Twenty years after his World Series moment, Scott Spiezio puts his life back together

Publish date: 2024-06-19

Editor’s Note: This story is included in The Athletic’s Best of 2022. View the full list.

MORRIS, Ill. — From the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, Scott Spiezio had turned yellow. His skin was discolored. He was clearly jaundiced. Yet he refused to go to the hospital.

It was April 4, 2018. And Spiezio had spent the last 13 years in a self-destructive spiral. Of all the inexplicable decisions he had made in that time, this was perhaps the most mind-boggling. He was ignoring indisputable signs of an at-risk liver.

Over the course of his decade-plus addiction, Spiezio was told numerous times that his liver enzymes were dangerously elevated. He often responded by staying clean just long enough to quell the danger, if not eliminate it. He didn’t take the threat seriously this time, either.

Spiezio saw a doctor who confirmed the suspected diagnosis. It was a disease that, if left untreated, could become extremely serious. He refused to be admitted. In fact, he continued drinking the next day. He asked his good friend and housemate, Tonia Boyer, to go get him Arby’s as she begged him to see a doctor.“I can call an ambulance,” Boyer said. “But he’s not dumb, he knows he can refuse an ambulance.”

Over the course of his addiction, Spiezio, a two-time World Series champion, got divorced twice. His net worth went down to almost nothing. He went to rehab 12 times. He was arrested five times, including once for domestic battery. His three oldest children all were adopted by their stepfather. His parents didn’t talk to him for years.

The health problems, physical and mental, also mounted. A year earlier, in 2017, Spiezio had been put on a ventilator at the hospital with a heart issue. A bad back and itchy skin accompanied his jaundice in 2018. At times he caught himself considering death to be the lesser of two evils.

Spiezio was not that far removed from his prime years as a professional athlete. His body had deteriorated under the pressure of consuming, on average, a gallon of vodka a day.

He drank again on April 5 — his final sip came at around 5:30 p.m., he said. It was Boyer’s threat to call his parents that finally got him to Morris Hospital on April 6.

The possibility of a liver transplant was brought up. When he called to tell his close friend Dave Wohlwend about the predicament, he acknowledged that he would not be able to get one. A transplant, he said, would require six months of sobriety. And that felt impossible.

“I always felt that I could come out of everything,” Spiezio said last month, reflecting on the moment. “Then there was part of me that felt, ‘Well, this is what you deserve.’”

Spiezio now is almost completely broke. He’s put on quite a bit of weight. His voice is raspy, and the once-cleanly cut soul patch that defined his look is scraggly and unkempt. But he’s sober.

After suffering through years of self-inflicted misery, Spiezio wants to share his story now for the thousands of other people and families who are struggling with addiction and its consequences.

“I think everyone has a different bottom that they hit,” Spiezio said. “This time I was thinking, ‘If I don’t stop now, I could die. And even if I don’t, three of my kids will be in college before I know it. I’m not going to be in my youngest son’s life at all. I’m going to lose everything.’ I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

Spiezio in the warehouse where he lives and teaches baseball.

‘You could see it was definitely not going to end well’

Twenty years ago, Spiezio hit the biggest home run in Angels history, blasting an arcing three-run shot with Anaheim on the brink of elimination in Game 6 against the Giants. The score had been 5-0; his blast made it 5-3. The Angels won 6-5 and clinched the title the following night.

There is no Angels World Series title without Spiezio. He collected 19 RBIs over the course of the postseason. He was again an October star four years later, sporting a bright red soul patch with the 2006 St. Louis Cardinals as they defeated the Tigers en route to a title.

Spiezio played parts of 12 seasons in the Major Leagues for four teams. He was a hero to swaths of fans in Anaheim and St. Louis.

But he let down those who knew him best – those who loved him and supported him, and lost him for years as he became a different person.

“I hurt people, mostly. I wouldn’t really care about hurting myself,” Spiezio said. “But the fact that I hurt other people is what bothers me. Especially my family and kids. I’m disappointed that I disappointed the town and my community.”

Spiezio was clean before this all happened. So clean that it was part of his personality. He believed he had addictive tendencies, susceptible to all the dangers and detriments that could eventually come his way.

