The cluster of developments and golf courses rises from a deadly freeze that destroyed orange groves along U.S. 27 a decade ago.
Sam McDowell looks across this once barren hillside, inspired by visions of second chances.
There was a time when McDowell, consumed by alcohol and self-loathing, was left for dead too. Once among the most dominating power pitchers in baseball in the mid-’60s, McDowell drank himself out of baseball. His addictive thirst brought financial ruin and destroyed family ties.
Sam McDowell, the man who once couldn’t help himself, now dreams of a utopian paradise for retired athletes. His vision stretches over 2 1/2 miles, bracketed by a hospital and world-class training facility in Clermont, Fla., and a fledging concept called the City of Legends.
“There’s no need for redemption,” McDowell said. “Addiction is a disease. It has to do with my second career, or my second life, and that is a therapist. My formal training to try and help people, and I believe in this. That’s why I do it.
“Where else would you find a dumb left-hander not accepting one single penny, taking nothing but money out of his pocket to put this all together, and know and understand I’m not going to get anything in return. I don’t care.
McDowell cares, all right.
He sees a home for retired baseball, football and basketball players, a place that offers something much more meaningful than a chance to sit around and debate the merits of the designated hitter or whether Don Shula was a better football coach than Vince Lombardi.
South Lake Hospital will provide care for broken and disabled bodies. The USA Triathlon National Training Center offers state-of-the-art equipment and rehabilitation facilities. There is an Olympic size training pool outside the building. Three golf courses, with no greens fees for retired athletes. A number of developers will offer homes ranging from a few million dollars to a modest $70,000.
McDowell, 60, is thinking about his people, not the athletes of this generation with the mansion and three Cadillac Escalades.
Athletes from the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s missed the financial boon in sports (MzcDowell made no more than $75,000 in his prime), and they can struggle with the monthly grind of paying bills after retiring.
The concept has morphed into something very tangible. Folks of influence are on board with McDowell. All that is needed are bodies to start moving in to make it click.
McDowell said he expects negotiations with the NFL Retired Players Association and Major League Baseball Alumni Association to be finalized within a few months.
“Sam goes out,” said retired baseball player Denny Doyle, “and stirs with a big stick.”
Big enough to shake a sleepy town along the shores of an 11-acre lake.
“When all of this is put together, this will become as well-known and as popular as your theme parks, but for a different reason,” McDowell said. “When it comes to amateur and professional sports, this will be known as the center of the nation.”
McDowell came about this quite by circumstance. He became one of the owners of the Diamond Players Club golf course in 1997, and was asked by his partners to help manage two other golf courses in Central Florida.
During the course of business, he met Mike McBath, a former NFL player (Buffalo Bills) who is an investments consultant in Central Florida and former president of the NFL Retired Players Association.
“I understood what he was trying to do with the City of Legends and he understood my access to professional athletes,” McBath said. “This thing blended together very nicely.”
The baseball union had tried to establish a retirement community in Lakeland, Fla., and that fell through. Ditto for efforts by football folks to get something going in St. Augustine.
Seeing a community literally rising before his eyes in Clermont, McDowell though to himself, “My God, this would be perfect if we could pull it all together.”
So McDowell began pitching, and he brought his fastball. At 6 feet 5 and carrying an ample waistline–the eggs and bacon sandwich for lunch recently might provide some clues–McDowell is a big man with bigger aspirations.
“When I first started talking about this they said it couldn’t be done,” McDowell said. “You know you don’t tell an athlete he can’t do something.”
He started chatting up his neighbors–“doctors, lawyers, hospital people, what have you”–making sure the concept was not going to rely on one individual or component.
Soon enough, folks started coming on board: Dr. Michael Ray, a Clermont-based orthopedic surgeon. Clermont Mayor Harold Turville, now on the board of directors of McDowell’s organization. McBath, who brought nationwide contacts of former NFL players, 800 of whom recently expressed an interest (through a questionnaire) in moving into the City of Legends.
“Sam has that passion,” said Dot Richardson, a two-time Olympic gold medalist in softball and director of the USA Triathlon National Training Center, “and sees the needs.”
There has been no news conference, no advertising blitz, just effective networking from McDowell, Nola Lingle (his executive assistant), McBath and Ray. McDowell said he has yet to enjoy the perks of the community, which means no golf.
He hasn’t had the time.
McDowell doesn’t give you the syrupy sales pitch. His words are economical and practical, a nice change of pace for a man who wasted so much of his life.
He pitched for four teams from 1961 through 1975, stringing together his most effective run while pitching for the Cleveland Indians. “Sudden” Sam could bring the heat, striking out 866 batters and winning 53 games between 1968 and 1970. But it all unraveled in a drunken binge.
A man once labeled “the next Koufax” saw his career end ignominiously, reduced to bullpen work for the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1975.
The foggy haze continued until 1980 in his parents’ house in Pittsburgh. McDowell was $190,000 in debt, alone after his wife and children had left him, when he cried out to the demons:
“You beat me! You beat me!”
An athlete is used to mental discipline. McDowell once took on a clubhouse bet and quit smoking for a year without a problem. So why couldn’t he put down the bottle? He figured he was crazy.
Unable to take the mental anguish anymore, McDowell decided to sober up.
He had heard of a Gateway treatment clinic in Pittsburgh, but wasn’t sure if that was the right place to treat his drinking problem. Unsure of the proper business name, he called the operator and asked to be connected to Gateway. Pittsburgh, though, had dozens of businesses that started with the same name.
“I think I know which one you want,” the operator said, correctly guessing the Gateway Rehabilitation Center.
McDowell did rehab for 28 days, cleared his debts without declaring bankruptcy, and earned an Associate’s Degree in sports psychology and addictions from the University of Pittsburgh.
In 1983, he was hired by the Texas Rangers to establish a sports psychology program and has worked for various organizations since then, including the Baseball Assistance Team, which helps retired baseball players.
He can laugh about the whole thing now.
“One beer and you get labeled,” McDowell said jokingly.
There are other reasons to celebrate beyond sobriety these days. Eighteen months ago he pulled into a Florida Kmart asking for directions to a high school baseball banquet. He approached the first person he saw. The conversation got a little deeper than right- and left-handed turns. Sam and Eva McDowell celebrated their first wedding anniversary May 5.
A man who expected to retire in 1998 continues to reinvent the final chapters of his life. McDowell estimates that he has spent between $55,000 and $60,000 of his money for this altruistic project, with the chance of financial gains minimal except for his role as a facilitator for paid appearances for the athletes at corporate functions. “And that’s at the end of the rainbow,” McBath said.
“Sam likes the camaraderie,” McBath said. “Pro athletes certainly are special, but some have shortcomings–whether it’s financial, physical or alcohol or drug abuse. He has a sincere desire to help.”
Samuel Edward Thomas McDowell has found something else to do with life after retirement. The man who couldn’t help himself dreams big these days.
“We have a pliable–you see it–it’s physically here,” McDowell said. “It’s not a dream, some thingamajig.
“It’s all here.”
