Heading for home

SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. - You'll know Shonda Schilling when you see her at Fenway Park this summer. While others may be wearing tank tops and shorts, she'll be the one in long pants and long sleeves, oversize shades, and a big hat. Doesn't matter how hot it is; she covers up. Ditto for her kids, who, like her, no longer wear bathing suits for swimming but ray-resistant "sun suits," long sleeves, and long pants.

"My kids know the drill. Curt does, too," she says of her husband, the five-time All-Star pitcher whose acquisition by the Red Sox has fueled World Series fever. (He wears SPF 30 sun screen when on the field.)

Three years ago, at age 33, Shonda Schilling was diagnosed with malignant melanoma. "We think we caught it in time," were the doctor's chilling words. In all, 25 moles were removed; four were cancerous. Today her back looks as though it's been attacked by a slasher. But the former beauty queen doesn't shy away from showing it. A picture is posted on the website of the skin cancer foundation she started (shadefoundation.org), and she invited "Good Morning America" into the operating room.

"I want to scare people," says Shonda. "I don't want them to go through what I went through. If my melanoma comes back, or if I get it somewhere else, it won't be because I neglected it. It'll be because it's my time."

She is walking through the Schillings' sprawling home in the exclusive Paradise Valley section of Scottsdale, 20 minutes from downtown Phoenix. The den is devoted to family photos and Curt's honors: the World Series ring and towering trophy replica, the All-Star rings, a World Series Most Valuable Player Award (which he shared with fellow Arizona Diamondbacks pitcher Randy Johnson), Sportsman of the Year honors from various magazines, and so on. "Everything but the Cy Young," Shonda sighs. (He was runner-up to Johnson in 2001 and 2002.)

But there are other kudos of which she is equally proud. Those are the humanitarian honors - the Roberto Clemente, Lou Gehrig, Branch Rickey, and Catfish Hunter awards, the Congressional Families Action for Cancer Awareness, the Hutch Award, and too many plaques from the ALS Association to count. The Schillings have been staunch supporters in the fight against amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's Disease, since Curt played in Philadelphia. The ALS Association is to the Phillies what the Jimmy Fund is to the Red Sox. (After signing with the Sox, Schilling's next signature was on a $500,000 check to the Jimmy Fund.) In 2002, Worth magazine named him "Young Benefactor of the Year."

Shonda, Curt, and their four children - Gehrig, 8, Gabriella, 6, Grant, 4, and Garrison, 18 months - are moving to Red Sox Nation, to great expectations. Curt, who recently signed a two-year contract worth $25.5 million, is one of the most dominant pitchers in the game. A voluble talker and writer who likes to call talk shows and e-mail fans, he is as interesting off the field as on, and is sure to make an impact on Boston's singular sports psyche.

The Schillings are also sure to make an impact on the nonprofit community. They're known as generous donors and tireless fund-raisers. The couple has raised more than $3 million for the fight against Lou Gehrig's Disease, much of it through "Curt's Pitch for ALS." In fact, they named their eldest son for the Yankees great who died of the disease. For the past several years, they've contributed $100 for every strikeout he chalks up and $1,000 for every game he wins to the ALS chapters in both Philadelphia and Phoenix. Fans are encouraged to donate, too. The Schillings will do the same in Boston, while continuing support for the Philadelphia and Arizona chapters, of which Shonda is a board member.

"We feel lucky to be in a position to do this," says Shonda, who grew up in blue-collar Baltimore. But she adds: "You don't have to be rich or famous to help. If you're a carpenter, you can build a ramp for a family who has to use a wheelchair. Or you can make a meal for someone."

The Schillings attend Scottsdale Bible Church regularly; Curt, who had not been a churchgoer, became a Christian in 1997. "I got tired of waking up every morning with no real purpose in life," he says. His purpose now? "To make a difference in other people's lives before I leave." Both he and Shonda also practice the Korean martial art Tang Soo Do - he's a blue belt - as well as pilates.

In Arizona, Shonda's Shade Foundation has put awnings over school playgrounds, where temperatures can rise to 120 degrees, and created a classroom program to educate children about melanoma. She will continue her Shade work in Boston.

"I did this to myself," she says, repeating what she tearfully told the doctor upon her diagnosis. "The East Coast is so cold, we'd run to the beach and color ourselves all up [with the aid of tanning oil]. Melanoma is the leading killer of women between 25 and 35. It's women like me who were just starting out their lives."

New town, different fans

Boston is about as different from Phoenix as a boiled dinner is from a fajita. There's the weather, the terrain, the architecture, the history. And then there are the fans. "The Red Sox don't have a home state; they have a home portion of the country," says Curt, 37. "It's a passionate, long love affair. They've been jilted a long time. They just dig a little deeper and say, `Next year is our year.' And when that doesn't happen, it gives them the right to be the way they are."

But what about the dark side? Doesn't he remember the Boston fans calling their own Roger Clemens a fat hillbilly?

"They're going to crucify me when I make a mistake," he says. "These people are going to boo me, flip me off. I don't have a problem with that. It's happened before. That's part of the experience." The way he sees it, the worst diss of all is being ignored by fans.

When he leaves Arizona, he'll miss the National League (whose hitters he has studied relentlessly), the house with the pool out back, the friends. And Fort Myers, Fla., where the Red Sox train, is a far worse commute than the two hours between Scottsdale and Tucson, where the Diamondbacks train.

"We'd go to Tucson to see Curt on the weekends, and he would come back here some during the week and get up at 5 a.m. to go back to training," says Shonda. When he reports to spring training this week, the family won't see him again until the children's school vacation on March 5, when they will travel to Fort Myers. "It will be the longest we've been apart," she says.

