The sight of the fit-again Ollie Rathbone – last year’s player of the season – in the matchday squad for the first time since early pre-season adds weight to those sentiments.
At the same time, Parkinson is unlikely to be swayed in ignoring the steady progress so far, even if many fans saw the Stoke display as a step backwards.
While the run of games will bring pressure, it also brings opportunity, with Kieffer Moore among those adamant that Wrexham are not far from clicking and that they will be a real threat when they do.
Before the next international break – and all inside the space of three weeks – Wrexham also have games against Portsmouth and Charlton Athletic, even if the Addicks have done eye-catchingly well since their own promotion.
And then there is the small matter of the chance to reach the quarter-finals of the EFL Cup when they welcome Welsh rivals Cardiff City.
Get it right and Wrexham will have people talking for all the right reasons. Something Parkinson will know full well.
“We need to just analyse the performance and not get too down about it,” Parkinson said.
“It says something about how far we’ve come that we come to Stoke in front of 25,000 and are disappointed not to get something from the game.
“But we have got to look at ourselves. I think it’s good to be frustrated, I think it’s good to be a bit annoyed and that we don’t have pats on the back and say ‘Oh, we’ve come to Stoke and done okay’.
“They are a good group of lads who are working really hard and I’m excited about what we’ve got in the building, I really am.
“We have taken a knock, but we’ll come back fighting on Wednesday.”
And with plenty looking hard at Wrexham – and maybe even looking for them to fail – a win would do much to wrestle back control of that narrative.
“You’re in this now! You’ve got a lot of work to do!”
The gravelly voice was unmistakably Kirk Gibson. The object of his growl was a journalist who spent two years battling him on the Dodgers beat.
Only this time, Gibby wasn’t yelling at me. This time, he was cheering for me.
“I’m fighting it, you gotta fight it! You gotta take it head-on, because this s— ain’t going away!”
Kirk Gibson plays ping pong at the Kirk Gibson Center for Parkinson’s Wellness in Farmington Hills, Mich., on Sept. 26.
(Nic Antaya/Nic Antaya / For the Times)
Thirty-five years after we sparred in the Dodger clubhouse, Gibson and I have found ourselves on the same team.
We both have Parkinson’s Disease, and he spent much of a recent 45-minute phone call pushing me to battle the incurable illness the way he once battled a certain backdoor slider.
Kirk Gibson’s game-winning home run from Game 1 of the 1988 World Series.
For many, an indelible memory. But in many ways, he’s no longer the same Kirk Gibson.
In 2015, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, a progressive neurological disorder that affects movement.
Today, his home-run gait around the bases would be wobbly, and his right fist pumps would be shaky, and afterward he might need help in the locker room buttoning his shirt.
But one thing that has remained powerful is his fire.
“You battle through it!”
He is battling it such that this fall, he will hit another monumental home run, this one far more impactful than any previous October blast.
There are few places in the country quite like it — this giant, 30,000-square feet warehouse dedicated to Parkinson’s patients, complete with two gyms, 11 spaces for movement classes, a track, a social space and even quiet rooms for those experiencing the off times that occur during those dreaded gaps in the daily medication.
Catherine Yu leads a tai chi class at the Kirk Gibson Center for Parkinson’s Wellness in Farmington Hills, Mich.
(Nic Antaya/Nic Antaya / For the Times)
And it’s all free. For everyone. All the time.
“It was fun to hit the home run, but this involves a lot more people,” Gibson said. “We’re trying to create a culture where people with Parkinson’s can thrive. Instead of sitting home being depressed, you come out and occupy your mind and participate in classes and deal with your life.”
Gibson is so ingrained in his created community that he has an office in the middle of the building and shows up nearly every day to coach a most unlikely looking squad.
“We’re not a good-looking group, but we’re a great group,” he said. “We’re a bunch of people moving around, shaking, some have walkers, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re a beautiful bunch.”
When Gibson gives speeches, he asks the audience to identify their own personal World Series. Gibson was a Fall Classic hero in 1984 and 1988, but it’s clear, his World Series is here, his World Series is now, and as he strongly encouraged me in my situation, you could almost hear the drumbeat of October.
“Fight it! Take it head on!”
The night Kirk Gibson made Dodger history, he did so alone. Because he was certain leg injuries would prevent him from playing in the 1988 World Series opener, he sent his family home before the game. When he hit his historic blast, he was unable to share it with loved ones, so it didn’t seem real.
Dodgers star Kirk Gibson raises his arm in celebration as he rounds the bases after hitting a two–run game-winning homer in the bottom of the ninth inning to beat the Oakland Athletics 5–4 in the first game of the World Series at Dodger Stadium on Oct. 15, 1988.
(AP)
“All these years, I didn’t really know what happened,” he said. “I never really felt it.”
