it all, recklessly. But Abel said he persuaded the other trustees to go along with paying her the full $200,000 immediately if she would drop her objections to Ted’s final resting place.
In December, five months after her father’s death, Bobby-Jo agreed. Her share, with interest, came to $211,000. (Peter Sutton said Bobby-Jo also received thirty-seven Ted-signed bats from the same trust, worth $2,000 each, “as part of the deal to get rid of her.”) A bitter Bobby-Jo and Mark Ferrell used much of the money to buy a new trailer, and they took off on an extended trip around the country.
Forged or not, the written pact and the sad cryonics coda showed that Ted reaped what he sowed as a father and underscored the fact that Williams never fully escaped the family dysfunction that had ensnared him as a boy.
Eager to atone for neglecting John-Henry in his youth, Ted welcomed his son back into his life as an adult and gave him the keys to his kingdom. John-Henry took his father’s trust—and his power of attorney—and ran with them.
Their relationship was symbiotic and mutually fulfilling. Ted grew to love his son and in the end relied on him totally as his caretaker, though Williams’s appeals to several close friends for help just before he died showed that he came to have second thoughts about having delegated so much power to John-Henry. But it was too late.
Young Williams, for his part, plainly exploited his father but was also devoted to him. Consumed by his father’s considerable shadow, the son never made any attempt to escape it. Taking over Ted’s memorabilia business was virtually a license to print money, and John-Henry used it fully, keeping Williams hustling long past the time it was comfortable for him to sign autographs. He also deceived his father, as when he borrowed $500,000 from Bob Breitbard without telling Ted and went into the porn business to try and grow Hitter.net.
Yet John-Henry certainly loved Ted. Where he easily could have let the nurses and caretakers look after his father, in the end he took part in the nitty-gritty himself: showering with Ted so he wouldn’t fall, grooming him, administering his oxygen and medications, and even, according to Claudia, learning how to insert his catheter. The son’s bizarre but poignant decision to mount a pro baseball career at the age of thirty-three was all about paying homage to his father. And John-Henry’s cryonics decision for Ted seemed less about exploitation than it was about not wanting to let go.
In the fallout from the cryonics affair, people were reminded of the fact that Williams was not just the greatest hitter who ever lived, not just the war hero, and not just the man who had helped sick children but also a man with all the same human frailties that his fans had. He had never really shaken the shame he carried from childhood—about his mother, the Salvation Army zealot, who had time for street urchins but not for him; about his absent and indifferent father, who finally abandoned the family; about his jealous, thieving brother; and about his own bloodlines and ethnicity. Despite harboring bitterness toward members of his immediate family, Ted stayed loyal to them in the way he felt he could: by supporting them financially. The money represented both needed assistance and a means to replace deeper interaction.
The controversy over Ted’s wishes, which burned so intensely at his death and for months thereafter, faded over time. He was dead, after all, and wasn’t coming back—or so most thought. Only John-Henry and Claudia knew for sure what their father signed or didn’t sign, but among those following the Williams saga, there came to be a more forgiving discussion of the notion that all families have their peculiar dynamics. “People assume either he wasn’t competent or he was the victim of a family situation rather than, ‘Oh, Ted went goofy at the end,’ ” said Bob Costas, the sports broadcaster, who knew Williams well and had dealings with John-Henry and Claudia.15 In that climate, questions about a tarnished legacy receded. The mind’s eye—and history’s—gradually readjusted to the image of Ted Williams in his prime on a ball field. Yet for all his exploits as a batsman, one of the most striking things about Ted is how much he excelled at almost anything he undertook in a serious way, like flying, fishing, and photography. His innate talents took him only so far. His drive, determination, curiosity, and passion for learning took him the rest of the way. This notion of being distinctive at anything he undertook resonated with people.