After that, Shonda and the children will move into Drew Bledsoe's former mansion in Medfield, which they bought for $4.5 million. The two eldest Schilling children will start in the Medfield public schools next month; Shonda is searching for a preschool for Grant. Her parents, who spend much of the year close to the grandchildren, have rented a home in Medfield.

Shonda says she's looking forward to the move. "I didn't want to come here," she says of Scottsdale. "But so many things happened here that were so good and others that were life-changing, I was grateful to be here. But I want to go back to the East Coast."

Close at home

After graduating from Towson State University in Maryland, Shonda worked as a TV sports producer and moonlighted at a Foot Locker store. It was there that she met Curt, who was playing for the Orioles. He picks up the story: "I was in the mall with my girlfriend. She went off to shop. I went in the Foot Locker. I saw Shonda. She had this cute referee's outfit on. I talked to her for a few minutes. I broke up with my girlfriend, and Shonda and I went out that night." They were married in 1992.

Both of them come from close-knit families. Curt still leaves a ticket to every game for his father, who died 15 years ago at age 52 before seeing his son make it to the majors. Outside their home flies an American flag and a black POW flag; both their fathers and grandfathers were veterans.

The couple shares a home office, where she does her charity work and he does his baseball work: He employs a full-time videographer who "breaks down every hitter Curt will face," says his friend and financial adviser Gary Jbara. "Curt puts together his notes, and in the dugout he studies them. He knows going into a game how he's going to pitch to each batter." Now, he must rebuild that database with American League hitters.

Her side of the office is pristine; his is scattered with detritus, including stacked tins of chewing tobacco. It's his bete noire, "the one thing in life that's beaten me every chance I've tried." He did give it up for a year, after his dentist found a lesion in his mouth. With a wife and four children, he says he feels a responsibility to stay healthy.

In the Schilling family health history, 2001 will go down as a year to remember. In February, Shonda was diagnosed with melanoma. During the playoffs, year-old Grant was rushed to intensive care with breathing problems. Gehrig had a mole removed from his foot, which "made my heart drop," says his mother, until the results came back: noncancerous. Soon after that, Gabby broke her arm.

But it is Shonda who has battled the most health problems. During her third pregnancy, she developed a blood clot in her leg and had to give herself injections during that and her subsequent pregnancy. She will be on a blood thinner for life. Then, she experienced strange symptoms; her hair fell out, she gained weight, and she became disoriented. Diagnosis: thyroid disease.

"I figure bad things come in threes," she says. "So that's it. If I make it to 40, I'm going to have a big party."

But 2001 brought good news, too. The World Series title, for one. Ten days later, on Curt's birthday, she learned she was pregnant. "I said, `Well, you'll never get this birthday present again!"' Not until her fourth child was born did she hire a baby sitter. "I thought people would judge me if I wasn't a full-time mom," she says. "How insane was that?"

Once, she left Curt with two of the children for two nights while she took Gabby to see Curt's sister in Florida. "When we got back, he was ready to hire whoever it took."

Moving in, fitting in

Passing by their master suite, she calls out: "Curtis, get up!" He has retreated to the bedroom for a catnap, sprawled across the bed, cradling several pillows. It's late afternoon. The kids are just home from Chuck E. Cheese. The dogs, Patton the doberman and Rufus the ori pei, beg for attention. In the kitchen, there's a sign: "Forget the Dog. Beware of kids."

Curt is wearing a T-shirt and plaid flannel shorts that reveal a tattoo of a doberman on his left calf. Barefoot, he pads into the kitchen, hoists baby Garrison to his shoulder, and offers him a fruit roll-up. Shonda cautions that it's too big a wad, but Garrison chews it with gusto.

When he's off the field, Curt coaches Gehrig's baseball team, and belongs to the father-daughter Indian Princess club with Gabby. The children always pick out the clothes he will wear during the season, under his uniform. Invariably, there's a pair of Scooby-Doo boxer shorts.

As they prepare to move east, the Schillings are looking forward to different things. The kids are intrigued by a new notion: "snow days." Shonda wants to run the Boston Marathon. Curt will be happy to be in a four-sport town (though he's not a basketball fan). Both Curt and Shonda are grateful that she will have her medical checkups at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

And both are looking forward to another World Series.

"I gotta tell you, winning the World Series is like nothing else," she says. That October day in 2001, her husband started pitching Game 7 against Clemens and the Yankees. When she arrived at the ballpark, the other Diamondbacks wives had each ordered her a mixed drink, and set them in front of her seat.

Her husband has high anxiety, too. "You can't even talk to him the night before, the day of a game," she says. "You just leave him alone."

What about the Curse of the Bambino?

"We don't care about the curse," she says.

Says he: "I believe we haven't won the World Series not because of [the sale of Babe Ruth to the Yankees,] but because we made bad pitches, we didn't get the hits we needed to get. The Red Sox are good enough to be world champions this year. It's our turn."

As the Schillings prepared to leave town, the Phoenix chapter of the ALS Association threw them a farewell lunch, to thank them for raising more than $1 million in four years. The couple was presented with the Schilling Award, which the chapter hopes to sponsor annually, and some ALS patients told moving stories of what the association, and the Schillings, have meant to them. "Lucky Boston," said more than one patient.

What are the Schillings' hopes for Boston?

"We want to be part of the community," Shonda says. "We want to make a difference. We want people who, when we leave, will know us."

She laughs, adding: "Not that I want all of Boston at my house."