For that reason, before first getting hooked, Spiezio almost never drank. He was even reluctant to take ibuprofen. He was married to his high school sweetheart, Amy. He was a baseball legend at Morris Community High School — the son of Cardinals World Series champion Ed Spiezio. He became a star at Illinois and was eventually called up by the A’s in 1996 to play alongside Mark McGwire, Jose Canseco and Jason Giambi.

After winning the 2002 World Series, his hometown threw him a party. Everyone packed the high school gym as he entered with his wife, their toddler Tyler, and their baby, Cody.

The front page of his hometown newspaper read “Celebrating Spiezio” in massive font. Fliers were passed out. A “Hometown Hero” banner hung proudly. Speeches were given by his former teammates and coaches. He was the king of this 12,000-person city located an hour’s drive from Chicago.

“He represents every kid in this town,” said Todd Crose, Spiezio’s high school coach. “Everybody lives their dream through him. So many people grew up playing baseball, little league. For us, everybody was in tune to watch Scott play during the World Series. It was just magic.”

Four years after that party, everything was different. He had starred in another World Series title, but this time, there was no celebration, no fanfare. In Spiezio’s words, there were “crickets.”

What changed?

Spiezio did. His downfall began with an accident. He injured his back in 2004 by tripping over a mound in spring training. He was told it was potentially career-ending. If not treated properly, it could paralyze him.

The inability to play created a mixture of emotions. One was depression. He didn’t have a foundation of friends with his Mariners teammates, and thought his career could be ending prematurely.

He also felt a long-pent-up desire for experiences. He’d never been the partier. This was a chance to experiment.

Spiezio played in a band, SandFrog. Many of their songs were about living a clean life. He recognized the incongruity, even as he sensed his life slipping away from him.

His drinking escalated from seldom to regular to constant. He said he was introduced to cocaine in November of 2005, after getting released by the Mariners. He had stints in rehab over the years, and said he went as many as eight or nine months sober. But even during one of those breaks, he became addicted to cigarettes and would smoke two packs a day.

Troy Percival, Spiezio’s longtime teammate, called his father, Ed Spiezio, in 2007. The alcohol and cocaine addiction worsened. Then teammates with Spiezio, Percival told Ed to get to his son in St. Louis immediately. The team was hoping for some help. But Ed, not speaking to his son and not wanting to enable him, didn’t go.

Spiezio said he drank during games in 2007. He’d bring out a water bottle that had some diluted vodka in it. Before some games that year, Spiezio said he’d use cocaine. While he became a fan favorite with clutch hitting and a bright red soul patch on his chin, Spiezio was deteriorating behind the scenes.

“It was one of those things where you couldn’t really even help him,” said David Eckstein, a teammate of Spiezio’s in both Anaheim and St. Louis. “He was on this path. You could see the destruction that was going on.

“The almost crazy part about it was, when his name was called, he performed on the baseball field. But you could see it was definitely not going to end well.”

A lot of not-so-fun things come up if you google “Scott Spiezio,” but searching for “Scott Spiezio tattoo” brings up one of the least flattering results. Up pops a picture of him flexing. The muscles aren’t what’s noticeable. On his left arm is an inked image of his second wife.

It’s an image based on a photo of her modeling in a beer ad, in the process of removing her underwear. Everyone in Spiezio’s life told him it was an awful idea. But as he’ll tell you now, he was not in his right mind.

That tattoo was just the most noticeable aspect amid a series of bad mistakes. He began cheating on his first wife and mother of his oldest three children, Amy, with Jen, a model, in 2004.

“’You’re not in love with this new girl. C’mon. Let’s straighten up,’” Wohlwend told him then. “He says, ‘No, I’m in love.’ I’m like, ‘Oh boy.’ … That’s when I knew it was out of control at that point.”

Spiezio and Amy split up. Very quickly thereafter, Spiezio married Jen. They stayed married until 2010. Spiezio said that his life with Amy was more simplistic and frugal. When he was with Jen, he made financially unwise decisions to travel and live a more extravagant lifestyle.

It was all part of a spiral of spending in Spiezio’s life. His money was almost completely wiped out over his period of addiction. Everything from investing a not insignificant amount in the famously fraudulent company Enron, to cutting $10,000 checks to anyone that asked. His two divorces also impacted his financial worth.