Memories of Ted’s grand reception at the 1999 All-Star Game at Fenway, his public farewell, still linger warmly and attest to his status as a baseball god with cross-generational appeal. He was someone whom fathers told their sons about, generation after generation, and thus he served as glue in the social fabric. The lasting image remains one of radiant youth, Williams attaining .406, the perfect swing, the swagger, and the heroic, Bunyanesque deeds, like hitting a home run in his last at bat—the Kid, once and forever.
Epilogue
In August of 2002, John-Henry informed the Red Sox that he would not be returning to its farm team in the Gulf Coast League. Ted was now gone, and there was no sense pressing his luck or trying the patience of a front office that had graciously indulged him.
But he was not through with baseball. He left Florida, moved to California, and began working out again to try to resume a career as a professional. Starting in the spring of 2003 and going into July, John-Henry played briefly for three teams at the lowest reaches of the minor leagues: the Schaumburg (Illinois) Flyers, in the independent Northern League; the Southeastern Cloverleafs, of the unaffiliated Southeastern League of Professional Baseball; and the Baton Rouge River Bats, of the Southern League of Professional Baseball. He made about $700 a month along with a $12 per diem.
John-Henry quit the River Bats in July after he began to feel increasingly weak and fatigued. It was a chore to even warm up and do calisthenics. Back in Los Angeles, he picked up two bags from the airport luggage carousel and couldn’t walk far before he had to sit down on the bags and catch his breath. An examination at the UCLA Medical Center revealed that he had myelodysplasia, a blood disorder that is often a precursor to acute myelogenous leukemia, a cancer that starts in the bone marrow. Soon the leukemia was confirmed, and John-Henry began chemotherapy treatments in October. In December, his sister Claudia gave him her bone marrow in a painful transplant procedure. The oncologist deemed Claudia a perfect match and was optimistic that her brother could make a full recovery.
Meanwhile, John-Henry had met and fallen in love with Lisa Martin,
a twenty-four-year-old dental hygienist from Santa Cruz. The relationship grew serious quickly, despite his bleak diagnosis, and both John-Henry and Lisa were optimistic he would beat the illness and thrive. Around Valentine’s Day of 2004, they decided to get married. John-Henry wanted to do it right away—that night, even. Lisa told him he was crazy; that they should sleep on it and wait at least a few days.1
Peter Sutton had a friend in California who was a judge, and she agreed to perform the ceremony on February 19, at sunset, near the pier in Santa Monica. Steve Connolly, who had helped train John-Henry for his baseball fling when Ted was still alive, served as best man and took photos. No other friends or family were present.
For Lisa, the marriage was far from a deathbed decision. “He was going to live for another fifty years at that point,” she recalled. But within days, John-Henry was back at UCLA Medical Center in rapid decline. Claudia flew out to be with him, along with their mother, Dolores; Eric Abel; and Anita Lovely, the jilted fiancée with whom John-Henry had nonetheless remained close. Young Williams asked Abel and Peter Sutton to make sure his affairs were in order. At the top of the list was making sure his body would quickly be taken to Alcor so he could join Ted. Proceeds from John-Henry’s $2 million life insurance policy would be used to pay for his procedure and to settle Ted’s remaining bill, which still had not been paid.
Shortly thereafter, John-Henry’s brain began to hemorrhage, forcing urgent surgery to relieve pressure. The procedure was of limited success, and he was put on life support, allowing Alcor’s emergency responders plenty of time to be on hand with ice and the other equipment their protocols required.
John-Henry died on March 6, 2004, at thirty-five years old. His body was driven by ambulance to Alcor headquarters in Scottsdale, where he was admitted as patient A-2063. Like Ted, John-Henry underwent both the “whole-body” and the “neuro” procedures. Finally, his remains were placed in the same tank, or Dewar, as those of his father.
After settling her court challenge in the cryonics affair, Bobby-Jo decided to leave Citrus Hills and its painful memories and move back to Tennessee with her husband, Mark. They wanted to begin a new chapter in their lives and, to that end, virtually went underground, changing their e-mail addresses and phone numbers after settling in the small city of White House, some twenty miles north of Nashville. They severed all ties with friends in Citrus Hills as well as with others who had helped and worked with them during the cryonics controversy.
