Everything you’re about to read revolves around one moment in a teenage boy’s life and the tidal wave that engulfed his small town as he set out to accomplish what no other boy had ever achieved — and what no other has done in the 35 years since.
The boy was, by all outward accounts, the prototype of an All-American kid. He’s long and lean with an athletic build doused in tanned bronze skin after countless hours spent on the baseball diamond under the Texas sun. He has a kind face with a chiseled jaw and a Texas drawl that offers a disarming dose of Southern charm when he speaks. He would otherwise go unnoticed in the nation’s consciousness if it weren’t for his right arm, which can hurl a baseball with such speed and control that baffles batters when they step into the box. It’s that talent that will lead Sports Illustrated to dub him the SUPERKID and place him on the cover as the first high school player ever to grace that coveted spot after winning 51 consecutive games, a national high school record.
There was, of course, the anticipation that came on the night of the record-breaking feat as thousands of baseball fans descended into the small town of Brenham, Texas, and flooded the two-lane street outside of Fireman’s Park, the pristine home of their beloved Cubs. A sea of green that matched the players’ jerseys filled the wooden bleachers. News trucks littered the parking lot as photographers climbed on top of the visitor’s dugout to get a clear shot of Jon Peters on the mound, in the batter’s box, or in the dugout between innings. He may not have known it then, but he had eyes watching worldwide.
There was, of course, the celebration when Jon tossed a five-inning no-hitter and then ended the game with an RBI single to secure the Cubs’ 10-0 run-rule victory that cemented his legacy in the national record books. Fans roared, teammates carried him on their shoulders, and all those photographers mobbed the Cubs to get their shot of Jon, the small-town kid who made history.
After the game, Jon said all the right things that would make for great quotes in newspapers and magazines and newscasts.
You struck out seven in a row at one time. “Well, I didn’t know how many I’d struck out, but I knew I had pretty good stuff and they weren’t touching the fastball.”
How about breaking the record on a no-hitter? “I never dreamed of even coming close to breaking this record, but I did and it’s a great way to end it on a no-hitter.”
Does it get any better than this? “No, I don’t think it gets any better.”
And in true southern fashion, Jon was quick to credit everyone but himself as he entered the record books. “We came out and played real well tonight,” he told the local radio station. “I felt good the whole game and I thank the good Lord for letting me do this. I’m glad it’s over. Now we can go kind of relax and go about business trying to get to the playoffs.”
For all the recognition and cheers, what wasn’t obvious behind Jon’s wide-eyed smile that captivated fans was the dread he felt inside in the months leading up: the fear and shame of being cast into a national spotlight that he never wanted. He thought it was only a matter of time until everyone found he was a fraud. And he went to great lengths to avoid it all.
The night before his record-breaking outing, Jon sat on his bedroom floor propped against his bed. The walls were filled with his personal baseball shrine: MLB pennants were pinned of his hometown Houston Astros and of the Los Angeles Dodgers, which were accompanied by a large poster of Nolan Ryan, the tough-as-nails hard-throwing right-hander who Jon idolized. Though he didn’t care much for baseball that night. His green eyes were red and puffy with tears after breaking up with his girlfriend that afternoon. The two were on a break and Jon learned that she went on a date with a good friend — at his own insistence, no less, that they see other people.
Yet alone in his room, he felt betrayed and heartbroken. Couldn’t she see that he only offered so that she would come running back to him? Of course, she couldn’t because she couldn’t see him the way he saw himself. She was the beautiful, blonde bombshell of Brenham with a bubbly personality who starred for the school’s tennis team. He was the fat kid who couldn’t button his uniform pants, the boy who was put on a diet at 2 years old, the loser who had nothing to offer.
Jon turned to the bottle of aspirin and popped a pill. Then another. And another. Until the bottle was empty. He washed them all down with a glass of water with no intention of waking up. He could see the headlines the next day: High school pitcher dead of suspected overdose on eve of record-breaking attempt. Finally, all his pain and anger and hopelessness would end.
Now, it would be the parents who snickered at his weight at baseball games who would feel sad. Now, he would show all the kids who laughed at him as he stood at home plate, his face growing red hot with anger and fear and shame, as he struggled buttoning his pants. Now, people would cherish him the love he wanted all along.
