Tony C's Pain Could End Only With His Death

Life is better than death. We rage, rage at the dying of the light. But Tony Conigliaro was an exception. Though he was only 45, those who knew him and cared about him were relieved at his passing Feb. 24.

``For eight years I cried for Tony,'' his mother Theresa said. ``He suffered so much. God finally took him, and now he's at peace.''

In a nutshell, the story of Tony C, as he was called, is the saddest I've ever known in sports. He may have been the unluckiest man on the face of the earth. When things were at their best for him, fate struck him down in the cruelest ways possible.

I once wrote a biography of Tony C, as he was called. It was titled ``Up from Despair'' and was written as he was making a startling comeback from a Jack Hamilton fastball that shattered his face and destroyed his vision in 1967. The comeback was cut short. The book could not have been more inaccurately titled.

No one had more going for himself than Tony C. Tall, swarthy and good looking, he was a hometown hero in Boston, especially in its large, passionate Italian community. A right-handed slugger, he had perhaps the classic Fenway Park swing.

He was and remains the youngest American League home-run champion, hitting 32 at age 20 in 1965. At 22, he was the youngest in major-league history to reach 100 homers. He did that in '67, as the 100-1 Red Sox were driving toward their Impossible Dream pennant.

Then Hamilton threw his fateful fastball. Conigliaro's helmet fell off as he jerked his head back, exposing the left side of his face. He saw the ball all the way but couldn't avoid it as it sailed up and in. The sound of ball on flesh could be heard by everyone in Fenway, including his parents. It was sickening.

The broken bones in his face healed, but Conigliaro's vision was impaired by retina damage. In desperation, his father asked doctors if his eye could be taken out to replace his son's. Conigliaro was out the rest of the season and all of '68. Then, miraculously, the vision improved. He came back to hit 56 home runs and drive in 198 runs in '69 and '70. Then the Red Sox broke his heart by trading him to the Angels. His eyesight began to fail again, and he lasted only half the season. A final abortive comeback with the Red Sox ended after 21 games in 1975.

Conigliaro meandered after that. He opened a health food store, worked as an agent, did some broadcasting. But he longed to return to Boston. It seemed he would. On Jan. 7, 1982 - his 37th birthday - he had an excellent audition with WSKB for an analyst job on Red Sox telecasts. ``I've got the job, I'm happy, I'm coming back home,'' he told his mother.

He was bubbly in the car two days later as brother Billy drove him to the airport. If he couldn't play for the Sox, this was the next-best thing. He was still immensely popular in town. Again, nothing but blue skies ahead.

It was the last happiness he'd ever know. On the way to Logan International, Conigliaro suffered a massive heart attack. He ate well, never smoked, jogged five miles a day and seemed in perfect health. It shouldn't have happened, but it did.

Racing at 90 miles per hour, Billy got his brother to the hospital in time to save his life, but not his mind. He had stopped breathing long enough to do permanent brain damage. For the eight more years he would live - no, not live, remain alive - he needed constant care. He had to be fed through a tube in his stomach. He was in a deep twilight state, not fully aware of his surroundings, helpless, hopeless.

``Sometimes I'd pass Tony in the room, say something to him, and he'd start coughing,'' Billy said. ``And he'd cough non-stop for two or three hours. He suffered so much.''

We should be writing about Tony Conigliaro's induction into the Hall of Fame about now. Instead, we must write his obituary. It's the saddest sports story I've ever known.