On August 18th, 1967, Tony Conigliaro left Fenway Park on a stretcher.
He got hit in the face by a fastball that shattered his left cheekbone, dislocated his jaw, and put a hole in his retina.
He later told Sports Illustrated that if he’d been hit a few inches higher, he wouldn’t have made it out alive.
Later on, some of his teammates told him they thought he stopped breathing.
“I never passed out, and I kind of wish I did because I fell to the ground, and my eyes and my face puffed up,” Conigliaro said.
“I had my hands over my face. I could barely breathe, and I heard a loud ringing sound. And I thought that the chances were I wouldn’t make it. And I asked God to keep me alive at that point because I knew I was in rough shape.”
The injury was so severe that a priest administered the last rites.
Jack Hamilton, the pitcher who delivered the errant pitch, later told The New York Times, “I know in my heart I wasn’t trying to hit him. I never hit a guy that hard in my life. He went right down.”
Up until that tragic moment, Tony C was a hometown hero and a rising young star.
He went to high school just a few miles from Fenway Park and signed with the Red Sox at 17 years old.
Two years later, he made Boston’s big league roster and never looked back.
By age 22, he’d already hit 104 career home runs to go with a stellar .276 batting average and .339 on-base percentage.
He was the youngest American League player in history to reach 100 career homers.
Fansided cited his two closest comparables as Bryce Harper and Juan Soto up to that point.
His teammate Carl Yastrzemski once said, “He was so cocky, he knew he’d beat the pitcher with the game on the line.”
But after the life-threatening moment on that fateful night in 1967, medical experts doubted that Tony would ever play again.
And even if he did, it was highly unlikely he’d be the same All-Star caliber player.
“Baseball was always my life, and there’s nothing else in the world I’d rather do than play baseball. All of a sudden, the game was taken away from me. Well, the first four days, I locked myself in my room, and I didn’t wanna talk to anybody.”
A few months after the injury, Tony went for an eye exam. He could see the big “E” at the top of the chart, but nothing else.
His whole body felt weak. He said that he was more scared than he’d ever been in his life.
After more extensive testing, the official results came in.
Tony had a blind spot caused by a cyst in his left eye. In the very same part that enables the judging of speed and distance.
Not ideal for a guy getting paid to hit major league fastballs.
But despite his doctor’s objections, Tony insisted on returning to the field.
Thousands of fans from all over the country sent him letters. In fact, six people even offered him their eyes.
Deep down, Tony knew that if he could just get healthy, he’d be able to hit again.
So he played pepper in his backyard with his younger brother every single day.
The first time, he whiffed on a few pitches and was so disgusted with himself that he quit.
“I remember throwing the bat against the fence and running inside the house. I was just dying to get back into the pennant race, and here I couldn’t even play ball with my kid brother.”
When he finally got the courage to return to Fenway Park, he asked Moe, the Red Sox bat boy, to throw him batting practice.
Tony hit weak grounders to short, soft fly balls to left, and the occasional foul tip.
It was a bleak picture.
He went into that offseason wondering if his dreams of a comeback were even realistic.
He called those months “the most miserable” of his life.
But he kept working. And by the spring of 1968, he started gaining confidence at the plate again.
To avoid getting hurt, he started spring training six inches back from his normal spot at the plate.
To make up for the extra distance, he increased the length of his bat by an inch and a half, and the weight by two ounces.
In his first exhibition game, he hit a single and a double.
Slowly, he started inching closer to the plate. Things were finally looking up.
Until it all came crashing down again.
Sitting in the dugout one afternoon, Tony pointed out a light pole to his teammate.
He said, “I can’t see the light on top of it.”
During the next few games, he felt worse and worse at the plate.
He wasn’t able to track the ball anymore. And that’s when he knew he was in trouble.
After another round of tests, his doctor broke the news, telling Tony, “It’s not safe for you to play ball anymore.”
The cyst in his eye had burst during spring training, leaving a hole in his retina.
His vision had gone from 20/100 to 20/300 – making him legally blind in his left eye.
Any form of exercise, even jogging, would risk a detached retina and career-ending surgery.
That night, Tony C put out a statement announcing that he’d miss at least the entire 1968 season.
He signed off with a sentence that predicted his future, even at his lowest point.
“This is what is important to me, and I want all these friends to know that I’m not going to quit and that somehow, some way, there will be good days again.”
But just as he was closing the book on his baseball career, he received a message that seemed like it was sent from heaven.
The vision in his left eye had suddenly improved to 20/100.
His doctor could not explain it, saying, “An entire healing process seems to be taking place.”
And just like that, the comeback was on.
More optimistic than ever, Tony called Moe, the Red Sox bat boy, to throw him BP again.
It was a night and day difference.
He hit one ball so far that Moe said, “That ball won’t come down in Kenmore Square for days.”
By the fall, Tony could actually see the spin on the ball clearly.
His eye kept improving, and doctors still couldn’t find an explanation.
The blind spot was gone, and his vision was almost back to normal. The only remnant of his injury was a small piece of scar tissue.
Then, on April 8th, 1969 – a year and a half after his life-altering injury – Conigliaro made his miraculous return to Major League Baseball.
The opening game went to extra innings. And in a 2-2 count in the tenth inning of his first big league game in 600 days, Tony did the unthinkable.
“I hit Richert’s next pitch about as hard and well as I’ve ever hit a ball in my life, sending it over the left-field fence for a home run,” he said.
“My God, I did it. I really did it. I ran the bases as though I was floating. I was grinning like a little boy.”
The momentum of that moment carried him through the rest of the season.
In 141 games, Tony hit 20 homers with 82 RBIs, winning the Comeback Player of the Year award.
The following season – joined by his brother, Billy, in the Red Sox outfield – Tony set new career highs with 36 homers and 116 RBI.
The brothers combined for 54 homers that year, the most ever hit by a pair of siblings playing for the same team.
But in 1975, his vision started to fade, forcing him to retire from baseball at 30 years old.
Sadly, his health struggles didn’t end there.
In 1982, he suffered a heart attack, stroke, and permanent brain damage.
He never fully recovered and ultimately passed away eight years later at the age of 45.
Today, his legacy lives on in the form of the Tony Conigliaro Award.
Every year, the award is presented to the MLB player who best overcomes a major obstacle and continues to thrive through adversity.
Each winner embodies the “spirit, determination, and courage” that were Tony’s trademarks.
Recent recipients include Tim Hill, Liam Hendriks, Jose Cuas, and Trey Mancini.
While most people view Tony’s career as a tragic “what could have been” story, I see it differently.
Yes, it’s a reminder of the fragility of life. But it’s also a testament to the power of the human spirit.
The will to overcome the odds when everyone in the world is doubting you.
With not only his baseball career, but his life, hanging in the balance, Tony fought back with everything he had.
Doctors said it was medically impossible. Fans thought he’d never be the same player. He even doubted himself many times along the way.
But he went out and did it anyway. Not only did he make it back to the MLB level, but he set new career highs in the process.
His story proves that you can do anything you set your mind to.
Now enshrined in the Boston Red Sox Hall of Fame, Tony C will forever be remembered as a legend of the game.
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