“When he made that call, that put it all in perspective,” Gibson said. “He took that moment and made it what it had been all those years. I got it, and I was handing it off to Freddie, and I was so honored.”
Gibson said his Parkinson’s diagnosis, which was made official in 2015 after his left arm became glued to his side, has made him appreciate every small wonder.
“After all these years of gruffness … I’ve changed,” he said. “It’s like you’re living a different life.”
Several years ago Gibson was playing golf with an Australian businessman who had no idea that Gibson was once a baseball and football star. Steve Annear was struck by Gibson’s devotion to seeking a Parkinson’s cure, which had become the focus of the Kirk Gibson Foundation.
“Here was this popular athlete who could have been doing anything,” said Annear. “But he was spending his time helping other people. I so admired him.”
Steve Annear, CEO of the Kirk Gibson Foundation, left, stands beside former Dodgers star Kirk Gibson in front of a pool table at the Kirk Gibson Center for Parkinson’s Wellness in Farmington Hills, Mich.
(Nic Antaya/Nic Antaya / For the Times)
Annear, an amputee who recently climbed Mount Kilimanjaro with the sort of fighting spirit that first attracted Gibson, became CEO and director of the foundation. Their team came up with the idea of a wellness center in 2023, raised $27 million to build it and construction was completed in July. In the process, it became obvious that Gibson’s approach was different.
The legendarily abrasive superstar? It had been replaced by a more sensitive soul, one who will give impromptu pep talks to anyone he encounters who is clearly suffering from Parkinson’s, whether it be in an airport terminal or grocery store checkout line.
”There’s no doubt that Parkinson’s has humbled Gibby,” said Annear. “He is selfless, very determined, very passionate, all about other people.”
Nearly 900 folks have already registered to become members during a recent soft launch, and Gibson has joined them in their daily activities, doing everything from playing pool to taking spin classes
”What’s always mattered most to Kirk is the team, and this is his new team,” said Annear. “The center is his new locker room, and the attendees, the administrators, the staff, they’re all his new teammates.”
Not that he has forgotten his old teams, as a large cutout of Gibson celebrating in a Detroit Tigers uniform can be found in the center. With help from the great Peter O’Malley, Gibson will also soon decorate a room with Tommy Lasorda’s legendary Vero Beach dinner table.
“The way this has all come together is unbelievable,” said Gibson. “It’s divine intervention.”
Just the other day, Gibson was getting a haircut when somebody walked up and handed him $300 for the wellness center.
”We’re trying to help as many people as possible,” he said. “I hate going to the doctor, I hate going to the hospital. The wellness center isn’t anything like that. It’s a cool place.”
Like everyone with Parkinson’s, Gibson has his good days and bad days. Life is not measured by how one falls, but how one gets back up.
Two years ago while fishing in Alaska, Gibson tumbled out of the boat. This year he didn’t.
“I’m pretty proud of that,” he said.
Kirk Gibson sits alongside signs greeting visitors at the Kirk Gibson Center for Parkinson’s Wellness in Farmington Hills, Mich.
(Nic Antaya/Nic Antaya / For the Times)
Rarely has he felt the pride he will feel on Oct. 6 when, with the formal opening of the Kirk Gibson Center for Parkinson’s Wellness, baseball’s ultimate competitor once again creating the impossible out of the improbable.
“I don’t get scared,” said Gibson. “I attack.”
And so he ended our conversation by strongly urging me to fly cross country and visit his center, to be enriched and educated and basically get my Parkinson’s-laden butt moving.
I told him I would try. The phone exploded in my hands.
“Try? You know what Lasorda always said. ‘I could get a truck driver to try!’ Don’t just try! Do it!”
Bill Plaschke, thank you for your very informative column about Parkinson’s disease and your boxing exercise program. I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s about five years ago and joined Rock Steady boxing in Burbank six months ago. We do Tai Chi, dancing, speech, the gym machines and boxing. We also work on stretching and floor exercises. My family has noticed a difference in my gait and my endurance. I hope that everyone with Parkinson’s will take heed and find an exercise program specific to their needs. I never had a right jab before, but I have a good one now.
Sandy Kaufman North Hollywood
I’m often in the mood to punch him after reading one of Plaschke’s columns, but after reading Sunday’s column I wanted nothing more than to give him a hug. It reminds me that everyone is fighting a battle none of us can see. Be kind.
Bill Hokans Santa Ana
Years of using Bill Plaschke’s notoriously incorrect Super Bowl predictions for betting guidance has led me to believe that Bill owes me, as well as his many devoted readers, a significant debt. His brave and inspiring column revealing his ongoing battle with Parkinson’s disease repays that debt, and then some.
