In the locker room, Cone was the team's spokesman, always willing to stick around and deal with the media, especially in situations where he knew other teammates wouldn't want to after a bad performance. He also had the ear and trust of Joe Torre and the balls to talk crap to George Steinbrenner. The story of Cone telling The Boss to "get the fuck out of here" when he tried to interfere in a team meeting was one of my favorite stories from Buster Olney's book. All the stories about Cone pitching with the aneurysm, the diagnosis, how crushed he was when he found out, and how hard he busted his ass to get back out on the mound because he didn't want to let his teammates down are all perfect examples of just how badass David Cone was.
On the mound, Cone used all kinds of different pitches and arm angles to work hitters. He was a bit like El Duque in that sometimes he would dial something up and you would watch and just think "what the hell did he just throw?" But that was Cone's style. He was going to use every way he could think of to get a guy out, and even more ways than that if it was a day where he didn't have his best stuff. Watching him pitch was kind of like watching a painter put together a portrait; a little bit of this, a little bit of that, inside, outside, up in the zone, down in the zone, all kinds of angles and release points, and boom! Done. 8 innings of 1-run, 4-hit ball.
I missed the first couple innings of Boomer's perfect game, but I sat and watched every inning of Cone's in July of '98. To date, standing and cheering in my living room with my dad and watching his reaction as the final out was made is one of my favorite memories as a Yankee fan. As a former athlete, I wish I could have played with more guys like David Cone.
O'Neill was great to watch because he was such an open book. Just by looking at his face and his body language you could tell not only what kind of day he was having, but how he felt about it. Some guys could go 2-4 with an RBI and be happy as clams, but O'Neill could be 2-4 and still be grumbling and shaking his head as he stepped into the box in the 9th inning because one hit was a weak grounder that found its way through the infield and the other probably should have been scored an error. In his mind, he was stepping up there trying to get his first "real" hit of the day. As somebody who cursed every mistake I ever made on the lacrosse field and who has to try incredibly hard not to do the same to the players I now coach, I can relate to and respect that kind of intensity and dedication to his job that O'Neill had. Every out he made made him feel like he was letting the team down, the fans down, and himself down. While it may be a little over the top, it shows how much O'Neill cared and that's the kind of teammate you want. That's a guy you can go to war with.
That caring and intensity is probably while O'Neill and his stats aged more gracefully than others who still play ball at 38. Even in his final year, with his batting average down to .267, O'Neill still managed 55 XBH, 70 RBIs, a .789 OPS, and a 104 OPS+. The dude had skills and even as he got older he didn't lose them. On top of the everyday stuff, O'Neill has been a part of some of the most iconic Yankees images of the last 50 years. The running, stretching catch to rob Luis Polonia of a hit and seal the win in Game 5 of the '96 World Series, stepping on the field for Game 4 of the '99 WS just hours after his father had died, and of course, the iconic leg kick in his swing. Oh, and if you didn't have tears in your eyes watching the Yankee crowd chant his name in Game 5 of the 2001 World Series, then there is something seriously wrong with you.
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