“I don’t really have any assets,” Spiezio said of his current financial situation. He’ll eventually be able to collect a pension from MLB.

Spiezio celebrating the Angels’ 2002 World Series win over the Giants with his teammates (Al Bello / Getty Images)

‘I missed the most important part of my kids’ lives’

Spiezio has four children. One of them, his daughter Tessa, no longer has Spiezio as her last name. Instead it’s Brummel, after her stepfather, Pete Brummel. Spiezio’s middle son Cody took that name as well, but has since changed it back.

His oldest three children were adopted by their stepfather a decade ago, during Scott’s years of addiction.

It’s painful for Spiezio to talk about. He likes Pete and now has a good relationship with Amy. But there’s no hiding the hurt, and no denying just how damaged those relationships were for a long time. Those wounds have begun to heal, but they are still there.

“I think it will be a battle for probably the rest of my life — not consistently having a father figure is something that definitely affects you,” Cody said. “There’s a lot of subconscious stuff that we’ll have to weed through.”

Scott’s home used to be littered with holes in the wall from thrown objects. He went through many cell phones, usually because the last one had been chucked in anger. Televisions were often replaced.

His explosive and violent temper, he believes, is non-existent now, but back when his children were younger, it was bad.

Amid his addiction, it created anxiety and fear among those closest to him.

“He never physically hurt us or anything, which is good,” Cody said. “He would have a temper when he drank. If the climate was right and he got frustrated for some reason — I remember one time he was yelling at us and tore the refrigerator open and was breaking stuff. We were all freaking out.”

Tyler started calling his father by his first name instead of “Dad.” As a high school football player, Tyler was competing in a state playoff game. Scott went to the game drunk. He had prioritized going to the bars over going to say hello to his son. Crose recalled one football game where Scott had to be removed.

He tried to project the image of a capable father when he was with kids. But Tyler saw right through him, noting that Scott carried a cup around with him at all times. There was never acknowledgment that it contained vodka, but Scott said Tyler made it clear he knew, through comments about how much use his dad got from it.

“I know they were all disappointed in me, and I’m sure each of them are working through stuff at a different pace,” Spiezio said. “I missed a lot of their lives. … I missed the most important part of my kids’ lives.”

His multiple hospital stays and subsequent recovery forced him to miss Tyler’s high school graduation. Missing important family events had become common. It was a spiral of guilt. The drinking and drugs drove them farther apart; driving them farther apart made him feel guilty about being a destructive force in their lives. So he drank more.

Spiezio’s story is not yet in the happily-ever-after phase, but the relationship between Scott and his children has improved significantly over the last four years. Tyler plays football and baseball at Williams College, and the two work out together. Cody, 20, plays in a band full time as the drummer of Kangaroo Court.

It wasn’t just his kids that he hurt. Scott’s parents, Ed and Verna, did not talk to him from 2005-’07, and had little contact with him until 2011.

“We never gave up on him,” Ed said. “It’s just that you couldn’t keep enabling him.”

At the outset of this nightmare, they staged an intervention that Scott ignored. Even as he became a fan favorite and World Series champion with the Cardinals — the team his father won two titles with — there was no communication.

In more recent years, Scott’s parents took over his remaining finances to help him. Things like his World Series rings and other valuables were with Scott’s parents or close confidants. He had no credit cards, bank cards, or checkbooks. He no longer had the keys to his parents’ home or business. He had no driver’s license and no car. He’d gone years without checking mail, which included not doing taxes or paying bills.

The Spiezio name means something in Morris, and not just because Ed and Scott have four World Series wins between them. Ed moved to Morris 50 years ago when the town was basically just two roads. He built businesses, and the large sign to Spiezio Furniture is impossible to miss for any passers-by.

That store became a tough place for people to go. Some in the small community were afraid to interact with Ed and Verna. They didn’t know what to say.

“A lot of people just stopped talking to us,” Verna said. “They felt bad. … Our business was affected.”

Ed and Verna sit around the desk of their dimly lit furniture store, answering questions about their son and his life. They never stopped loving him, never gave up hope that he’d recover. For years, they’d come to the house to ward off the other addicts living and mooching off of Scott. They’d give Scott groceries and gift cards, hoping to keep him alive and healthy.

