Ronnie Hassey and The Velveteen Rabbit

In the famous children’s book The Velveteen Rabbit, one of the characters is called the Skin Horse – a stuffed animal that was loved so much by a little boy that all of its fur was worn off. So, with no fur left, the remaining skin defined it.  The Skin Horse is the wise one in the story.  A mentor to the Velveteen Rabbit – the new stuffed animal that a boy gets in his Christmas stocking.  The Velveteen Rabbit character – it doesn’t want to be just a plaything. It wants to be Real.  And it is the Skin Horse who helps it get there. 

I still have my copy.

If the Velveteen Rabbit were a baseball game, the Skin Horse would be the catcher.  Crouched down behind home plate, the catcher tells the pitcher which pitches to throw.  The catcher gets hit in the face mask by fastballs.  The catcher occasionally takes a swinging bat off the helmet.  The catcher blocks home plate when the runner barrels in like a freight train, trying to score a run.  And when the game is over, it is the pitcher who gets carried off the field on the shoulders of teammates.  Or maybe the fella who hit the final homerun to win the game.  Everyone remembers the pitchers and the hitters.  But few remember the catchers. 

This is David Wells being carried off the field by his teammates after his perfect game. The catcher (Jorge Posada), who told him which pitches to toss didn’t make the photo.

A perfect game in baseball is when every player from the opposing team makes an out consecutively.  No hits.  No walks.  27 players head to the plate, and none of the 27 ever reach first base. 27 up. 27 down. From the time that major league baseball began, perfect games have been thrown only twenty-four times.  And with more than 240,000 games played (I asked AI), the odds of a perfect game are 1 in 10,000.  Sandy Koufax threw a perfect game.  So did Cy Young, and Seattle Mariners great Randy Johnson.  No pitcher has ever thrown two perfect games.  But guess what?  A guy by the name of Ron Hassey – he was the catcher for two of them.  Once in 1981, and again in 1991.

Ron Hassey as a New York Yankee, 1986. Photo by Focus on Sport/Getty Images

Two perfect games.  Two different Teams.  Two different decades.  And, almost nobody remembers Ron Hassey.  And that’s my point. 

Ron Hassey and the Velveteen Rabbit’s Skin Horse. 

One is a fictional character in a children’s book.  The other was a gritty Major League Baseball player.  Yet, they have so much in common.  Actors in supporting roles – neither interesting nor renowned.  To the Velveteen Rabbit, the Skin Horse is safe.  To Denny Martinez and Len Barker - the two pitchers who tossed perfect games - Ron Hassey wasn't just a catcher. He was trust. On one perfect day for each of them, Hassey knew exactly what had to be done to reveal the pitchers' true talents.

I used to pay more attention to people who were louder or who cranked out the best stories. They make people laugh.  You know, the ones who walk into a room and then become the room.  A lot of people are like this. We mistake volume for importance. Assuming the person with the microphone is the person worth listening to.  Then life happens.

It just takes getting smashed to the ground a few times to discover that the people who helped you the most never even got to witness your success. They were the ones who listened without trying to overhaul your engine. They were the ones who didn't need to yap about themselves because they were genuinely interested in learning about you. They were the ones who made you feel a little better just because they happened to be there.

I've met a few people like that over the years.  No fame.  No social media disciples. I mean, seriously, how many people scroll through Tony Robbins videos rather than talking to a real, live person? The ones I am talking about don't command attention when they walk into a room. In fact, they usually do the exact opposite. They quietly find a seat. They smile. They listen. And if you're lucky enough to have a conversation with them, you’ll feel lighter than you did before you sat down.

Maybe that's their gift.

I think people like that almost never know the effect they have on others. They think they're ordinary. They don't realize that their calmness settles anxious people. They don't know that their kindness gives us permission to be kind. They ought to know that their silence often says more than someone else's endless talking.  Kindness doesn’t need an audience. 

Something else I’ve noticed…Some of the most beautiful people I've ever met weren't beautiful because of the symmetry of their faces, the color of their hair, or even the color of their eyes – although I have to admit, blue eyes have always been my favorite. They were beautiful because there was a gentleness behind those eyes. A softness. A quiet confidence.

I wonder how often Ron Hassey thinks about those two perfect games?  Not a lot of recognition for being the only person on planet earth to have ever done one thing. The Skin Horse certainly wasn't looking for recognition. Neither one needed applause to understand their worth. They found purpose in helping others become the best versions of themselves.

Every one of us has a Ron Hassey somewhere in our story. A parent, a teacher, a coach?  An old friend.  Or maybe a new one – because it often is not the length of a friendship that defines it.  People who don’t know what they mean to us.  How just by being themselves, they make a difference.  We remember them, don’t we?

This is NOT Ron Hassey taking the hit. But you see what I mean?

These days, I find myself hoping I become a little more like that. A little less interested in being remembered. A little more interested in making sure that my son leaves believing in himself just a little more than he did. Because in the end, that's what the Skin Horse did. That's what Ron Hassey did. And I suspect that's what the very best people among us have been doing all along.