Only he woke up the next morning with his ears ringing loudly and his head feeling as if it was repeatedly being smashed against a brick wall. Great, he thought, I can’t even kill myself right.
Jon grabbed his necklace — a golden 21 after his playing number — and thought of his girlfriend. He would see her at school today. And for the first time, perhaps, they wouldn’t partake in their morning pregame ritual in the school parking lot: him giving her his necklace for good luck.
Outside, the circus had already begun as the hoards that descended upon Brenham prepared for the game ahead. Signs around town served as a constant reminder of what was at stake: Go Jon! they read, and Record-Breaking Night — Come Support the Cubs! Even for a baseball town, the moment felt monumental. Brenham is known as the baseball capital of Texas, thanks to the Cub baseball team. The team had qualified for the playoffs 29 times dating back to 1952, including 22 district championships and six state titles. Two of those state titles, 1987 and 1988, were with the help of Jon’s talented arm.
Pitching in a state tournament, though, was nothing like pitching with the world watching. However, one thing always remained true: While it was difficult ignoring the noise around town, once Jon stepped on the field, he had a way of drowning out all the fans and chatter. It's as if all his self-doubt and rage disappeared when he had a baseball in his hands. “I felt the most loved and accepted when I was on the diamond,” he says.
It's a skill he developed in his dozen or so years playing ball back to Little League when parents would sneer at the taller, heavier boy and whisper, “Can we see Big Pete’s birth certificate?” Only those sneers turned to cheers with Jon on their team. During a Little League All-Star Game, Jon pitched a perfect game: he faced eighteen hitters and struck out everyone. He added three home runs at the plate in case anyone had any doubts about his skill. “Maybe I am pretty good,” he thought.
Jon’s talent was remarkable even in a baseball-rich community like Brenham, where fans pack ballfields even for Little League games. Jon was obsessed with the sport as a little kid. He spent years following his older brother, Ronnie, around to practices — too young to play but old enough to field and shag balls. He went to all the Cubs’ games with his family, watched baseball on TV with his dad, and played catch with his mom. On the rare times someone wasn’t available to catch, Jon tossed a tennis ball against the brick wall of his house or gravel rocks at the cows in his family’s pasture. He envisioned himself in pressure-packed games: World Series, Game 7, 3-2 count, Peters in to close the game. He sets and hurls a heater for strike three! Peters does it!!! Peters is your World Series MVP!!!
As smoothly as life’s pains melted away with a baseball in his hand, they came roaring back at home or during school. On the field, he was loved and accepted; off the diamond, he was insecure and empty. His mind filled with negative thoughts that he was too fat, he was a loser, he was a fake, and soon enough, everyone was going to uncover what he already knew. He projected those beliefs on other people and lashed out when they didn’t dispel his crazy thoughts or shower him with the love he craved.
When Jon arrived at school the day he’d set out to break the record, he fought back the burning tears that pierced his eyes. His girlfriend wasn’t there greeting him in the parking lot, ready to take his necklace. Instead, students and teachers greeted him in the halls with attaboys and you’ve got this, Jon, while he felt his life crumbling within. His ears still rang, his head still pounded. Why was he here…? Why did he wake up…? And then he saw his girlfriend in the halls — and for a moment, the noise stopped. He gave her a hug as he emptied his tears. She hugged him, too, and took his gold necklace.
Records, the saying goes, are meant to be broken. Jon Peters knows a thing about that. Long before he was set to break the consecutive wins record at 51, the tidal wave crashed into Brenham to watch Jon break the record his junior year.
You know the story: Fans packed Fireman’s Park. Photographers topped the visiting dugout. The town celebrated when Jon clinched his 34th straight win. Jon was told he would be on the cover of Sports Illustrated, only to learn he had been bumped after Pete Rose was suspended for shoving an umpire. That’s okay, though. He didn’t want the attention anyway. Attention meant more eyes and more eyes meant the more likelihood he would be discovered as a fake, a fraud, a nobody.
Finally, the tidal wave washed away, and with it the weight of the community that he carried for so long, the fear of disappointing thousands of fans, and the gaggle of reporters, too. Jon felt like he could breathe again.