The once-broken trust has returned, as have the keys to the store.

“This could be a 2,000-page book,” Ed said.

“Who cares? Who wants to read it,” Verna sheepishly asked.

“Most of these stories turn out bad, where people die,” Ed responded. “And his turned out to be a miracle to the point where you’ve come back from the absolute bottom and you’ve made it. It’s like, how did you do that?

“That story can bring hope to a lot of people.”

In his old school, there’s still a baseball and photograph from Spiezio in the trophy case.

‘Jails, institutions and death’

Addiction, Spiezio said, can lead you to three different places.

One is death, which was nearly his fate before getting clean in 2018. Another is institutions. Spiezio’s 12 trips to various rehabilitation clinics were more than enough experience with that.

The final place it can lead you is jail. And legal issues mounted for Spiezio through the duration of his 13-year addiction.

The first instance came before he even signed with the Cardinals. It was in 2005 and he was in Chicago. Spiezio said he was with his second wife, Jen, and he attempted to pay for a taxi with a credit card. He claimed the driver kept his card, and in turn, Spiezio — inebriated — took the driver’s phone. He was arrested and spent the night in jail.

His behavior only deteriorated. He very publicly received a six misdemeanor charge stemming from a car crash in Irvine on Dec. 30, 2007. He allegedly crashed his car while drunk and ran from the site. Then he arrived at his condo complex and allegedly assaulted one of his neighbors. This led to him eventually getting cut by the Cardinals, ending his Major League career.

The worst of his offenses came years later in Aug. 2013. He’d long since divorced his second wife and was in a relationship with a different woman. He described the relationship as toxic. Spiezio had been out to see his kids, then to a party. Spiezio said his girlfriend was calling him throughout the evening. She was calling people he was with. He ignored her, wanting some space.

Then the clutch on his Chevrolet Camaro blew out on his way back home, and he needed her assistance. That’s when the arguing began. Spiezio was drunk. He’d been driving drunk. Once they were home, he punched through the glass in three separate windows of their home and was bleeding. He still has the scar from it.

Amid the argument, he said he pulled his girlfriend’s hair, and threw her to the ground. She ran, saying she’d call the police. Spiezio, not wanting his name back in the news, threw himself on top of her car. He was later charged with domestic battery and was sentenced to probation.

“He had a real healthy dose of entitlements,” said Patty Kowalczyk, his probation officer. “‘This is how it should be and this is what’s going to happen.’ For him, he got away with things for so long … He kind of just told me what I wanted to hear at first.

“He was a mess, he was just a real mess. But he didn’t think he was.”

That relationship went off and on for years, including both parties violating a mutual separation order following his domestic battery charge. Their eventual split led to Spiezio not seeing his youngest son for more than a year. He’s since been engaged in a lengthy court battle for visitation rights. He currently sees his son every Wednesday and every other weekend.

A year after his arrest for domestic battery, Spiezio was charged with DUI when he arrived early to see a counselor. He waited in his car, drinking blue UV vodka out of a Gatorade bottle. He passed out, his keys on the dashboard. Onlookers were concerned; police and a firetruck were called to the scene. He didn’t need to be saved. Instead, he got handcuffed. He didn’t drive for another five years.

His final arrest came in 2015. He did not hurt anyone, but his actions were still violent — even after he’d undergone months of anger management training. Again in an argument with the same girlfriend, he smashed the TV. He broke the door. When he saw onlooking neighbors watching with concern, Spiezio punched through another window with his fist. He fled the scene, only to return to find the police waiting.

Spiezio was arrested, and while on the ground, he asked if he’d be shot if he stood up. The officer said yes. Still, he stood up, and was tased — the markings from it still visible on his body.

Kowalczyk said that in her role as a probation officer, he “never came across as someone who was violent or had a temper problem.” His propensity for a temper is a risk when he’s intoxicated, she said.

Those aren’t excuses for his behavior, and Spiezio doesn’t try to find any. He’s open about his history, believing it could help keep someone else from making the same mistakes.

“It’s important to know that the result of using and abusing anything is jails, institutions and death,” Spiezio said. “I hit all of them.”

Spiezio with several of the coins that mark his sobriety milestones.

