Alfred “Al” Holland Sr., Roanoke’s big-league original, leaves a legacy larger than the final out. From Lucy Addison to North Carolina A&T, from Salem to Philadelphia, Holland carried the confidence of home everywhere he pitched.

Roanoke, VA

Author: Roanoke Rambler Staff

Published: 2:00 AM EST July 15, 2026

Edited: 2:00 AM EST July 15, 2026

When Alfred Willis Holland Sr. wanted the baseball, there was rarely any mystery about it. He did not hide in a bullpen corner, wait for a manager to make eye contact or pretend that somebody else was better suited for the moment. He rose. He began to throw. He made himself available. The message was simple enough to become a personal motto: Give me the ball.

That sentence followed Holland from Roanoke to Greensboro, from the minor leagues in Salem to the pressure of a pennant race in Philadelphia. It captured his appetite for competition, but it also said something about the way he lived. Holland was prepared to be trusted. He expected difficult assignments. He believed that when a game tightened and a crowd grew louder, the best response was not fear but opportunity.

Holland, one of the most accomplished athletes ever produced by Roanoke, died July 4, 2026, in Fort Mill, South Carolina, surrounded by loved ones. He was 73. News of his death traveled quickly through several baseball communities that claimed him with pride: North Carolina A&T, where his college numbers still sound almost fictional; Philadelphia, where he became an All-Star closer and helped the Phillies win the 1983 National League pennant; and Roanoke, where his story began and where he later returned to coach another generation.

National accounts will remember the 34 victories, 78 saves, 513 strikeouts and 2.98 earned-run average he accumulated over 384 major-league games. They will remember the 1983 National League Relief Man of the Year, the 1984 All-Star selection and the moment he struck out Bill Russell to close the National League Championship Series. Roanoke can remember all of that—and something more intimate. Before he was a major leaguer, Holland was a neighborhood athlete from Lucy Addison. Before he became a symbol of late-inning nerve, he was a local son whose talent was visible in three sports. And after the stadium lights dimmed, he came home.

A star shaped by Lucy Addison

Born Aug. 16, 1952, in Roanoke, Holland came of age during the final years of a segregated school system. Lucy Addison High School was more than a building where Black students attended classes. It was an institution that carried achievement, culture and community pride through an era when equal opportunity was promised far more often than it was delivered.

Holland starred there in football, basketball and baseball. North Carolina A&T later described him as a three-sport standout, and his versatility was not ceremonial. He arrived in Greensboro in 1971 and led the Aggies in rushing as a freshman football player. Three younger brothers would follow him to A&T and play football there, expanding a family connection to the university.

Yet the left arm told the clearest story. Baseball gave Holland a stage equal to his competitiveness. He pitched with power, challenged hitters and trusted his fastball. There was little interest in making the game appear more complicated than it was. The hitter knew what might be coming. Holland still believed he could beat him.

The numbers that became legend

College statistics are sometimes softened by time, repeated until they become folklore. Holland’s record at North Carolina A&T requires no exaggeration. As a freshman, he led the nation with 143 strikeouts and finished second nationally with a 0.54 ERA. Against rival North Carolina Central, he threw a no-hitter and struck out 25 batters. Then he threw another no-hitter the next season. And another the season after that. And another as a senior—one no-hitter in each of his four college seasons.

He never finished a season with an ERA higher than 1.03. When A&T moved from the NAIA to the NCAA in 1974, the level changed but the dominance did not. Holland posted a 0.95 ERA with 105 strikeouts as a junior, then delivered a 0.26 ERA and 118 strikeouts as a senior. He became a two-time NAIA All-American.

Those numbers explain why Holland is enshrined in the North Carolina A&T Sports Hall of Fame, the Mid-Eastern Athletic Conference Hall of Fame and the National College Baseball Hall of Fame. They explain why A&T retired his No. 17 in 2020, placing him in a select group of Aggies honored in that way for athletic merit. But numbers alone do not explain why coaches and teammates continued to repeat his words decades later.

