On The Record: The Candy Man Is Not My Hero

On The Record with Jeffrey Reed
July 11, 2026
John Candelaria Was My Boyhood Baseball Idol, But He’s Not My Hero

Photo (above) courtesy Pittsburgh Pirates Baseball Club

This is a story not about a sports hero, but about a childhood baseball idol. There’s a big difference.

Our definition of a sports hero changes as we leave our teenage years and morph into adulthood. As a teen growing up during the 1970s, my sports ‘heroes’ were Willie “Pops” Stargell and John Candelaria – “the Candy Man” – of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Outside of the nightly games I watched on WSEE Channel 35 Erie, Pennsylvania, and Mel Allen-voiced This Week In Baseball, as well as the O-Pee-Chee bubblegum cards that were part of my large collection, I didn’t know anything about those two ballplayers – that is, other than the fact they played well for my team, seemed like fun-loving guys and inspired me to do great things on the baseball diamond.

As much as Pops was the Pirates’ leader, the Candy Man was my baseball hero. His tall frame – 6’7” during 1970s MLB was gigantic – big smile, dry sense of humour and heroics on the mound for the Bucs made him my guy. In fact, I copied his pitching style – whipping the ball sidearm with backdoor sliders before they were the flavour of the month in today’s MLB – which served me well throughout my own baseball career. I used that pitch to strike out the very last batter I faced – eventual Intercounty Baseball League all-time home run king Sean Reilly of the semi-professional Hamilton Cardinals.

How much did I cheer when Candelaria was on the mound for the Pirates in the mid- to late-1970s? Back then, during the heyday of CB Radio, my handle was, the Candy Man. There was no bigger fan. Here’s my QSL card for proof – for you Gen Z and younger, these cards were exchanged to people from around the world who you talked to on the CB radio. Why I didn’t have the artist draw a pitcher, instead of this goofy guy, is beyond comprehension. Hey, it was the ’70s … :

With apologies to the A’s, Dodgers, Phillies, Red Sox, Reds and Yankees, the Pirates would be billed as the Team of the ‘70s, with two World Series championships in 1971 and ’79 – both comeback wins after being down to the Baltimore Orioles three games to one – plus six National League East division wins and a winning percentage of .569, third only to the Big Red Machine and the Orioles. But mostly, it was the Pirates’ swashbuckling way of playing baseball – free hitters, best personified by catcher Manny Sanguillen; stolen bases; small ball and big hits. they were, after all, the Lumber and Lightning Company with a blue collar work ethic. What else would you expect in Steel Town? All of those traits – as well as a wild, tightly-knit anything-goes clubhouse – are what saw the Bucs win the ’79 Series, all with Sister Sledge’s We Are Family blaring in the background for the team known as, The Family.

Phil Garner (centre, facing camera), John Candelaria (right) and the Pirates horsing around at Three Rivers Stadium during a photo shoot

An aside here: in 1980, I sat in the front row at the Western Fairgrounds bandshell adjacent to the racetrack as Sister Sledge performed their greatest hits. Of course, I played the part, wearing my large black pillbox Pirates hat, complete with rings of gold thread and Stargell stars. As an ode to outstanding performances during the season, Stargell handed out real gold-coated stars to his teammates so they could be sewn onto their hats and displayed as a show of excellence. That tradition was actually carried on from 1978 to ’82. As a skinny teen with huge head of curly hair, I wore both the black and the yellow Pirates pillbox hats to school on a regular basis, and closely resembled singer-songwriter John Oates, if he were a Bucs fan. He isn’t, though: he’s a diehard Philadelphia Phillies fan.