“I was very aware of my actions because I had to keep up my All-American boy reputation,” he says.
While the record wasn't really the record, Jon Peters wound up recording 53 straight wins in high school. [Getty Images]
Now, he and the Cubs could focus on the season and winning their third straight state championship. Or so he thought…
Turns out Jon’s 34 consecutive wins weren’t a national record. There was a kid from South Carolina who won 50 straight games between 1977-1980, a feat that had gone unreported to the National Federation of State High School Associations, which maintains the record book. The circus that flooded Brenham had been for nothing.
All of Jon’s triggers came roaring in as his insecurities grabbed hold. You’re not good enough, Jon. You let everyone down. You’re a loser and a fraud. You’re not worthy of the national record. Jon, the All-American kid, cursed his parents, broke windows, threw rocks at the cows. He picked petty fights with his girlfriend and accused her of faking her love for him before calling their relationship quits — only to go running back to her the next day. Why didn’t anybody see it was all a cry for help? Why did everyone focus on Jon, the All-American ballplayer who still had a chance to break the record who everyone was cheering for? Why couldn’t they see that he felt dead inside?
He found solace on the diamond. The noise muted. His despair disappeared. Gripping a baseball, he found the confidence and love and acceptance he so deeply sought. By the end of his junior year, Jon’s record improved to 42-0, culminating in the Cubs clinching their third consecutive state championship. With a senior season ahead, the national record was well within reach.
Butterflies swarmed Jon’s stomach as he stepped on the mound the night of his record-breaking attempt. The green-and-white sea filling the stands was overwhelming as roaring fans called, “Go get ‘em, Jon!” and as camera clicks captured his every step on the field. Jon spotted his mom and dad…and then his girlfriend, who wore his gold necklace and smiled and cheered. For the first time all day, he felt happy he was alive.
The rest happened so quickly. His five-inning no-hitter, his RBI single that capped the team’s 10-0 run-rule victory, his teammates carrying him on his shoulders, the bombarding questions from the swarm of reporters searching for a quote from the All-American, small-town kid.
Jon appeared on the TODAY show and in The New York Times. People around town praised him. And then it was all gone. As quickly as the tidal wave came crashing in, it receded.
The Brenham faithful stayed loyal, of course, cheering their Cubs to the semifinals of the state tournament, where the team snapped its 10-game winning streak in the state tournament and ended its bid at a four-peat. Jon went on to win 53 straight games before suffering his first loss since Little League.
All told, Jon finished his high school career with five Brenham records: most consecutive wins (53), most total wins (54), career record (54-1), most strikeouts (612), and most innings pitched (370 1/3).
Jon would go on to accept a college scholarship. He turned down an offer from the University of Texas, his dream school, after his insecurities again grabbed hold and he feared he’d be discovered as a fraud wearing the orange and white. He eventually accepted a scholarship to rival Texas A&M University, a stone’s throw away from Brenham. Though he never took the field with the Aggies. He endured numerous surgeries after his “herky-jerky motion” destroyed his shoulder. What he lost in baseball, he found in alcohol. “Alcohol accepted me just as I was and made me feel the best I had ever felt in my life,” Jon wrote decades later in his book When Life Grabs You by the Baseballs.
Jon eventually stepped away from baseball and dove deep into drinking, which fueled his anger and insecurities and ultimately cost him his marriage and family. He’s since given up alcohol. Now 54, Jon is more reflective of his life.
It’s been more than three decades since he set the national record. He remains an integral part of Brenham baseball lore. Fans still speak his name at Fireman’s Park, reminiscing on the tidal wave that swept through the town. Jon returns occasionally to speak to high school students or at the local chamber of commerce.
Plastered on the left field wall at Fireman’s Park is a painting of a baseball with black stitching that reads:
Jon
21
Peters
For a teenager who dreaded the national spotlight as his insecurities turned a vice-like grip inside, Jon will forever be remembered as the one who lifted a community, was adored and loved by the Cub faithful, and achieved what no one else in history has accomplished. Thirty-five years later, Jon Peters still stands alone in the record books.