‘Give me the ball’ was not marketing language created after the trophies arrived. It was the essence of a pitcher who wanted responsibility. Former Giants manager Frank Robinson once recalled that whenever he stepped out of the dugout and looked toward the bullpen, Holland would rise and start getting loose, no matter the inning or situation. Robinson frequently had to wave him down: not you, not yet. The point was that Holland was always ready.

Twice drafted, then overlooked and still moving forward

Professional baseball did not offer Holland a straight road. The Texas Rangers selected him in the 30th round of a 1974 draft, and the San Diego Padres took him in the fourth round of the January 1975 draft. Holland declined both opportunities and finished his college career. Then, after graduation, he went unselected in the summer of 1975.

For many players, that sequence would have felt like the door closing. For Holland, it became one more test of conviction. Branch Rickey III, carrying one of baseball’s most recognizable family names, signed him into the Pittsburgh Pirates organization in June 1975.

The next year brought Holland back close to home. Pitching for the 1976 Salem Pirates, he went 4-2 with a 2.96 ERA, saved 13 games and struck out 72 batters. Local fans who had known the Lucy Addison athlete could now watch him climb professional baseball’s ladder in the Roanoke Valley. The distance between a neighborhood field and the major leagues no longer seemed abstract. It was standing on a mound in Salem.

Holland reached the majors with Pittsburgh on Sept. 5, 1977. He entered a lopsided game against Philadelphia and worked a scoreless inning. With that appearance, he became the first North Carolina A&T player to appear in an American or National League game.

Finding his role in San Francisco

Holland’s major-league career became established after the Pirates traded him to the San Francisco Giants in 1979. He made the Giants’ opening-day roster in 1980 as the club’s only rookie and quickly became one of the league’s most effective young relievers. He did not allow an earned run until May 7 and finished the season 5-3 with seven saves and a 1.75 ERA in 54 appearances. He tied for seventh in National League Rookie of the Year voting.

He was durable enough to be used repeatedly and confident enough to want even more work. In 1981, after the players’ strike, Holland finished strongly and made three starts at the end of the season. In 1982, the Giants made him their opening-day starter, an unusual chapter for a pitcher whose personality and value fit the bullpen so naturally.

A hamstring injury eventually sent him back to relief work, where he again thrived. From Sept. 9 through Sept. 26, 1982, Holland pitched 17⅔ consecutive hitless innings. He faced 58 batters; only five reached base, on three errors and two walks. The Giants had quality relief depth but needed starting pitching, and that winter they traded Holland and future Hall of Famer Joe Morgan to Philadelphia.

Philadelphia and the season that defined him

The 1983 Phillies were an aging, celebrated team that became known as the Wheeze Kids. Their roster carried famous names and heavy expectations. Holland arrived with a sore shoulder that delayed his season debut until May, and the club stumbled badly enough to change managers in July. But as the summer turned toward August, the Phillies began to look like a contender—and Holland began to look like the closer they needed.

He appeared in 29 games during August and September, recording 14 saves with a 2.25 ERA as Philadelphia surged to the National League East title. Holland finished the regular season 8-4 with 25 saves, a 2.26 ERA and 100 strikeouts in 91⅔ innings. At the time, the 25 saves were a franchise record. He became only the seventh left-handed pitcher in major-league history to strike out at least 100 batters in a season without making a start.

The postseason turned excellence into memory. Against the Los Angeles Dodgers in the National League Championship Series, Holland saved Game 1 and entered Game 4 with the Phillies nearing a pennant. He worked 1⅔ scoreless innings. With two outs in the ninth and Philadelphia leading 7-2, Holland struck out Bill Russell. He leaped into Mike Schmidt’s arms, raised a fist and became part of the visual history of Philadelphia baseball.

The Phillies advanced to the World Series against Baltimore. Holland saved the Phillies’ Game 1 victory, protecting a 2-1 lead after John Denny and Willie Hernández had carried the game into the late innings. Philadelphia would lose the Series in five games, but Holland’s season had already established him among baseball’s elite relievers.