Back to heroes. As I matured, my heroes became doctors and nurses – medical professionals whom, to this day, help guide me through life as I live with multiple physical disabilities. I do consider some sports figures as heroes – men like former MLB pitcher Dave Dravecky, who lost his right (pitching) arm to recurring cancer, and now works as a minister and inspirational speaker. When I made my comeback to pitch with the London Majors of the Intercounty Baseball League, I kept a photo of Dravecky in my locker for a reminder of what hard work can do for your when you chase your dreams. Toronto Maple Leafs winger Ron Ellis, who battled similar disabilities as I live with, including club feet, is another of my sports heroes. Ellis, who died in May 2024, became a wonderful humanitarian and inspired countless others with his story of overcoming physical challenges and deep depression.

In fact, although I deeply admire athletes who achieved the nearly impossible – Daniel “Rudy” Ruetigger and his story of being a part of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football program, and Vince Papale for his story of playing in the NFL for the New York Jets which was also a movie, Invincible – they are not my heroes.

John Candelaria, Montreal Expo, 1989

As I began to mentally assemble this column, I spoke with my wife, Beth, about heroes and who has been a true hero in my life. The conversation turned to Candelaria, the subject of this edition of, On The Record with Jeffrey Reed. And after much thought, it occurred to me: the Candy Man was not my hero. He was, in fact, my favourite Pittsburgh Pirates player during the mid- to late-1970s. He was a winner, was resilient – pitching during his entire career with a bad back (as I did) and seemed like a friendly guy. In fact, later in life, he was very friendly to me. More on that later.

I think if you ask any youngster who their sports heroes are, very few would ramble on about an athlete’s humanitarian deeds; rather, they’ll talk about their feats on the field. And that’s fine: athletic achievements can certainly inspire us all. I got jacked up by Joe Montana’s resiliency and championships with the San Francisco 49ers, and Tiger Woods’ domination of golf. But neither one of those superstars were my heroes. And neither was Candelaria, even though as a teenager I thought he was. The Candy Man was, in fact, my favourite MLB player, and I greatly admired him as a fan and youth baseball player.

If any song was to define Candelaria as a person, it would be the 1988 hit, My Prerogative, by Bobby Brown:

Everybody’s talkin’ all this stuff about me
Why don’t they just let me live?
I don’t need permission, make my own decisions
That’s my prerogative.
They say I’m crazy, I really don’t care,
That’s my prerogative.

In a famous 1982 Sports Illustrated article titled, The Mad Hatter of Pittsburgh, from fellow scribe Douglas S. Looney, Candelaria was painted as emotional, intense, chaotic and unpredictable. It was, in fact, a perfect assessment. The southpaw from Brooklyn, New York was generous off the field, but sometimes high-strung and combative with authority, as well as with the media. Of course, Candelaria was not a fan of that article – more on that later, too.

It’s comical that I would pattern my own pitching after the giant on the mound in the concrete bowl called Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh. I would eventually grow no more than one foot shorter than Candelaria, but the sidearm motion did get me looks from NCAA Division I schools. Candy wore a Size 14 shoe, hence the nickname, Foots, which Stargell gave to him. The two were very close during the Pirates’ great run during the ‘70s, and they were the Pirates I admired most. Of course, I also worshipped all-time great Roberto Clemente, but only from a distance as I was a pre-teen when he played, and the Pirates games were not on TV every night during the 1960s and very early ‘70s before his death on New Year’s Eve 1972.

If anything, this is a column about meeting your childhood sports hero and finding out he is just as great of a person as you had hoped – if only for a half hour. Then, I cited the SI article. More on that in a bit.

First, a bit about Candelaria’s career – and the man on and off the mound. The Candy Man pitched for 19 MLB seasons from 1975 to 1993, with the Pirates 1975-85, and 1993, California Angels 1985-87, New York Mets 1987, Yankees 1988-89, Montreal Expos 1989, Minnesota Twins then Toronto Blue Jays in 1990, then Dodgers 1991-92 before retiring as a Pirate the next year. You can read his career stats at the MLB website here . Below are his stats prior to his last season, with Pittsburgh, in 1993 – these were his last bubblegum cards, from Topps and Upper Deck. Full disclosure: I have every single one of Candelaria’s cards amongst my collection of Pirates memorabilia. Yet I do not have Candy’s autograph – more on that later, too, in this column:

A former basketball standout, Candy – as most people called him (it was shorter than the Candy Man, and few called him, John) – broke in with the Bucs after stellar seasons with low Class A Charleston Pirates, Class A Salem Pirates and Triple-A Charleston Charlies. At Charleston during his meteoric rise through the minor leagues, Candy was 7-1 with a 1.77 ERA. After an 8-6, 2.76 ERA rookie MLB season, he came into his own in 1976 with a 16-7 record, 3.15 ERA and a no-hitter versus the Dodgers which aired on Monday Night Baseball on August 9, 1976. In 1977, Candelaria became a household name after finishing 20-5 with a 2.34 ERA.

Battling increasing back pain, Candelaria finished 12-11 with a 3.24 ERA in 1978. During the Pirates’ World Series winning year in ’79, he went 14-9 with a 3.22 ERA but won a critical game for the Bucs in Game 6. With severe back issues, he threw six scoreless innings, allowing only four hits with one walk and one K for the victory. Submariner Kent Tekulve, of course, mopped up for the save – Teke would earn 31 saves that season plus three during the World Series versus the Orioles. He wore, of course, the most Stargell Stars of any Pirate on his pillbox cap.

Candy was never a strikeout pitcher. Over 19 seasons (600 mound appearances) he collected 1,673 Ks – highly respectable but not flamethrower numbers. Rather, Candy was a control pitcher with a deceptive arm angle, an intimidating physical presence on the mound and the ability to put the ball in play for his teammates.

“I was a control pitcher,” Candelaria said to the Pittsburgh Post-
Gazette. “I was not a strikeout pitcher. As they say today, I would ‘pitch to contact.’ My thought was pitching to a batter’s weakness. Pitching to contact, I don’t know what that means sometimes. Sometimes they contact the ball over the wall.”

Most of all, Candelaria was a big-game pitcher who saved his best for the post-season. Pirates manager Chuck Tanner once said if he had one game to win and needed an ace on the mound, he would not choose the likes of Jim Palmer nor Tom Seaver, but Candelaria. In a recent interview with SportsNet Pittsburgh, Candelaria replied to that quip, in his familiar playful manner. “It makes me wonder what was wrong with Chuck to not want Seaver or Koufax or someone. You’d think he was insane. But it’s a nice thing to say. It’s humbling to think he would think that much of me, to have me out there with the game on the line. Chuck was a gambler anyway.”

Indeed, amongst his teammates during the first half of his career, before he became a baseball nomad and carried baggage from multiple sources, and surely whenever the camera focused on him, Candy appeared to be a relaxed, happy-go-lucky guy. But in reality, that was far from the truth – something a 15-year-old me did not know when the Pirates hurler became my favourite player. For sure, one reason he was traded so much during the latter part of his career was his value as a veteran pitcher. But he was often used as a relief pitcher – many times a setup man, especially during his short stint in Toronto in 1990 – and that angered the proud former all-star hurler.

This isn’t a story about the many trials and tribulations of John Candelaria – there is plenty online for you to read. In summary, Candelaria became disillusioned with the MLB structure and how players were handled by coaches and executives. He was always honest with an answer, and many people – coaches and media – took that the wrong way. But he also had demons, and experienced personal tragedy.

Candy had multiple DUI charges, saw time in rehab, and once even blamed his Angels teammate, pitcher Don Sutton, for turning him into the police. He engaged in verbal sparring matches with the media, and baseball executives and coaches. He had failed marriages, too. But no other event affected him more than the death of his son John Jr. in November 1985. The child nearly drowned after falling in the family pool in Sarasota, Florida, on Christmas Day 1984. He remained in a coma before his death at age 2. That type of family tragedy never leaves you.

John Candelaria: a Toronto Blue Jays pitcher 1990

Until late-July 1990, I had never met Candelaria. I wouldn’t make the trek to Pittsburgh until one year later, when I had my memorable encounter with Barry Bonds – you can read that story here.

