Indians boating tragedy still haunts 20 years later

Jon Saraceno and Bob Nightengale, USA TODAY Sports | USATODAY

CLERMONT, FLA. -- Two pristine private lakes bordering Laurie Crews' 78-acre Bass and Bridle Ranch slowly have dissipated over two decades, the calm waters receding because of the effects of developer zeal, community water demands and sustained drought. The smaller body of water looks harmless and inviting. Her name sounds enchanting: Little Lake Nellie.

Charming, that is, if not for one horrific, life-altering evening 20 years ago Friday .

A lifelong horsewoman with a wicked sense of humor, Crews allows herself a teary-eyed moment of melancholy as she sits on her chestnut stallion, Whiskey, on a recent windy afternoon.

Now 52, she reminisces about March 22, 1993, when Little Lake Nellie stole the invincibility, innocence and inherent aspirations of two baseball families. A single moment irreparably changed lives when Cleveland Indians pitchers Tim Crews, 31, and Steve Olin, 27, died after their bass boat tore into an unlighted wooden pier on a moonless night.

A third Indians pitcher, Bobby Ojeda, 35, survived the collision and sustained a severe scalp laceration, losing four pints of blood but never consciousness.

For quite a long time, there was considerable grieving, guilt, anger and isolation among survivors. In that first year, Laurie Crews took up with a carpenter nearly 10 years her junior, a man who had built fences on the property. He moved in and they had a daughter, Jeannie, 18. The suddenness of the new relationship created friction with former teammates and spouses. The widows stopped speaking.

Recently, the ice has thawed.

Teary-eyed, Laurie says, "People would say, 'How can you stay here?' Well, what was I supposed to do — run away? This is where (our children) were supposed to be brought up, so I stayed. I just kept going forward, even when a guy would dump me. I don't go backward very well; I kissed a lot of frogs.''

Living with her boyfriend, Jerry Tate, 30, Laurie, has been trying to downsize. The ranch, which boards 30 horses and includes Big Lake Nellie, has been for sale for 10 years. The asking price has dropped to $950,000.

For years, the story of the fateful night at that ranch was that the three teammates — along with Indians strength and conditioning coach Fernando Montes and Perry Brigmond, a neighbor who built the Crews' 6,000-square foot home — were going night-fishing after a day spent barbecuing and horseback riding. It was the Indians' only off day during spring training.

No, Laurie Crews corrects, they were "goin' gator-huntin.' ''

"That's so funny - I've never seen a gator in these damn lakes,'' she says at her ranch, a onetime orange grove now populated by moss-veiled cypress trees and majestic oaks. "It's a Florida thing with them boys.''

Toxicology results revealed that Crews was impaired with a blood-alcohol content of .14, exceeding the state limit. Beer and vodka were found on the boat.

Crews, driving the 18-foot watercraft at nearly 40 mph, was pronounced dead early the next morning with a brain injury after being on life support. Olin was killed instantly. They were the first active major league players to die since a small plane piloted by New York Yankees catcher Thurman Munson crashed in 1979.

Ojeda, now a broadcaster for the New York Mets, survived because he was slouching in his boat seat. In an essay for The New York Times last year, Ojeda said he "escaped being killed by a half-inch.'' He was seated on the left next to Olin with Crews on the right.

"I was shaken to my core,'' Ojeda wrote.

Many other innocent victims were left numb.

The Crewses, married 13 years, had three children: Tricia, 9; Shawn, 4; and Travis, 2. That night, the Olins brought Alexa, 3, and 7-month-old twins Garrett and Kaylee.

What started out as a team-bonding experience filled with gleeful shouts of children playing was transformed into nighttime tragedy filled with cries of despair.

"They were goin' out there to find gators,'' says Laurie, but only to spot them and not kill. "You shine a light; it's not legal. At night, their eyes are bright red and they are easy to see.''

What her husband did not glimpse was an extended 185-foot dock jutting behind a neighboring property. While they had only recently moved into their new home, Crews knew the lake. Nevertheless, the speeding boat — powered by a 150-mph horsepower engine — sheared three wooden posts. Had its path diverted only 10 feet, it would have missed the pier, police said.

