Jack Wilson
When I sat down with Jack Wilson, I thought we’d talk about defense and double plays—and we did—but what stuck with me were the quiet glances across a stadium, the sacred bond between a father and son, and how PNC Park somehow became part of both their stories. Jack didn’t just play baseball there—he raised his kids in its shadows, built a backyard ballfield for them, and now sits in the stands watching Jacob, the same way Jacob once watched him. The stats are great. The glove was elite. But what I’ll remember is how a ballpark became home.
Hey, Jack, having played twelve, thirteen years in the big leagues, what is it like now kind of living that life through your son? What is that experience like?
Oh, it’s amazing. It’s just really cool to reflect—seeing pictures and videos of Jacob in little Pirates uniforms, coming to the stadium, hanging around PNC Park. I even bought season tickets behind home plate one year just to be closer to them.
I remember getting big hits, scoring runs, and looking over and seeing my family—especially Jacob—watching. Now, years later, he’s in big-league stadiums, and I’m the one looking for him. That full-circle feeling is incredible.
And getting to experience places like Wrigley Field differently—not just as a player running onto the field, but as a dad sitting in the stands, grabbing food, walking around. It’s a whole different feeling. It's really fun.
Some things are bigger than baseball. How cool is it to see your son in the stands while you’re playing—and now you being in the stands, close to him?
It’s really special. Jacob and I have this unspoken communication—even from across a big stadium. A little head nod, a tilt of the head, and I know what he’s thinking.
At Wrigley, he looked at me before leading off a game against a Japanese left-hander, just tilted his head—and I knew he was swinging at the first pitch. (Laughs.) It’s like we’re still coaching and learning together, without saying a word.
Those moments—amidst all the noise, the crowds, the craziness—they ground you. They make the ballpark feel human, not just a stage or an event. That little moment of connection makes everything else disappear. It feels normal again.
I love that. Let’s talk about PNC Park. You made your home debut there—the first official game at PNC. What do you remember?
It was incredible. We actually played two exhibition games against the Mets before Opening Day, so the “first time” jitters were slightly broken. But that first official home game? I’ll never forget it.
Greg Brown announced the lineup, and when he got to me, he said, "The rookie," before my name. I thought that was such a cool, personal touch. He could’ve just rattled off the lineup, but he made it feel special.
The place was absolutely packed. The city was electric. And for me, being a California guy, I didn’t grow up with Three Rivers Stadium. I didn’t have that emotional attachment. So everything about PNC Park was brand new to me.
It felt like the ballpark and I were rookies together. Both of us brand new, trying to find our place. I still vividly remember the fresh paint smell in the tunnels under the stadium, the cold April air cutting through, everything feeling so clean and full of possibility.
Now, over twenty years later, how special is it to look back and say you helped open what many call the most beautiful ballpark in baseball?
It’s amazing. Truly. And now it’s even more emotional because Jacob might play there next year with Oakland when they visit Pittsburgh. For him, that stadium is part of his childhood.
It’s surreal thinking about the full circle—me playing my first home game there, and maybe him playing his first game there as a visitor.
What’s really impressive is how PNC has stood the test of time. Usually after twenty, twenty-five years, people start talking about replacing stadiums. Not PNC. It’s still regarded as the best. It’s like Wrigley or Dodger Stadium—timeless. It’s part of the city’s heartbeat now.
From a playing standpoint, what stood out about PNC?
Oh, a lot. The grass was kept thick on purpose—to absorb all the early spring rains. As a defender, you noticed right away: the ball didn’t roll as fast through the infield.
Left field was huge. Absolutely massive. It made it really difficult for right-handed hitters to get the ball out. Short right field was nice for lefties like Brian Giles, but for righties? You needed a perfect swing.
And then there was the notch down the left-field line—the ball could carom weirdly, bounce back toward the infield. As a shortstop, you had to sprint down the line on balls hit past third base, just in case.
The batter’s eye originally had little trees behind the wall. Those trees actually helped hitters because they blocked some of the glare from the sun. After they took them out, it got brutally bright in the first couple innings. I was lucky—I hit later in the lineup, so it wasn’t as bad for me. (Laughs.)
But even those quirks—the quirks made it special. It wasn’t just a stadium; it was a living, breathing place you had to learn and respect.
That’s amazing insight. You mentioned you built a training facility at home partly to stay connected with your family and partly for defense. Can you talk a little about how that ties into your larger love for the game?
Absolutely. Defense was always my passion. Even when Jacob was really little, I stressed to him: You can hit all you want, but if you’re elite defensively, that’s what separates you.
I built the facility so we could train at home instead of running around town. And Jacob loved it. We got a FungoMan machine that shot ground balls all over the place. He spent hours back there.
And sure enough, it became a huge part of his identity. He takes pride in being a great defender. In baseball, offense gets all the glory—but defense is sacred. Defense is what keeps you in the game.
That brings me back to something you said about "small ball" and how the game has changed. How did that affect you later in your career?
When I got traded to Seattle, it was tough. The American League didn’t really play the game the way the National League did back then. It was more power-focused. No bunts. No hit-and-run.
I missed the little things—the things that make baseball so beautiful when you’re paying attention. Moving a runner over. Bunting to get a guy into scoring position. Playing intricate, strategic baseball.
In Pittsburgh, that was my role. I thrived in it. In the American League, I didn’t fit the style, and I struggled.
But I have no regrets. I loved playing the way I played.
Last one. When you think about PNC Park today—about everything you've experienced there—how do you sum it up?
For me, PNC Park is family. It’s connection. It’s new beginnings. It’s a sacred place.
It's where I became a major leaguer. Where my son grew up. Where I stood on a field and felt like a small part of something so much bigger.
No matter how many new stadiums get built, no matter where the game evolves, places like PNC—the great ballparks—they don't just hold games. They hold memories. They hold life.
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More from Jack Wilson
NOTE: The above was edited for clarity and length.
You can read the full transcript here.