Candy was acquired by the Blue Jays from the Minnesota Twins on July 27, 1990. During his brief stint with Toronto, the veteran lefty made 13 appearances (including two starts), saw 21.1 innings of work, and posted a forgettable 0-3 record with one save and a 5.48 ERA before finishing out his career with the Dodgers and Pirates. On the cusp of greatness and eventually back-to-back World Series victories in 1992 and ’93, the Jays finished the 1990 season with an 86-76 record, placing second in the American League East and missing the playoffs. Managed by Cito Gaston, they held the division lead late in September but faltered in their final weeks, finishing two games behind the Boston Red Sox. That was the year of Dave Stieb’s no-hitter versus the Cleveland Indians on Labour Day. If you watch video of Stieb’s teammates mobbing him on the mound after the no-hitter, you’ll see Candelaria patting him on the shoulders.

Toronto picked up Candelaria as a veteran pitcher who could help them mostly out of the bullpen, but Candy was not happy with his role. In fact, by all accounts, he did not enjoy his stay north of the border. He performed poorly, and was reportedly short with media – often times avoiding them altogether.

Here’s some trivia for you: Candelaria is the only MLB pitcher to have won games at Exhibition Stadium, SkyDome, Jarry Park and Olympic Stadium – all as the visiting pitcher.

Just as Candelaria had arrived in Toronto, I, too, was in the city on business, attending an editorial meeting and conducting research – this was before videoconferencing and Google, kids, and the Toronto libraries offered me a wealth of resources. During my lunch hour, I took a walk around SkyDome – it has always felt like I am home when near a ballpark, whether or not I’m inside working as a scribe or broadcaster. As luck would have it, I spotted Candelaria – and who wouldn’t at 6’7”? – walking up the stairs from downtown Toronto and approaching the front doors of the SkyDome hotel.

I instinctively yelled, “Candy!” and he stopped dead in his tracks. I didn’t call for John, nor Candelaria, not even Candy Man (which would have been corny as hell). But I called for Candy, which he always seemed to be most comfortable with, and he walked towards me to offer a quick hello. It turned out to be a half-hour chat – and he was the nicest MLB player I had ever met, until I chatted with Jays first baseman John Olerud.

Photo courtesy Pittsburgh Pirates Baseball Club

Now, my job here was multi-faceted. I didn’t want to scare away Candelaria with the news that I was a sports reporter, so I simply told him that I wasn’t in town to cover the Jays, and that I was based in London, Ontario, two hours west. He seemed comfortable with that, and I can honestly say he didn’t seem guarded. But I was taken back when right away he asked me, “What do you do for a living?” Perhaps he was just curious, but ballplayers always have their backs – especially when yards away from the clubhouse.

Candy and I chatted mostly about the city of Toronto – he asked me everything he could fit into our half-hour conversation: “What are Go Trains?” I told him, think of L-Trains but mostly not elevated. “What restaurants are good downtown? How tall is the CN Tower? What’s the weather like in Toronto? What are the fans like here?”

Without wanting to sound like superfan, I admit I did try to impress Candy with my knowledge of his career (I did not tell him he was my boyhood idol). He seemed most impressed with the fact I knew all about the back pain he was suffering prior to Game 6 of the ’79 World Series. I asked him just how bad it was. He told me, “Let me put it this way: if it was not Game 6, then I would have sat on the bench.”

My only mistake – although really not a mistake – during this chat was to bring up the fact I had read Looney’s story in SI. As a fan and a baseball writer, I enjoyed the story and saw Candelaria as a deep thinker, honest speaker and fun-loving, happy-go-lucky ballplayer, yet flawed just like the rest of us. The story hadn’t changed much of what I had thought as a 16-year-old fan, but it did reveal some of his life’s challenges. Candelaria, on the other hand, felt the story was unfair and harsh, and painted him as a difficult person with whom to get along – which he could be.