For years, the what-ifs would eat away at those profoundly impacted. Laurie Crews was not one of them.

"It didn't matter,'' she says, tears welling in ocean-blue eyes. "That day was Tim's day (to die). It didn't matter if he was in a boat or on a baseball field.''

The dock was rebuilt. Today it rests on dry land.

***

FATHERS REMEMBERED

Olin was emerging from his finest season as a big leaguer as he ventured to the Indians' spring training complex in Winter Haven, Fla. In 1992, the submarine-style closer appeared in 72 games and posted a 2.34 earned run average with an 8-5 record and 29 saves. He was rewarded with a contract worth a guaranteed $1.3 million over two years.

Olin, by virtue of a heavy sinkerball and the courage of a skydiver, already had exceeded expectations as a 16th-round draft choice.

"He was one of those guys who shouldn't have made it,'' says former Indians general manager John Hart. "But he had intangibles. He was a brave guy who never would give in.''

As a husband and a father, "Steve was a great guy; kind of a free spirit. He loved his family and would do anything for us,'' says his widow, Patti Olin-Winter, 46.

Ojeda was an above-average left-hander for 15 big-league seasons, winning a World Series championship with the New York Mets in 1986. By the time he and former Los Angeles Dodgers teammate Crews signed with the Indians as free agents in the winter of 1993, Ojeda's career was in decline.

Hart signed Ojeda thinking the lefty would reverse that. But after the accident, Ojeda could not cope. Ojeda returned late that season and struggled. He became a free agent, signed with the New York Yankees in 1994 but was released after two ugly appearances.

He never pitched again.

In a 1995 interview with Baseball Weekly, Ojeda said he endured flashbacks and nightmares. "The best word to describe that time for me was dread,'' said Ojeda, . "I was at the bottom of a black pit with no way out.''

Ojeda, who rarely discusses the accident, did not return calls from USA TODAY Sports.

Crews, from Tampa, pitched all six of his major league seasons for the Dodgers, and posted a 3.14 ERA during their 1988 World Series championship season. But it rose to 5.19 in 1992, and he'd signed with the Indians

Well-liked, he had goofy nicknames such as "Farmer'' and "Plow Boy.''

Tim put on his work boots after Laurie designed their six-bedroom, 4 ½-bath traditional home, complete with a 22-stall barn, fenced pasture land and training rings.

"He was on the tractor 10 hours a day plowin','' she says. "He worked as hard as he could here — just like he did on the ball field. He was totally dedicated to his family.''

"He wasn't a star player. He was a gamer,'' Hart recalls.

Hart pauses, voice cracking.

"There was no way to replace these men,'' he says. "You looked at the families that no longer were going to have their husbands and fathers. It was just tragic. We were all young, we were all innocent. We all really a lost a lot.''

***

RECALLING THAT NIGHT

Sharon Hargrove, wife of Indians manager Mike Hargrove, remembers the phone ringing on that fateful Monday evening. "Dad,'' said her daughter, "it's Fernando on the phone.''

Sharon silently stewed.

"I hardly ever resented baseball but I remember thinking, 'What has to be said today that can't wait until tomorrow?' '' she says. "I heard Mike say, 'What do you mean Steve is gone?' How long is he going to be out?' Then he said, 'Oh, my gosh.'"

Along with Indians pitching coach Rick Adair and his wife, Lou, the Hargroves rushed to the chaotic scene. There was blood everywhere. A helicopter whirred overheard. Neighbors offered assistance before paramedics arrived.

Olin was pronounced dead. Crews, who was struggling to breathe, was taken by helicopter to an Orlando hospital. Ojeda, too, was hospitalized in intensive care and underwent surgery.

"He had pretty much been scalped by the dock,'' Montes says. "He kept asking, 'Is Tim alright?' We had to lie.''

Sharon tried to comfort her friend, Patti, who was dazed and confused. Patti told Sharon she needed diapers for the twins. They were in the car. The keys were in her dead husband's pocket.

"Mike went down and got them,'' Sharon says. "I never will forget him handing me those cold, wet keys. I opened the trunk. There was Steve's life — his glove and the diapers.''