Then on July 28, 2010, Bobby-Jo died in isolation and obscurity at the age of sixty-two. Her death certificate listed the cause as end-stage liver disease. Told of her death, her Florida friends and associates said they had not previously heard the news, nor was there any obituary or other notice of her passing. The mercurial Mark Ferrell continued to guard the couple’s privacy zealously—including threatening those he felt were intruding.
Claudia Williams moved to Citrus Hills after Ted died and still lives there. She married Eric Abel on January 9, 2006, and has taken his last name. She is studying to become a registered nurse and is becoming less shy about embracing the Williams legacy she spent most of her early life rejecting. At an auction of Ted’s personal effects at Fenway Park in 2012, she delivered a fluid speech about her father, and later the same year she accepted an invitation from the Red Sox to throw out a first ball before a nationally televised Yankees game at Fenway. Besides working on a small book of remembrances about growing up with Ted, Claudia also looks after her mother, Dolores Williams, who suffered a stroke in 2008 and then moved from Vermont to Citrus Hills. Claudia is planning to have her own remains sent to Alcor when she dies so she can join her father and brother, as she pledged in the pact.
Acknowledgments
I am deeply indebted to many people for their help during the decade it took me to research and write this book, but perhaps foremost among them is Dan Golden, a fantastic journalist who used to work for me at the Boston Globe before moving to the Wall Street Journal and later Bloomberg News. At the Journal, he won a Pulitzer Prize for a series of stories documenting favoritism in college admissions for the children of rich alumni donors. He later expanded the series into a bestselling book called The Price of Admission. Dan generously agreed to give me a rigorous edit on The Kid before I submitted the book to Little, Brown, and in the process provided me with numerous insightful comments and suggestions for which I will always be grateful.
I’d also like to offer my special thanks to the following people:
My friend Jack Connors—founding partner of Hill Holliday, the superb Boston advertising agency—who offered me a desk and a place to hang my hat after I resigned from the Globe to begin work on this book. I had privacy, tech support, a copier that always worked, and other advantages of being part of a big organization. Jack gave me a nice “family rate” and probably thought I would be out of there in a year or two at most, but the book took me far longer than I imagined, and I kept working away, never looking over my shoulder. When Connors retired, his successor, Mike Sheehan, along with the agency’s president, Karen Kaplan, both continued to cheerfully welcome me with no questions asked, despite my nonstaff outsider status. My run of luck there lasted about eight years, far longer than it had any right to last, and I will always be appreciative. Others at Hill Holliday besides Mike and Karen who welcomed me and offered their hospitality include: Donna Vallois, Will Keyser, Joe Berkeley, Dave Gardiner, Scott Cheyne, Phil Chadwick, Amy Hardcastle, Johnathan Ng, Sam Mullins, Dave Majeau, Mike Moran, and Beau Phillips.
When I left Hill Holliday, Ed Reilly, a friend of more than thirty years and a former Boston politico who went on to a rich and rewarding career as a strategic consultant to businesses around the world, arranged an office for me at his company, FTI Consulting, just a few blocks away along State Street. I finished the book there, thanks to the gracious hospitality provided by Bob Duffy, FTI’s head man in Boston, and by senior managing director Stephen Coulombe. The office was ideal: spacious and quiet, with all the amenities. In addition to Bob and Steve, I’d like to thank others at FTI, especially Maria Dillon, who could not have been more helpful to me; Brian Quinn, who was always ready with tech support; and my two office neighbors, Mark Murphy and Gabe Bresler.