‘When you’re lost, they’ll help you find yourself’

Perhaps the most important relationship Spiezio has been in during his recovery is not a romantic one. Spiezio met Tonia Boyer at a funeral in 2017. The straight-laced Boyer had a soft spot for Spiezio. She knew some of his more distant relatives and was aware of his baseball prowess.

The two became close friends, and she rode the wave of his addiction despite being completely clean herself. She began diluting his drinks and shooing away unsavory visitors from his home. The two became so close that she moved in with him, and was by his side as he weaned off the alcohol addiction for the final time.

After two hospital stays over several weeks, the tide started to turn. He had his stomach drained and was given Ativan to help him through the alcohol withdrawals.

The two live together now in a platonic, but extremely close friendship. Maybe someday they’ll get married, Spiezio said. For now, they’re content in their unique dynamic. Spiezio calls it a “Christian relationship.”

“I think that just me being here, and being the kind of person that I am, helped him stay on that path,” Boyer said. “By actually having somebody present that was not going to (enable him), helped him stay strong.”

The tattoo of his second wife on his arm now is covered up by an image of a cross. All these years later, though, there’s still remnants of the initial ink visible — still more work and repairs to be done.

Sitting in a booth at Honest Abe’s Tap & Grill last month, Spiezio noticed another group being served margaritas. There would have been a time, he said, that coming to an establishment like this would have been bad. His mouth would have begun to water at the thought of booze. The idea of a party, a good time. Every day he doesn’t drink is a choice, a conscious choice, he said. But the decision becomes less and less conscious the more separated he is from being addicted.

Now, he might notice others getting a drink. But he’s fine to not get one himself. There was once a time he went to Alcoholics Anonymous for 120 consecutive days. Now, staying sober requires less intensive maintenance.

He collects annual coins for his sobriety, and has ones made for his children, as well.

Cody said he knows the person Scott is today is a more accurate representation of his father. They can talk about these tough topics.

“I’ve thought of every reason possible that I can think of to go back to drinking or using,” Spiezio said, “and there’s no good reason. For me, all I can see is despair or death.”

There was nothing going on in Spiezio’s life 10 years ago. At the first Angels World Series reunion, he tried to drink minimally. But was evasive with ex-teammates when they asked what he was doing. He brought along a woman he’d known for only a couple months. As much as he tried to hide his addiction, he figured they saw right through it.

They saw him again this June when he went to Anaheim for the 20-year anniversary reunion. This time around, he was lively and jovial. Most importantly, he was sober. He talked about his new business. He took some crap for being overweight, but it was nice to be in a place where there could be honest ribbing.

“There was a very nervous energy that was with him,” Eckstein said of seeing Spiezio at the 2012 reunion. “You knew he might go get something later that night. It wasn’t the same — the Scott that we know. And now, you can have full conversations and he’s really with your conversation. It’s night and day.”

Scott’s life now is about reconciling and re-integrating. Reconciling with the people he hurt or abandoned through his actions. Reintegrating into a community he’d lived in but been absent from for years.

He feels good enough now to jokingly wonder if the Angels would sign him so he can collect the four requisite hits for him to reach 1,000 for his career. But there were many times when it looked like he’d never reach this point.

“It became a choice of life or death,” Spiezio said. “In every aspect.”

It was just five days before the first day at Nettle Creek Elementary School. The doors on this hot August afternoon were locked, but a maintenance worker came out and recognized Spiezio, who spontaneously wanted to tour his old haunts when passing by on a drive.

There was still a baseball and photograph from Spiezio in the school’s trophy case. He walked around to the classrooms, running into a few teachers who were prepping their rooms. Every one of them knew Spiezio, and they were happy to see him.

“Oh my gosh, he’s a legend. Our kids love him,” said teacher Michael Gorham.

A side street up the road from the school was once given a “Scott Spiezio Dr.” sign. More than half the sign has since been ripped off; it now just says “zio Dr.” It hasn’t been fixed.

But Spiezio’s exile from the community is no more, even if the sign is still split in half. He was invited back to give the graduation speech for the school last summer.

He spoke about his career and his life — sparing the gory details, but alluding to a lot of struggles. He cried during the speech, unable to get the words out. Parents and teachers yelled out, “You got this, Scott.” It made him even more teary-eyed.