The families tried to console one another in the ensuing days. One afternoon, Sharon heard Steve Olin's mother, Shirley, wailing.

"She said, 'I just can't take another day of people telling me, "He is in a better place,'" Sharon remembers. "She said, 'No, he had heaven here right on Earth. He had Patti and these sweet babies. I can't see him looking down on this scene and thinking he is in a better place.' ''

Hargrove, a tough, soft-spoken Texan, had not been prone to sharing feelings within the macho confines of baseball clubhouses. His young Indians team wore commemorative patches that season and finished with a record of 76-86.

"Grover" never was the same, in a good way.

"Maybe emotional is not the right word, but I was more empathetic with players than I had been before,'' he says.

"I don't know that anybody is ever prepared to go through something like that. You go along, trust your character, trust the people around you and you trust God to give you the strength to make it.''

***

PONDERING THE WHAT IF

Laurie Crews refuses to dwell on the ponderable. But others impacted by the catastrophe cannot resist contemplating how cosmically avoidable all this might have been.

What if the Crews' happy clan had not moved into their new home only six weeks earlier?

They had made an offer on the property even though it wasn't for sale. "Right before we made the offer, the owner had a heart attack. Two weeks after we signed the paperwork, he died. Freakin' weird,'' Laurie says.

What if the Indians' camp had not been relocated to Winter Haven because Hurricane Andrew virtually destroyed a new facility in Homestead, Fla., six months earlier? The Indians spent the previous 46 years training in Tucson, Ariz.

"They were scrambling to find a place, and the (Boston) Red Sox had just left Winter Haven,'' says Sharon.

What if Hargrove had sacrificed his team's lone day off that soggy spring and accepted an offer from the Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda to play an unscheduled game?

"John Hart asked me if we wanted to play and I said, 'No. I think the guys need a day off,' '' recalls Hargrove, now an Indians adviser.

What if Olin had listened to his wife Patti after the couple repeatedly got lost trying to find the ranch?

"I was ready to go home and say, 'Thanks but no thanks,' '' says Patti Olin-Winter. "But Steve was hell-bent about hanging out and having fun with these two veterans who had invited him.''

What if Indians trainer Montes had not lost an impromptu game of "Rock-paper-scissors" with the three pitchers?

The "loser'' was dispatched to pick up Brigmond at his house.

"I got off the boat,'' which was still on shore and filled with fishing equipment, Montes says.

The trio of pitchers launched and began cruising the lake. When Montes returned with Brigmond, he flashed the pickup truck's lights to alert Crews to pick them up. It was twilight.

Crews accelerated out of a turn — "He wasn't full-throttle by any means,'' Montes says — and veered the vessel toward shoreline. The boat struck the pier nearly head-on . Montes describes the immediate aftermath as "eerie silence.''

Two decades later, Montes still believes alcohol was only one factor.

"I think he lost his bearings,'' he says. "He made the turn a little too wide. He lost his visual because of the rise of the bow and hit the dock. Now, were his reactions impaired? It's hard to say that was exactly the cause. It was a cumulative effect. It wasn't like the guy was stumbling out of a bar where you had to take his keys.''

Contacted by phone, Brigmond offered no clues: "I'm not interested in that anymore. That's all behind me.''

***

NEED FOR SPEED

At spring training in Arizona, Kirk Gibson, the hero of the Dodgers' 1988 World Series conquest, sits down, removes his cap and discusses the "great intentions" Crews had when he invited teammates and their families to foster new-found friendship and team camaraderie.

Gibson, who had rejoined the Detroit Tigers, previously had visited the ranch, but this off day was an Indians-only shindig. Some teammates and Indians officials who didn't attend the picnic went to Disney World with their families.

"I was really close to him,'' says the 55-year-old Diamondbacks manager.

So close that Gibson also realized his buddy had a weakness — a fascination with speed., particularly fast, aerodynamic and powerful boats.

In 1990, Gibson says Crews arranged for his then-Dodger teammate to purchase a pro-style Skeeter bass tournament boat. It was equipped with a high-revving 200-mph horsepower engine.

"This,'' Crews told Gibson, "is a really bad-ass boat.''

