Every strikeout, every victory, every talk show appearance that the Diamondbacks pitcher makes generates money to strike out amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), the untamed killer also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

For Schilling and his family, neither the joy of giving nor the deep commitment to battle ALS blows in and out with the holiday season.

The day he signed his latest contract, Schilling committed $1 million to the fight against ALS and to the United Way. Shonda, Schilling's wife, is on the board of directors of both the Philadelphia and Phoenix chapters of the ALS Association.

The desire to share good fortune doesn't end with the adults in the Schilling home.

As Baseball Weekly photo editor Barbara Jean Germano was completing her recent shoot at the Schilling's suburban Philadelphia residence, 6-year-old Gehrig Schilling approached. In his hand was his dinosaur bank — a green triceratops jingling with coins.

"He wanted me to have it. He must have thought I looked like I needed the money," Germano laughed. "But I think it was more than that. In the short time I was in their home, I think we became friends and he wanted to give me a parting gift."

Schilling, arguably baseball's most philanthropic Santa Claus, wasn't all that surprised with his eldest elf. "The kids all have good hearts," he said. "They want to help."

The Schilling children have become comfortable around strangers, including ALS patients, families and caregivers. Curt and Shonda have lent more than their names and their assistance. They've made a hands-on effort to know and comfort people who battle the disease.

Circumstances made that fighting spirit even more poignant in the Schilling home during 2001.

In the same year that Schilling led the National League with 22 victories and helped guide the Arizona Diamondbacks to their first World Series title, the 35-year-old right-hander was dealing with his wife's serious illness.

Shonda, a down-to-earth mother of three, had cancer.

It was Stage 2 Melanoma, skin cancer, which ravaged her back, leaving her with more than two dozen 2-inch scars and a need for support.

She found that help in the most unlikely of places.

"When I was sick, it was ALS patients and families who stepped forward," Shonda said. "They were the ones I could talk to. They were the ones who could talk to me about dying. A lot of people can't say the word 'cancer.'

"We talked. We even joked back and forth, and I realized that even though they had something incurable, something they'd most likely die from in two to five years, they live and they live happily. At least I had something that was curable. When I'd listen to these people and see what they live with every day, no way could I feel sorry for myself."

No way Schilling could feel sorry for himself, either — not even when it meant commuting four hours a day in spring training to be at home with his family each night in Arizona.

"My wife is a rock in the best sense of the word," Schilling said. "She is the true foundation of everything this family is and will be. Her problems started with our last child — a pregnancy that was complicated by a rare thyroid condition. She'd been on blood thinners and her thyroid essentially shut down."

Then came the cancer. In May she had 25 potentially malignant moles removed, mostly from her back. In June she had eight more removed.

Shonda doesn't hide from her disease. Quite the contrary. She's permitted two magazines to photograph her scars as testimony to her battle and the need for education when it comes to crippling diseases.

"Honestly, what's needed is education," Shonda said. "It's not very glamorous what I'm going through, but that's why I posed to have my back taken. I'm trying to teach people that (the scars) don't make up who I am. I'm still the same person. At the same time, this is a different side of me. Not everything about baseball is life or death."

Schilling isn't one to duck, either.

"I don't hide my feelings, but when it comes to illness, I guess I don't panic," he said. "My father was the same way. I'm the provider for the family and the caretaker. If I panic, who is anybody going to run to? In my mind I had no option but to adjust my schedule and handle things in the best way for her and my children."

THE FIGHT AGAINST ALS is another area in which the Schillings see no room for choice. The job simply is not done until a cure is found.

"I really believe in this lifetime we're going to find a cure," Shonda said. "Since we started we've already seen patients starting to live longer."

All the while Shonda battled her own illness, she continued her work as chairman for the ALS fundraising luncheons. The commitment of the Schillings has helped the Philadelphia ALS foundation make significant strides since 1993. By comparison, the Phoenix chapter is a fledgling operation.

ALS progressively destroys the nerves that control muscles. Mobility as well as speaking or even swallowing becomes difficult. Many who suffer eventually require a ventilator to assist breathing, and death usually is caused by respiratory distress. Lou Gehrig, who set the standard as baseball's ironman, died from ALS at age 37.

The Schillings became involved with the ALS foundation through the Phillies. After meeting an ALS patient, they decided this was the right cause to which to devote their efforts. Thus, Schilling's Pitch for ALS was born. Schilling donates $200 for each of his strikeouts and $1,000 for each victory.

That's a lot of money from a pitcher who went 22-6 and struck out 293 batters this past season.

Schilling understands the difference between coping with terminal illness and dealing with a bum shoulder that derailed him after he had won 17 games for the Phillies in 1997.

But why did he become so instantly focused upon ALS?

"One of the main reasons we became so enthralled with the Philadelphia chapter," Schilling said, "was that I got to see my dollars go directly to patients and the research, buying things like vans and supporting the caretakers. (Chapter president) Ellen Phillips let us know how and where our money was being spent and how it was really making a difference."

The Schillings also are crucial to the success of ALS golf tournaments in both Philadelphia and Arizona. This year marked the ninth such event in Philly, while the first in Arizona raised $40,000 the last week of November.

Although teammate Randy Johnson played in the Arizona event, the Schillings consciously avoid stressing the celebrity aspect of the tournaments. "Those people tend to go away very quickly," Schilling said. "We rely on corporate sponsors, some of whom have employees with ALS. We raised $240,000 in Philadelphia and every person who is involved is involved for very personal reasons."