He won the National League Rolaids Relief Man of the Year Award, finished sixth in Cy Young Award voting and ninth in the league’s Most Valuable Player voting. The following summer, he represented the Phillies in the 1984 All-Star Game. He finished that season with 29 saves, breaking his own club record.

The difficult side of a long career

Baseball careers are rarely clean arcs from discovery to triumph. Workload, injury, trades and changing club priorities reshape them. Philadelphia traded Holland back to Pittsburgh early in 1985 in a deal for veteran reliever Kent Tekulve. Later that year, Pittsburgh sent him to the California Angels. He pitched for the New York Yankees in 1986 and again briefly in 1987, the final season of his major-league career.

There were controversies during that period, including Holland’s testimony in the 1985 Pittsburgh drug trials and discipline imposed by Major League Baseball. Any honest account of the era must acknowledge that the cocaine scandal reached across clubhouses and implicated numerous players. Holland completed required community-service and anti-drug obligations. It is part of his professional record, but it does not erase the decades of achievement, mentorship and service that followed.

By the time he left the majors, Holland had played 10 seasons for the Pirates, Giants, Phillies, Angels and Yankees. He had been used as a starter, long reliever, setup man and closer. He had pitched in 384 games and 646 innings. Most important, he had reached the sport’s highest level by surviving the moment when the draft passed him by.

Coming home to coach

Holland’s baseball life did not end when his major-league career did. He later pitched in the Senior Professional Baseball Association and worked as a minor-league pitching coach. Eventually, he returned to Roanoke and served for several seasons as an assistant football coach and head baseball coach at William Fleming High School.

That return matters. Professional athletes are often measured by how far they travel from home. Community legacies are measured by whether they find a way back. At Fleming, Holland could offer young players something no statistic sheet could provide: firsthand knowledge of preparation, pressure, disappointment, adjustment and persistence.

A coach who had stood on a World Series mound could teach mechanics, but he could also explain what it meant to be overlooked. He knew the difference between confidence and comfort. He knew that finishing school could require turning down an immediate professional offer. He knew that an undrafted player could still make the majors, that a starter could return to the bullpen, and that a career could continue after its brightest season.

What Roanoke should remember

It is tempting to reduce athletes to their best photograph. For Holland, it might be the raised fist after the 1983 pennant, the Phillies uniform, the broad frame and fierce expression of a closer who had completed his assignment. But Roanoke’s memory can be wider.

Remember the Lucy Addison student whose gifts crossed three sports. Remember the freshman running back who led North Carolina A&T in rushing, then became one of the greatest pitchers in college baseball history. Remember the young professional returning to Salem, making the dream visible to local children. Remember the major leaguer who wanted the ball so badly that managers had to tell him to sit down. Remember the coach who came home.

There is also a larger history in Holland’s journey. He graduated from a high school created for Black students in a segregated city, attended a historically Black university and became the first Aggie to reach the modern major leagues. His success did not belong to him alone. It carried the work of teachers, coaches, relatives, teammates and institutions that cultivated excellence even when the country’s systems did not distribute opportunity fairly.

North Carolina A&T Chancellor James R. Martin II called Holland a big-league star on and off the field and said his trademark phrase personified toughness, competitiveness and excellence. That description fits the Aggie legacy. It also fits Roanoke.

Holland is survived by his wife, Mary Reid Holland, whom he married in 1975, and their two daughters and son. His family’s loss is personal and immeasurable. The public loss is different but real: another direct connection to a remarkable sporting era has gone.

Still, legacies do not depend only on presence. They survive in stories, in retired numbers, in record books and in young athletes who learn that the road does not have to be straight to lead somewhere meaningful.

Al Holland’s road began in Roanoke. It passed through Lucy Addison, North Carolina A&T, Salem and five major-league organizations. It reached a World Series and returned to a high school dugout at home. Through every stage, one sentence remained large enough to hold the whole journey.

Give me the ball.

Al Holland at a glance

The Roanoke Rambler