The pitcher tricked-out the vessel for Gibson in Florida, and then shipped it up north for the native Michigander. On an off-day, Crews wanted to test the boat's limits with his pal. Gibson was caught off guard. Initially, he was behind the wheel, he says. Crews became antsy.

"Let me behind the wheel,'' Crews told his teammate.

Gibson then describes his horror.

"I tell you what, he got behind that wheel and we took off — we're barely in the water. We're doing 74 mph and we jump a wake and that boat felt almost like a wing of an airplane. He scared the (heck) out of me.

"I said, 'You're crazy.'

"He's like, 'Whoo! Whooo!'

"He's kind of a hillbilly, you know — a dirt farmer. 'Whooo! Whooooo! Whooooooo! He's screamin' and hollerin.' ''

Crews' risky behavior followed him home.

"He was haulin' ass that night,'' Gibson says. "I got it first-hand (from eyewitnesses). He was reckless. Sometimes, you just get over-aggressive. Athletes, that's our strength. But it can be a weakness and leave us vulnerable.

"(He was) a great dude. It's unfortunate all of the families that were affected by it. It's tragic. I miss him. He died doing what he enjoyed doing. Unfortunately, he left his wife and kids behind.''

***

FAMILIES REUNITE

Laurie and Patti haven't seen each other in two decades. They reconnected last year — Facebook, naturally. They hope to see each other in May.

"The 20 years has been like a blink,'' says Patti, 46, recently divorced after a second marriage in 1996 that produced a son, Sam, 13. "There were hard times and great times. I really don't have a lot to complain about.

"Sometimes when I think about it, I feel like it was a movie — an out-of-body experience — that I watched. Sometimes I don't even believe that it happened to me. Just kind of weird, very surreal.''

This week, Patti traveled to Arizona for spring training. Wednesday, at the Diamondbacks' spring-training complex, she met with Charles Nagy and Turner Ward, former Indians now on Gibson's coaching staff.

Nagy, who lived down the hall from Olin at Cleveland's training complex that spring, was among the Indians who opted to take his family to Disney World that day. Ward says he thinks of Steve Olin "every day."

"It was great seeing her, very emotional, but great," Ward said Wednesday. " It's been 20 years since I've seen her. Knowing what she been through, family been through, and see where she is now, is positive.

"Life goes on. I know Patti has. I know each time she steps onto a field, it probably brings back bittersweet memories for her."

Financially, the two families got by thanks to generous payouts by the Major League Baseball Association, plus lifetime pensions and separate monthly payments while their children were in school.

In Laurie's case, Tricia is a veterinarian. Travis works for the Kissimmee, Fla., police department. Shawn will graduate from the University of Florida with an architecture degree next month. He pitched in community college but hurt his arm and never pitched for the Gators.

For years, his mother coached him in Little League. Laurie, a former college athlete with a degree in elementary education, says she, "could've thrown Tim's name around but I wasn't going to because I was too proud.''

She was disappointed that the Dodgers, with whom the Crewses had deep ties, did not try to stay in touch with her children. She says she never missed a Dodger home game from 1987-92, when the club was owned by the O'Malley family. It was sold to Fox in 1998.

"The corporation didn't have the emotional attachment,'' she says.

This week, one of the Dodgers' new co-owners, Stan Kasten, called the family in an attempt to re-establish a relationship. Who knows, son Shawn, 25, might be asked to throw out the first pitch from the same mound his father once stood.

"I'm built exactly like my dad was — thick legs and long arms,'' he says. "We even have similar facial hair. I threw like him, too. It was genetic because I never studied the way he pitched.''

He regularly visits his father's grave at Woodlawn Memorial Park in nearby Gotha, Fla. When they were younger, the Crews children would bring balloons and "have races where we let them go to see whose balloon would get to Daddy (in heaven) the fastest,'' Travis says with a smile.

The last time his older brother visited the burial site was a couple of months ago. After years of tears, it was an especially emotional moment.

"My fiancé is pregnant,'' Shawn says. "So I introduced him to his first grandchild.''

Nightengale reported from Goodyear, Ariz. and Scottsdale, Ariz.