Thanks also to three researchers who helped me a lot along the way: John McDermott, Allen Vaughan, and Matt Herrick. John stationed himself at the Boston Public Library microfilm department for months on my behalf, no doubt straining his eyes as he reviewed and copied old newspaper articles about Ted Williams dating from 1939 to 1960. This was no easy job, as there were sometimes as many as nine papers published in the city during that period. The result was what has to be the definitive clip file on Williams, organized by year, which provided me with the organizational spine of his years with the Red Sox. Allen Vaughan, a graduate student at Northeastern University’s School of Journalism, helped me track down and interview some of Ted’s old Red Sox teammates. Talking to these old-timers was my first order of business, since they were all, of course, old, and one couldn’t be sure how long they would live. One measure of how long I worked on this book is that, of the six-hundred-odd people interviewed, more than thirty, as of this writing, have since died. Matt Herrick, a brilliant young Wheaton College graduate who loved baseball, was a right hand to me from 2004 through 2007—transcribing interviews, helping me cross-reference my burgeoning files by subject area, creating detailed time lines of what Williams did each year from 1937 to 2002, helping me track down and interview a spate of new people I discovered in Ted’s private address book, and also conducting substantive interviews himself, such as those with some of the Washington Senators players Williams managed as well as with some of the people who took care of Ted at the end of his life. Tragically, Matt died suddenly while hiking in Maine in January of 2009. I think of him often and miss him, so this book is in part dedicated to his memory. Thanks also to my old friend Steve Burgard, director of the Northeastern University School of Journalism, who, with the hel
p of Professor Link McKie, put me in touch with Allen Vaughan and another Northeastern journalism student, Sam Perkins. On deadline, Sam quickly and skillfully helped me put all my chapter notes in order after I betrayed my lack of computer skills and submitted them to Little, Brown in the wrong form when the book was nearing completion.
Claudia Williams, Ted’s younger daughter, overcame her initial reluctance and gave me lots of her time and precious access to her father’s private papers, letters, journals, wartime pilot’s logs, fishing logs, and family photos, among other material. Thanks also to Claudia’s husband, Eric Abel, a lawyer who was a confidant both to Ted and to his son, John-Henry. Eric generously gave me as much time as I needed and was always available to answer any question I had, however minor. Peter Sutton, the Williams family lawyer based in Boston, also gave me a lot of his time, opened doors, and was a constant source of encouragement. Thanks also to Al Cassidy, a longtime Williams family friend who served as the executor of Ted’s estate, for the many interviews I conducted with him.
Bobby-Jo Williams Ferrell, Ted’s older daughter, also gave me considerable time and access to family photos as well as to poems written by her mother, Ted’s first wife, Doris Soule. Thanks also to Bobby-Jo’s lawyer in the cryonics case, John Heer, who was always accessible and helpful to me; her husband, Mark Ferrell; and her daughter Dawn Hebding.
Ted’s nephews, the sons of his brother, Danny—namesake Ted Williams and Sam Williams—were generous with their time, and Ted kindly let me use historic photos from the May Williams collection. Williams cousins Manuel and Salvador Herrera, Dee Allen, Gino Lucero, Charles Venzor, Daniel Venzor, and Frank Venzor all contributed helpful interviews, as did family members Virginia and Ron Amidon and David Ronquillo.
In addition, I am grateful to Ted Williams’s loves, including two of his wives and three of his girlfriends, two of whom he proposed to. Ted’s second wife, Lee Howard, gave me a lot of time, and over the years she would kindly call me to say hello and check on my progress. Ted’s third wife, Dolores Williams, the mother of John-Henry and Claudia, was helpful and thoughtful in discussing her years with Ted. Thanks to Nelva More and Isabel Gilmore, who candidly discussed their romances with Ted in the 1950s and his marriage proposals to them. And I’m grateful to Nancy Barnard Cafiero, who played hard to get for Ted in Sarasota and Boston. Rob Kaufman gave me insights into the relationship between his mother, Louise Kaufman, and Ted, who lived together from 1974 until Louise died in 1993. Thanks also to Joe Bastarache and Albert Christiano for discussing details of the relationship between Williams and Evelyn Turner in the 1950s. Bastarache was the executor of Turner’s estate, and Christiano is her son.
The Kid: The Immortal Life of Ted Williams Page 101