Morganna the Kissing Bandit greets the Candy Man

In any event, once I brought up the article (I jokingly asked him if he still drank beer out of a mason jar, as he did during the Looney interview, but the joke didn’t go over well), Candy got quiet and soon afterwards said he had to go. I recall saying to Candy, I wish I had a piece of memorabilia for you to sign. The minute I said that, he said, “Hey, this is much better. It was great meeting you, Jeff,” and shook my hand, which was dwarfed in his big mitt.

I walked away from that chat saying to myself, I’m glad that I met him and that he was as nice as I had hoped he would be. In fact, Candy has always been friendly with the fans – not so much with the media. I’ve always had the impression that not only did he not find the media a necessity, but more importantly he was annoyed by having to answer the same questions for 21 professional seasons of baseball.

Candy’s stats with the Blue Jays were less then impressive. And you got the feeling that small blip on his bubblegum card would rather be forgotten. I also think the phrase, ‘Where’s there’s smoke, there’s fire,’ certainly applies to Candy’s reputation as being a difficult person who had no use for authority figures. Even during our cordial chat, I felt that. He has always been his own man – a proud man. But I think his rep has more to do with the fact he is simply an honest person with no time for BS, and many times he was misunderstood – not on the same scale as, say, Terrell Owens, but misunderstood just the same.

The Internet had yet to be a thing during Candelaria’s playing days, but I bet he would have avoided it. I do not, however, believe everyone would have been kind to Candy. He would have been fair game in the hands of every keyboard coward.

Last week, I reached out to the Pirates so they could connect me with Candelaria for an interview for this column, and the ballclub bent over backwards to accommodate me with photos. But within a half hour of long-time PR coordinator Jim Trdinich (now heading the team’s hall of fame as club historian) texting Candy for me, I received his reply, “John is going to politely decline. Sorry.” Candy was to have been told my interview would focus on the upcoming 50th anniversary of his no-hitter, and his 2026 induction into the Pittsburgh Pirates Hall of Fame. Still, he did not want to be interviewed. And, he didn’t know me from Jack Squat – not that it should have mattered. But it would have been nice to recount our 1990 meeting.

John Candelaria takes a bow at the 2024 reunion of the 1979 World Series championship squad. Photo by Harrison Barden courtesy Pittsburgh Pirates Baseball Club.

I’ve watched and listened to recent interviews with the Candy Man – and believe me, there are very, very few – and he never seemed interested nor engaging. But that’s Candy when it comes to the media. He opened up a bit with SportsNet Pittsburgh, but he still seemed a little disinterested.

So, what do I take out of my 1990 meeting with my childhood baseball hero? He was funny, engaging, down to earth and, yes, happy-go-lucky – walking the streets of Toronto in a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers, getting to know the city and finding time to talk with someone who recognized him. What do I conclude after he declined my request for an interview? Nothing other than he did not wish to speak with me, for whatever reason. I could speculate, especially given the fact I was a Canadian baseball writer – a species he did not respect while in Toronto. But that would only be speculation.

I’ve reached two conclusions: that I thoroughly enjoyed my conversation with Candy in 1990 – he was how I hoped he would be. And second, that I’m delighted that the Bucs are inducting The Candy Man into their Hall of Fame.

As a public speaker, I always give thanks to my heroes – doctors and nurses. I also talk about professional athletes – Dave Dravecky and Ron Ellis – who truly are heroes. And I always tell the story of meeting my boyhood baseball idol, John Candelaria, and how he asked about Go Trains, the city of Toronto and where to get a good steak in The Big Smoke.

–30–

On The Record is published every Saturday at LondonOntarioSports.com. Jeffrey Reed is Southwestern Ontario’s senior sports journalist, with roots dating back to 1980. A three-time author, Reed penned, EBBA 40 Years of Baseball (1994) and, The Canadian Seniors’ Golf Association, Celebrating 100 Years of Seniors Golf 1918-2018 (2018). Reach him at jeff@londonontariosports.com.