A.J. Pierzynski was wearing nothing but shorts and a gray “Ozzie Ball” T-shirt in front of his locker the other day, having just removed a white headband that made him resemble the last Chicago sports icon considered so punky.
Long after the catcher’s gear had come off, Pierzynski’s armor remained. It is a layer of inner protection that makes the White Sox catcher one of league’s most defensive players regardless of fielding percentage.
“I don’t understand it,” Pierzynski said of the inordinate amount of attention he has received for popping up in nearly every pivotal play during the White Sox’s postseason.
Pierzynski cannot escape it. The player who used to be Public Enemy No. 1 at U.S. Cellular Field as a member of the Minnesota Twins now fits into the South Side culture as ideally as Jimbo’s. If Paul Konerko is the soul of the Sox, Pierzynski is the guts, even if he has resisted the glory that has come his way.
He will be in the center of it all again Saturday at the Cell for the first World Series game in Chicago in 46 years, thriving in an environment where not much ever pierces the inner Pierzynski.
“They say you only get what you can handle,” Pierzynski said as reporters crowded his locker. “I’ve been through a lot worse than this. The best part is I didn’t do anything wrong. You read stuff and see stuff and people saying I was trying to cheat (by running out a dropped third strike against the Angels, or by tipping Steve Finley’s bat before a double-play grounder). That’s ridiculous.”
Pierzynski seemed to be the only person surprised by a recent comparison to former NBA bad boy Bill Laimbeer. And if American League players were polled, the majority probably would believe Pierzynski’s initials A.J. stood for Antagonistic Jerk.
“I don’t know why I’m becoming a villain,” Pierzynski said. “I don’t go out and get technical fouls. You guys are going to say what you’re going to say and sometimes I think it’s bull. But what am I going to do?”
Remembering a friend
He tends not to talk about it much, if at all, because guys as tough as Pierzynski often equate wistful with weakness.
But in the quiet moments this week, after reporters had cleared the crowded clubhouse and his thoughts drifted to where the road to the World Series began for him, Pierzynski thought of an old friend.
The friend he wishes were still here to enjoy his success, the next-door neighbor in Clermont, Fla., he became buddies with as a toddler. The friend who died of cancer seven years ago at the age of 23.
Scott Muhlhan, a lifelong friend and baseball teammate of Pierzynski’s at Dr. Phillips High School, has popped up in the White Sox catcher’s head the last few days between thoughts of Roger Clemens and Brad Lidge.
Besides packing even more meaning into the most important week of Pierzynski’s professional life, memories of his friend’s death also have provided Pierzynski perspective as his bigger-than-life persona expands into a Chicago neighborhood shared by Jim McMahon and Dennis Rodman.
“I knew [Muhlhan] for so long that you always look back on that stuff, especially now, and wish he was here, or could be here,” Pierzynski said. “He was one of my best friends and his brother [Eric] was best man at my wedding. It was tough … We were so close, and you don’t ever want to see someone young die like that.”
Pierzynski served as a pall bearer at the funeral, in January 1998, and he reconnected with the woman who would become his wife, Lisa. He considered that more than coincidence, and it was one sign he was not going to miss.
“I guess something good came out of it all because we got married a year later, and now we have a daughter [Ava],” Pierzynski said. “It was sad, but it brought us together.”
Hearing Pierzynski talk with sensitivity about being a good father and husband might sound as incongruous to some as hearing Dick Butkus recite poetry.
That only means he has succeeded in crafting an image that makes him known around baseball as a human splinter, a player who gets under people’s skin on the field, in the dugout or in the clubhouse.
Growing up
Danny Allie, Pierzynski’s high school baseball coach, says his former backstop had a knack for being the backdrop for drama. After hitting a walk-off home run in a prep World Series game in 1992, for instance, Pierzynski offended the opposing coach by flipping his bat and smiling as he admired his shot.
During a recruiting trip to the University of Tennessee, the devoted Florida Gators fan drew the ire of some Volunteers fans during a football game by cheering when the scoreboard showed UT rival Florida beating Kentucky.
The only child of divorced parents who was coached by his step-dad, Jack Harrelson, in Little League, Pierzynski was never shy.
“People were always complaining about something with A.J.,” recalled Allie, who now runs a baseball school in Cleveland. “But he could walk the walk and he worked hard. All the stuff you hear about him … I know the real A.J.”
The real A.J., to Allie, is the guy who took time to visit Allie’s daughter, Brittani, when she was receiving treatment for leukemia. The guy who stayed in touch with the girl after she was in remission.
“I love the guy,” Allie said. “He’s really grown up a lot.”
Much of the maturation came around the same time he was mourning the death of his friend, Muhlhan, whom Pierzynski “looked up to,” Allie said.
In the season before Muhlhan died, 1997, Pierzynski approached the game so lackadaisically that John Russell, his Class A manager in Fort Myers, Fla., did not play him for the first 10 games of the season. When Pierzynski, then 20, asked Russell why he wasn’t playing, the manager told him he had not earned the right.
The following spring, a month after Muhlhan’s funeral, the Twins invited Pierzynski to major-league spring training. He still was moping around when Twins bullpen coach Rick Stelmaszek helped redirect Pierzynski with a rant that included slamming a bat on a table to make a point.
“It took a while for A.J. to wake up and look in the mirror,” his mother, Mary Jane Harrelson, acknowledged. “I think once he got back with [Lisa] and got married, he changed a lot.”
Indeed, the summer after he reconciled with Lisa, Pierzynski improved enough to earn two promotions and a September call-up by the Twins. He made his major-league debut on Sept. 9, 1998.
“John Russell kind of took me under his wing,” Pierzynski said of the former major-league catcher and current Pirates coach who caught Nolan Ryan’s sixth no-hitter. “I [stunk]. I made 20 errors one year in A ball as a catcher. He was kind of like my adopted dad.”
Russell, a manager in the Twins’ organization for eight years, remembers working out daily with Pierzynski to lengthen his throwing motion. He also recalled talking him through some challenging emotional moments when Pierzynski’s biggest strength–his intensity–threatened to jeopardize his relationship with touchy teammates.
“He became the kind of player he is now because he matured a lot,” Russell said in a telephone interview. “Once he got over the mental side, knowing he belonged and knowing pitchers would respect and listen to what he said, he was fine. It takes a while to get that respect.”
Peers may not like Pierzynski, but respect has grown for a guy whose work ethic no longer comes under scrutiny. Any list of fans begins with White Sox general manager Ken Williams, who spent 10 hours on the phone investigating Pierzynski’s past.
“Everything we hoped for,” Williams said.
Once considered a slacker, Pierzynski now takes immense pride in fitting in among hardscrabble South Siders because of the verve with which he punches the clock.
“Our fans sort of mesh with our team, a bunch of blue-collar guys who haven’t been given everything and work their tail off every day,” Pierzynski said. “It’s amazing how sometimes a team takes the shape of their fans, and that’s kind of what happened here. It’s worked out great.”
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dhaugh@tribune.com