Rob Fleishman Placentia
Don’t mind admitting I was in tears reading about Bill Plaschke’s advancing Parkinson’s and the therapy that might slow the “motion-melting nightmare” down. A 78-year-old former rugby player with arthritis and a bum knee, I’m fortunate in not having to face the dreaded Parky (yet?). If it happens, I know where to go.
Rock on, Bill, and your truly inspiring gym mates. Kudos, also, to staff photographer Robert Gauthier … every picture, indeed, tells a story.
John D.B. Grimshaw Lake Forest
I too am living with Parkinson’s disease. Plaschke’s column helped to remind me that I am not alone and this dreaded disease indeed takes no prisoners no matter who you are. I wanted to thank Bill for his column bringing awareness, insight and hope to those of us diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Bill’s humanitarian columns with a tie-in to the world of sports showcase his best writing. Bill, your observations as a Parkinson’s suffer truly hit the mark and deeply resonated with me. I wish you, and all of us afflicted with this condition, the willingness and determination to move forward and to use the power of sport and exercise to combat this devastating disease.
Mike Feix Chino Hills
Champion Bill Plaschke goes toe to toe against challenger “Parky!” Plaschke delivers a vicious uppercut to his opponent. “Down goes Parky, Down goes Parky!”
They pull giant boxing gloves over aging, sometimes shaking hands.
They approach a black punching bag on weary, sometimes wobbly feet.
Then they wail.
Lord, do they wail.
They hit the bag with a left-handed jab, a right-handed reverse, a hook, another hook, an uppercut, another jab, bam, bam, bam.
They end the flurry with kicks, side kicks, thrust kicks, wild kicks, their legs suddenly strong and purposeful and fueled by a strength that once seemed impossible.
Outside of this small gym in a nondescript office park in Monrovia, they are elderly people dealing with the motion-melting nightmare that is Parkinson’s disease.
But inside the walls of Kaizen Martial Arts & Fitness, in a program known as Kaizen Kinetics, they are heavyweight champs.
Ranging in age from 50 to 90, spanning the spectrum of swift strides to wheelchairs, they are the most courageous athletes I’ve met.
They show up here every couple of days hoping that they’ll move enough to keep the evil Parky at bay. They’re trying to punch him out, kick him off, scare him away, and they’ll endure more than an hour of sometimes painful exercise to make this happen.
They are frail women screaming, “Jab!” and shaky men screaming, “Hook!” and everyone counting with clenched teeth through 75 minutes that stretch the shrinking muscles and test the weary optimism.
Bill Plaschke participates in a boxing class for people with Parkinson’s disease at Kaizen Martial Arts Studio.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
I am in awe of them, perhaps because I am one of them.
I, too, am living with Parkinson’s disease.
The irony, huh? I’ve spent my entire career writing triumphant stories about athletes overcoming illness and adversity, only to reach the home stretch struggling to find a similar triumph in a story about me.
It’s not easy. Now I know what all those subjects of all those feel-good stories understood about the truth behind my positive prose. Degenerative disease sucks beyond any inspirational adjective. Incurable illness stinks beyond any hopeful headline.
I’ve got Parkinson’s, and it hurts to even say it. I’m still mobile, still active, I don’t have the trademark tremors that distinguish the famously afflicted Michael J. Fox or the late Muhammad Ali but, damn it, I’ve got it.
I was diagnosed four years ago after complaining of weakness in my right arm. That weakness has disappeared, but it’s a constant struggle to keep everything else from slowly going to hell.
Every day it feels like I’ve just run a marathon. I move well, my balance is fine, but I’m always tight, always creaking. The amount of medication required to keep me active is so immense, my pills come in gallon jugs and I spend entire Dodger games trying to discreetly swallow them in the press box.
I move slower now. My fiancee Roxana qualifies for sainthood because whenever we go out, she must patiently wait for me to get dressed, which takes forever and is accompanied by the unholy sounds of struggle.
I don’t smile as much now. It’s harder to smile when afflicted with the trademark Parkinson’s masked face. When I FaceTime with my darling Daisy, I worry she won’t see past my dour expression and never know how much her granddaddy loves her.
Until now, my condition has only been known to my family. Not even my bosses knew. I didn’t look like Parky, I didn’t act like Parky, so why should I publicly reveal something so personal and embarrassing?
Yeah, I was embarrassed. I felt humiliated in a way that made no sense and total sense. To me, Parkinson’s implies frailty, Parkinson’s implies weakness.
But let me tell you, a 72-year-old woman pounding the living hell out of a punching bag ain’t weak.
And that’s why I’m writing about this today.
If my boxing classmates can have the strength to sweat through their tremors and wallop through their fears, then I can certainly have the strength to celebrate them without worrying what sort of light it casts on me.
I’m proud to be one of them, and the purpose of this column is to reflect that pride and perhaps make it easier for other folks afflicted with Parkinson’s to come out swinging.