“The people that are sitting next to you? Stay in contact with them,” Spiezio said. “They know you better than you know yourself lots of times. And when you’re lost, they’ll help you find yourself.”

‘This is harder’

After taking a couple of Advil, Spiezio started to stretch out his arm. He wasn’t in any pain yet, but a month shy of his 50th birthday, Spiezio took the preemptive measure.

When the Angels’ World Series legend starts working with a new client, he likes to tell them to watch the video of his Game 6 homer.

Nearly all of them are middle school-aged children, born after he hit the three-run shot that turned the Angels fortunes in their run to the 2002 title, too young to have seen any of his career.

The purpose is, one, to give him some legitimacy. They see the hit and know their instructor was kind of a big deal. But the more important reason is teaching them about hitting approaches in an at-bat where the stakes couldn’t have been higher.

“I explain that home run. When I get into the mental game, I talk about blocking the crowd out,” Spiezio said. “I talk about being in the zone. It’s just you and the ball. You and the release point.

“Their parents remember it. And the kids are learning about it, which is kind of neat. I’m still an old fat guy to them.”

The large warehouse where he lives and teaches baseball is a shrine to his old self. It’s covered in framed photos of postseason hits. Old baseball cards. Signs. Memorabilia that he’s been able to collect over the years. A massive banner that reads “Hometown Hero” from the city’s pep rally following his 2002 title run is hung up on the wall.

Spiezio practices his swing in front of the “hometown hero” banner from 2002.

The Spiezio that his home commemorates is not the same person he is today. The video he has those students watch is of a person they might hardly recognize. But this version of Spiezio is clean.

“I finally started forgiving myself and having the attitude of, instead of living in the past, let’s live in the now and not have more regrets,” Spiezio said. “Let’s stop it right now. That’s what I started doing.”

So Spiezio, his arm loose, went to the batting cage and welcomed 11-year-old Joey Martin and his mom.

The mohawked child was Spiezio’s first customer when he started the business early last year. This facility used to be populated by addicts and vagrants passing through to get drunk or high.

This time the houseguest is Martin, and they’re practicing situational hitting. The lesson ended the same way they always have for Spiezio. With a 3-2 count, and the bases loaded. It’s always the ninth inning and it’s always the World Series. An artificially created circumstance to maybe someday prepare for the real thing.

This was how his father ran lessons with Scott as a child. A visualization exercise that took him outside of his backyard in the small Illinois town and right onto baseball’s biggest stage.

When Scott went to the plate in the seventh inning of Game 6 in 2002, in many ways, he’d been there before. There were runners on first and second. One out. A new pitcher in the game and the Angels on the brink of elimination from their first and only World Series.

When the ball hit the bat, he knew it came off the barrel. It was unlike many of his career homers, which he classified as doubles that accidentally got over the wall.

This was a towering shot that didn’t have a ton of distance. But it plopped in the stands, and the rest is history. The sound from the crowd didn’t hit his ears until sometime after rounding first base. His first thought running the bases was the lessons from his father.

“I’d put him in that position thousands of times,” Ed said. “When he got in that, he had been there a million times before. He felt comfortable. There were no nerves.”

As he turns 50 years old, he’s back in Morris, giving the same lessons he once got.

His story is a complicated one. It’s hard to reconcile his violence toward his ex-girlfriend with their young son sleeping in the other room. It’s hard to understand how a father’s temper could terrify his own children.

Spiezio wants to help other people who are going through what he put himself through. What he put others through. There are countless families who are in the same position.

That’s why he speaks to anyone who might find value in his experience. He said at the end of his speech at his church that he hopes he helps someone, at least one person.

A young woman raised her hand, and said “You helped me.”

After more than a decade of unimaginable lows, it’s exactly where he wants, and needs, to be.

“You see him come back out of it and it’s like a miracle,” Ed said. “It really is a miracle.

“Making the Major Leagues is maybe 1-in-2 million. Being a star in the World Series, maybe 1-in-10 or 20 million. This is harder, what he came out of. This is his biggest success.”

The remnants of the “Scott Spiezio Dr.” sign in Morris, up the road from the school.

(Photos: Jamie Kelter Davis for The Athletic)