thank you, dusty baker
By Brett Topel
There is no one in this world I look up to more than my father—because of the dad he is, and because of the man he is. Over the years, one of our closest bonds has been baseball. As die-hard Mets’ fans we have gone to countless games, lived and died with the blue and orange, and have even driven to Cooperstown to watch Tom Seaver and Mike Piazza be inducted into the Hall of Fame. For us, baseball is part of who we are—as individuals—and as father and son. That is why when my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2004—and I was helpless to do anything—I turned to baseball.
At the time, I was working as the Art Director for a magazine called The Week in New York City. That Monday morning after being told of my father’s diagnosis, I went to work and was consumed with the news. I remembered that I had read about Dusty Baker’s battle with prostate cancer several years earlier. He had survived and was back managing a major league team—the Chicago Cubs. In the interview, Baker was very upbeat and as proud as he could be that he had beaten the disease.
I sat at my desk and decided I was going to call Dusty Baker. I didn’t know the man, or anyone who knew him. I had written some free-lance baseball stories in the past so knew how to work the phones, though, and simply dialed the Cubs’ spring training facility in Mesa, Arizona. A lady picked up the phone and I asked if I could please speak to Dusty Baker. She transferred me to another lady, who said that I could leave a message for him, which I did. My message was pretty simple as I recall, “please tell Mr. Baker that my dad was just diagnosed with prostate cancer and I would like to speak to him.” I left my cell number.
I hung up, went about my day, and figured that would be it.
About three hours later, my cell phone rang. I answered and heard “Hey, this is Dusty Baker.” Stunned, I said, “Wow, thanks so much for calling me back.” Dusty got right down to business, “How is your dad? What is his PSA? What was the diagnosis?” I explained I didn’t really know any of that. He then said, “give me your dad’s phone number at work, I am going to give him a call after practice.”
I hung up and called my father, who is a dentist, because I knew he would have to alert his receptionist that she should put any call from a Dusty Baker through to him—no matter what he was doing. I called him and my father laughed, not really believing that I was serious. A few hours later, my father returned from treating a patient to his small private office where there was a yellow sticky on his phone, reading simply: “Dusty Baker called” along with a phone number.
He immediately called back and reached Baker, who kept referring to my father as “Doc.” They had a long conversation, talking about prostate cancer and how my dad was going to beat it. They talked for so long that it was actually my father who had to end the call so that he could see a waiting patient.
That call lifted my father’s spirits and—all of a sudden—his fight didn’t seem all that hard. Dusty Baker’s enthusiasm rubbed off on my father. Over the next few months, my father would go on to have successful surgery, and begin his recovery. Dusty was correct, my dad would beat it. And Dusty’s part in all of this, my whole family knew, was not a small one. My one regret was that I was never able to let Dusty know how important that one phone call was—how that one phone call lifted the spirits of a man—my Dad.
If it ended here, the story would have a happy ending—but it doesn’t end there.
In the fall of 2009, I was given a free-lance assignment by a national magazine to write about the life of a professional baseball scout. I had run into Mets’ scout Mack “Shooty” Babitt a year earlier and he agreed to allow me to shadow him during the Arizona Fall League. Babitt had had a cup of coffee as in infielder with the Oakland A’s in 1981 and was now considered one of the best scouts in the business. I flew out to Arizona and met him at a Scottsdale Scorpions game.
During the game, we started talking about Babitt’s playing days, players he stayed in touch with, etc. One of the names that came up was Dusty Baker, who was a close friend of Babitt’s. I said to Shooty, “man do I have a story for you.” I went on to tell him everything that Baker had done, how his phone call to me and my father meant the world to us, how it helped inspire my father’s recovery, etc. I told him my one regret was never being able to thank him. He nodded.
Babitt then took out his cell phone, dialed, greeted the person he had called and then said, “hold on one minute, I want you to speak to someone.” He handed me the phone and said, “now’s your chance to say thank you.”
I took the cell phone from Babitt and said “Hello?” Dusty Baker responded with the same enthusiasm he had had the first time we had spoken. The same enthusiasm he had had when he spoke to my Dad. We spoke for probably five or six minutes—he had remembered our conversation from years earlier, as well as the call with my Dad. I was able to thank him for everything. He just kept telling me how happy he was that my Dad was ok. I hung up and knew what I needed to do next.
It was nearly midnight in New York, but I had to tell my Dad that I had just spoken to Dusty—that I was able to thank him from both of us. My Dad was as excited about it as I was. “That’s so cool,” I remember him saying. It brought closure to what could have been a dark time in our family, only to be saved by baseball—and some good doctors. Me and my Dad—who has been cancer-free for the past 14 years—still text each other during every Mets’ game. Dusty and Shooty had teamed up to turn a huge double play for my family—and we won the game!
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Brett Topel is the author of five books, including the forthcoming Mount Rushmore of the New York Mets (March, 2021), Miracle Moments in New York Mets History, and When Shea Was Home. He is also the host of 'BT Talks Baseball.'