Alan Shankin is assisted by Azusa Pacific University physical therapy student Desiree Alvarado as he participates in a boxing class for people with Parkinson’s disease at Kaizen Martial Arts Studio.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Officially, Parkinson’s is a neurodegenerative disease impacting both motor and non-motor systems. Translated, the brain slowly stops producing dopamine, which is crucial for movement, and the loss of this neuro-transmitter affects everything from your stride to your speech.
Roughly one million people in the United States have it, and there’s no cure for it, and it generally gets worse as one gets older. As Michael J. Fox himself once said, it’s the gift that keeps on taking.
You don’t die from it, but it can be hard to live with it, yet there is one thing that unquestionably helps slow its progression.
Exercise. Movement. Pull your achy body off the couch every day and work those quivering muscles, stretch those tight joints, perhaps join one of the many Parkinson’s programs in town that involve everything from dancing to hiking.
“For people living with Parkinson’s disease, regular exercise can reduce symptoms, help treatments work better and potentially even slow the disease progression,” Rachel Dolhun, principal medical advisor at the Michael J. Fox Foundation, wrote in an e-mail. “For some, exercise can look like participating in boxing classes. For others, it’s water aerobics, dancing or playing pickleball. Just remember that any type of and amount of exercise can positively support your journey.”
If you’re like me and you just want to punch Parky in the face, boxing works best. The 83 tough souls who t pay $179 a month to battle in the Kaizen Kinetics program agree.
“I hit the bag really hard like I’m hitting Parkinson’s,” said Rich Pumilia, 66, a lawyer from Monrovia. “Hitting it back for what it’s doing to me.”
I became aware of Jody Hould’s program, which she leads with the help of husband Tom, son Zac and Anthony Rutherford, shortly after I was diagnosed. I kept seeing their pamphlets in doctors offices and rehab centers. At the time, they were part of the popular Parkinson’s-battling Rock Steady Boxing program that has several locations through southern California. By the time I worked up the courage to fully face my illness and call the number on the pamphlet two years ago, Kaizen had become an independent program with a similar focus on boxing.
”Boxing is balancing, posture, turning, pivoting, extension, range of motion, using your core, everything that’s important to fighting the disease,” said Hould, who started the program nine years ago in memory of her late mother, Julie, who died of complications from Parkinson’s. “Plus, it’s fun to punch something.”
Hould and her team run a fast-moving program, barking out a series of punches and kicks while offering gentle reminders to those who hook when they should jab.
“Parkinson’s doesn’t take any vacations, it doesn’t take any days off, we have to be on top of our game, we have to be proactive in our fight,” Hould said. “Not only is it good for the spirit, it’s good for the mind.”
But it can be tough on the ego, as I quickly learned when a frail white-haired woman out-punched me one day while screaming at the bag. Another time an aging man with tremors and shuffled steps pounded the bag so hard it skidded into my feet.
I once showed up with a cut on my left hand and informed Hould that I would not be boxing that day.
“You still have your right hand, don’t you?” she said. “So you box one-handed.”
Bill Plaschke, right, and Paul Tellstrom team up during a boxing class for people with Parkinson’s disease at Kaizen Martial Arts Studio.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
The 75-minute sessions are hard. Every exercise and maneuver are seemingly designed to do something I now have difficulty doing. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes you want to be anywhere else.
But it works. It can’t kill Parky, but it can quiet him. Hould never promises a cure, but she sees some relief in those who join the battle. There was one boxer who eventually abandoned her walker. Others have seen a reduction in their tremors. Throughout the windowless gym there is real hope that this disease can be slowed.
Pumilia is convinced his condition has improved after attending classes for eight weeks.
“When I was diagnosed, my doctor said you have five good years left before your life is going to be impacted,” said Pumilia. “Now my doctor is basically saying, ‘I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep doing it.’”
Sharon Michaud, 65, a retired insurance executive who has also come to class for eight years, agrees.
“Without a doubt, it’s helped me,” said Michaud, who is noticeable in the class because she moves like a gymnast. “With Parkinson’s it’s easy to get into a funk and get depressed. You come here and it’s nice to know there are other people like you. I’m amazed more people don’t know there’s places like this out here.”
Maybe this story will shed some light on that. Maybe this story will inform a closeted Parkinson’s patient about programs like Kaizen Kinetics and empower them to pick up the phone and join.
If you decide to come to Monrovia, I’ll be the breathless guy in the back still unable to deliver a knockout punch but continually inspired by fellow fighters to keep trading blows with my hardest of truths.
I leave that gym sweaty and sore but uplifted with the reminder that I am blessed to still lead a wonderful active life filled with family and friends and work and travel and so, so much hope.
I have Parkinson’s. But, by God, it doesn’t have me.