"The promise Shonda and I made to each other was that we weren't going to just open the checkbook, cut a check and throw our name on it," Schilling said. "We were going to dive in, feet first.

"This exposed us to people and enhanced our awareness about ALS and what people go through. We've gotten so much more out of this than we'll ever be able to give."

The intangible benefits extend to the Schilling children: the aptly named Gehrig, 6, Gabriella, 4, and Grant, 2.

Being recognized for his charity work is nothing new for Schilling. As far back as 1996, USA WEEKEND magazine named him "Baseball's Most Caring Athlete."

But this season he's been showered with awards, including the prestigious Roberto Clemente Award, presented to the major league player who combines outstanding skills on the field with devoted work in the community.

This year, Schilling also was selected to receive the Branch Rickey Award for community service, presented by the Denver Rotary Club. Plus, he received the Hutch Award, named after longtime manager Fred Hutchinson and awarded each year to the player who displays "honor, courage and dedication to baseball while overcoming adversity in their professional or personal lives."

"That's like winning the Triple Crown for charity work," marketing representative Eric Burack said. "Nobody wins all three of those awards in a single year."

No one except Curt Schilling.

"Of all the players I've represented in my career, I'd put Curt in the top 1% in terms of charitable donations," agent Jeff Borris said.

"It's not just the money. They're constantly visiting people who are sick, and they're not interested in having that reported. A lot of athletes want to make sure that if they're going to a hospital, they're getting the most possible publicity. That's not what Curt is about. He'd rather do it in private."

But there's an upside to being very public at times.

When Schilling spoke recently at his high school alma mater, Shadow Mountain High in Phoenix, he was presented with a check to ALS for $1,000. "That was a situation where my reputation for working with ALS preceded me," he said. "I was very proud of the kids, not only for the donation but for taking the time to find out what meant the most to me."

"Curt's success on the mound enables us to put a name and face with ALS," Shonda said. "It's neat to see the patients and how they react to Curt."

Equally important, when Shonda addresses Congress, as she often does on behalf of ALS, she is Mrs. Curt Schilling.

"Speaking to Congress or the full (Pennsylvania state) senate in Harrisburg carries a heavy responsibility," she said. "People with ALS depend on my visibility to make all those people (in government office) remember what ALS is all about when I walk away."

Of course, Schilling's success on the mound makes him a marketable force. He notes with pride that Berges Ford, a dealership in Mesa, Ariz., recently committed $60,000 and a van to the Arizona ALS chapter in exchange for his promotional work. Sprint PCS also has signed on with seven cell phones and a year's worth of service for ALS. He raised $30,000 more by doing appearances on a weekly radio show.

"I make a stupid amount of money doing what I do," Schilling said. "I don't need another new car or a cell phone. And I don't have a lot of extra time, per se. But I've found I can work these things into my everyday life.

"Fortunately, I don't need to make more money off the field. If I wasn't able to make money for ALS, I wouldn't do these things because it means time away from my family that I don't need to spend. I would just hope that people understand that charity work is not all about money. Awareness is just as important as dollars. You don't always have to write a check to help someone out."

How does Schilling react to being honored for the charitable endeavors that seem to come so naturally? With pride — not for himself as much as for those whom he says have helped mold him.

"First and foremost I'm very proud of my father, my wife and my family," he said. "Being recognized, I realize I got to this point because in some way, other people conveyed to me the importance of making a difference in people's lives.

"Of all the lessons my father tried to teach me, the most important thing was to have a positive impact on people. The memories you create on a ballfield are pretty insignificant things compared to the changes you can make in the life of a person. Those are very lasting."

Curt's father, Cliff, never got to see the impact his son would make, on or off the field. Stricken with cancer, he died of a brain aneurysm in January 1988, only months before Curt broke into the big leagues.

When the Schillings signed on with ALS, Shonda thought it might be a five-year hitch, figuring that was about how long her husband's career would last. That year, Schilling won 16 games for the pennant-winning Phillies. This year brought a World Series ring.

WHAT'S LEFT FOR SCHILLING to accomplish?

Well, maybe he could work on his power stroke. At the plate, he seldom gets cheated on a swing and is closing in on his 100th career hit. Still, he's yet to hit his first major league home run. There's no telling how much ALS might benefit in celebration of that feat.

Off the field, he made a hard-hitting public statement about America's heroes as baseball prepared to get back to business after the Sept. 11 attacks.

Curt wrote: "I can honestly tell you that I have never been as proud to be an American as I was that day, to see the men and women of this great country come together and pour their blood, sweat and tears into saving those that could be saved. Nothing will ever make us forget that day. We will proudly wear the great flag of this country on our uniforms and it's something I hope baseball adopts forever."

Curt didn't need a Sept. 11 wakeup call to make this Christmas special. Beyond Shonda's illness, Grant was hospitalized with a respiratory problem and Gehrig had a non-cancerous mole removed from his foot during the Diamondbacks' push to the title.

Schilling said the holiday season has taken on deeper meaning since he became a Christian five years ago.

"For me it's about family and giving thanks," he said. "It's a time when we get to be a 'normal' family for a brief period of time. It's impossible to have this kind of atmosphere during the season."

This year's ninth Schilling Christmas party will draw more than 100 friends and family members from around the country to their home in Kennett Square, Pa.

This year, Christmas came in November when the Diamondbacks ended the New York Yankees' stranglehold on the World Series trophy.

In 2002, the Schillings are looking forward to Christmas in July. That's when Shonda is expecting their fourth child.

"We saw the baby on the sonogram just the other day," Schilling said. "That is such a thrill. There's not much that can top that."