Alex Skillin: Remembering the Great Daubach
#23 isn’t a number that quite deserves to be retired by the Red Sox, or hung up beside far more venerable numbers (#8, #9, or #27 immediately spring to mind) within Fenway Park’s hallowed walls. But for any Red Sox fan who followed the team in the late-90s or early-2000s, the #23 still holds a special place in the club’s history.
A wide variety of Red Sox coaches and players have worn the number dating all the way back to 1931. Don Zimmer wore the uniform during his final season as manager in 1980, the immortal Luis Tiant during his buoyant days in Boston from 1971-1978, and, more recently, largely forgettable types like Ramon Vasquez, Joey Gathright, and Danny Valencia have donned the #23.
Just over a decade ago, though, a minor league journeyman named Brian Daubach came to Boston, and I would argue that, in his own self-effacing way, few better Red Sox players have ever worn the number. Daubach himself is a remarkable story, a player who, after the Mets drafted him in 1990, spent eight seasons in the minors before making his major league debut with the Marlins in 1998.
His first hit came off none other than Curt Schilling in a pinch-hit at-bat during a game in late September. Yet after the season, the Marlins—apparently unimpressed with the 35 home runs Daubach hit in Triple-A that year—cut the 26-year-old loose. Luckily, the Red Sox and general manager Dan Duquette had taken note and, in a most Duquette-ian signing, scooped up the first baseman in a move that caused little stir around baseball.
From the start, Daubach’s Red Sox career proceeded with storybook flair. During his first game for Boston that April, he hit a double, a triple, and knocked in two runs. The debut proved to be but a sign of things to come, as Daubach finished the season with a .294/.360/.562 line in 420 plate appearances, while placing fourth in the American League Rookie of the Year voting.
Even beyond these accolades, however, some sense of the fairy tale always surrounded Daubach. His endearing backstory, combined with a near-pathological penchant for hot streaks at the plate, endowed him with what felt like mythical qualities. In a way only baseball is quite able to generate improbable narratives, Daubach became a most unlikely hero.
I myself was at Fenway in 1999 for one of Daubach’s most noteworthy hot streaks. It was mid-August in Boston, the air hot and heavy, and despite a 64-51 record coming into the day, the Red Sox already sat 6.5 games behind a dominant Yankees team.
But we had Pedro, who, to our great fortune, was slated to start that day. When the Red Sox took the field, however, Pedro was nowhere to be seen, and instead, mop-up man Bryce Florie took the mound. Now, nothing against Florie, who I’m sure is a nice enough guy, but one can understand the disappointed reaction from the Fenway Faithful when Pedro didn’t come walking from the dugout in the first inning.
I still remember one despondent fan behind us who kept asking aloud, “Where’s Pedro? Where’s Pedro?” In a world without Twitter or even cell phones, no answer came.
Fortunately, the Red Sox didn’t need Pedro, as the offense scored 13 runs and knocked Seattle starter John Halama out of the game by the fourth inning. Things eventually grew grim enough for the Mariners that Lou Piniella got himself ejected, first throwing his hat, and then kicking and screaming his way back to the dugout as Fenway rose in frenzied, irreverent applause.
The real story, though, was Daubach, who followed up a 3-for-5 effort the day prior by going 5 for 5 with a home run and six RBI. Each time he came to the plate, Daubach’s chances of getting a hit only grew more and more certain, becoming, ultimately, altogether guaranteed and inevitable. The Mariners could not get him out, no matter what their pitchers threw, and after Daubach lined a single into right field for his fifth hit, I seriously wondered if any pitcher would ever get Brian Daubach out again.
To my nine-year-old self, something impossibly enthralling radiated from Daubach and his streakiness. Even at that age, I realized most days at the ballpark brought a certain acceptance of failure, that even the best major league hitters were limited by how hard an endeavor hitting a baseball actually is. For me, Daubach represented the fanciful possibility that, at least on some days, you might come to the park, and no pitcher, no matter how good they were, would be able to get you out.
More widely, Daubach’s origins made him a compelling figure for a Boston fan base that, prior to the astounding success of its sports teams in the 2000s, still maintained a nasty, unshakeable inferiority complex. At the time, the Yankees always won, and the Red Sox never did. In an unfortunate way, much of life in Boston revolved around that very fact.
Daubach’s blue-collar nature struck just the right chord in a city that has always idolized its sports figures. He brought with him an undeniable innocence, not just because of his surprise success, but also due to the unassuming manner in which he carried himself.
In the years since that summer, the remarkable changes to Boston’s sports scene and the unpredictable way in which the past is remembered have partially obscured Daubach’s exploits. Yet to many fans, especially those who were young like me, Daubach created an impression nearly as impactful as any championship victory or champagne celebration. In a palpable way, each Daubach at-bat carried a heightened sense of possibility I will never quite forget.
Alex Skillin is a writer and editor at Beyond the Box Score and also contributes to a few other places across the Internet. Follow him on Twitter @AlexSkillin for more Brian Daubach-related blatherings.
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