by Jerry Reuss
Like clockwork, when Jay finished batting practice, he joined us in right field, throwing his glove aside while he hit the ground in front of us to do his daily sit-ups. I started my conversation with Stanley. “Personally, I think it’s horseshit! He has their pictures all over his office while the guys that got him where he is are nonexistent.” Stanhouse, not knowing where I was going with this conversation, came in on cue, “You’re right. I agree. But what can you do about it?” By now Jay wanted to know what we were talking about. So I told him, “We’re talking about the pictures of all the celebrities that hang on the walls of Lasorda’s office. There are two walls of Sinatra, four or five pictures of Rickles up there, and who knows how many of everybody else!”
Jay got to his feet as Stanley was nodding his head. I looked at Jay and said, “But do you know whose pictures aren’t on his wall?” Jay, of course, said, “Who?” I answered, “His players! The guys that helped him become Manager of the Year, the guys that took him to the World Series in 1977–78, and the same guys that are on this field with us today. Where the hell are their pictures?” Jay looked at me, as Stanley shook his head in mock disgust and muttered, “That just ain’t right!” “I know it’s not right!” I answered. “But what can we do about it?” Jay spoke up and said, “I can handle that.” He grabbed his glove and jogged into the dugout and disappeared up the runway. “What do you think he’s going to do?” Stanley asked. “No idea,” I answered.
Jay never returned to the field, and about ten minutes before BP was finished one of the batboys came up to the two of us in right field. “Mr. Lasorda wants to see the two of you,” he told us rather sheepishly. “Thanks, but can’t it wait until batting practice is finished?” I asked the young man. “I think he means right now,” the kid answered. “He told me if you don’t come immediately, I’ll be fired.”
Stanley and I looked at each other and said, “I guess that means now.” We jogged off the field, into the dugout, and up the runway and headed to the managers’ office. I knocked on the door and said, “You want to see us?” A pissed-off voice growled, “Is Johnstone with you?” Jay suddenly appeared from behind us. “We’re all here,” I said. “Then get your asses in here and shut the door,” Lasorda growled. I was shocked when we walked into his office and all of the pictures of the celebrities were gone! Even the signed picture of the pope!
Lasorda was standing at his desk, shuffling through some fan mail as he spoke. “I don’t know how you guys pulled this shit off. I keep this office locked whenever I’m not here and give the clubhouse guys strict orders not to let anyone in.” When he sat in his chair, I saw three eight-by-ten glossy publicity pictures, one of me on one wall, a picture of Stanhouse on another wall, and one of Jay on a third wall.
“How the hell did Jay do this?” I thought. I gathered my wits and went into denial mode. “You’re not gonna fall for this setup, are you?” I started. “Would I be stupid enough to hang up one of my pictures . . . especially that one? That looks like hell! This is so obvious . . .”
He stopped me right there. “I don’t give a shit!” he shouted. “Ever since you joined this club, shit like this has happened!” he sputtered, his arms waving. Then he pointed his crooked left forefinger at us and shouted, “I don’t care who did it! I want those pictures back on the wall before you go home tonight!” With that he grabbed each of the three glossies on his naked walls, ripped them up, and threw them in his wastebasket. “Tonight, before you go home. Now get the hell outta here!”
As we closed the door to Lasorda’s office, I had a whole new respect for Jay. All I could say was “Wow!” Stanhouse asked the logical question, “Where did you put them?” Jay just walked away from us chuckling. “Stanley,” I said, “some things in this universe can never be explained. This may be one of them.”
Stanhouse was in the bullpen during the game, and I was on the bench. I never gave a thought to returning the pictures to their place of honor. When the game was over I walked into Lasorda’s office, where the postgame spread was set up, and all of the pictures were back in place. To this day, I don’t know how Jay removed them, where he hid them, or how he remembered where each of them belonged. I guess it still remains one of the mysteries of our time.
Hangin’ with the Garv
Unlike the previous clubs I played for, the Dodger players never went out for dinner together as a large group. There were groups of two or three players who ate at the same restaurant at the same time, but they would always occupy separate tables.
After Stanhouse was released prior to the 1981 season, Jay and I, for some unknown reason, partnered with Steve Garvey. It was an odd couple grouping, but it worked. Steve was and still is one of the nicest guys in baseball. Once, during spring training, Steve, Jay, and I had dinner and met other teammates at a bar on the beach named Bobby’s. A fan who was visiting Vero during the final days of the spring approached Steve in total awe. “My family back home won’t ever believe that I met Steve Garvey,” he gushed. Steve replied, “Let’s get them on the phone right now.” So the two of them went to a pay phone, and Steve spent a few minutes talking to this guy’s family. When Garv returned and took his seat next to me, I asked him why he did that. “It took just a few minutes of my time to make some people happy,” he answered in his matter-of-fact way.
It didn’t take Jay and I long to know that Steve was recognized wherever we went. Not that it bothered us, because, more times than not, the manager or owner of restaurant would comp the meal. It was agreed by the three of us that this kindness meant a large tip for the server. On one trip the first meal was comped because of Steve. Jay worked his magic in Philadelphia. It was my turn when we arrived in Pittsburgh.
After dinner at a seafood restaurant, the check was brought to the table. I grabbed it, whipped out my credit card, and charged it. They had strange looks on their faces when I explained, “What? I don’t have the same juice you have. Besides, you’re still eating for free, aren’t you?”
Eating for Free . . . the Lasorda Way
We thought we were good when it came to free meals. We were mere amateurs when compared to Lasorda. When Lasorda managed in the Minors and was on a long bus ride, he would stop the bus at a restaurant and instruct a player, trainer, or someone traveling with the club to tell the manager of the restaurant that Lasorda would bring his team of twenty-five to thirty paying customers if he and the person negotiating could eat for free. More than once this scheme worked. If the restaurant manager wouldn’t do it, Tom said, “We’ll keep driving until we find somebody who will!” This wasn’t the only way he bartered his players for a free meal.
Getaway day for a road trip was always tough. At home it meant saying good-bye to family members for up to two weeks. Once on a road trip, it wasn’t as bad. The hardest adjustment was from a night game to a day game on getaway day. If I packed the day before, left a wake-up call, and ordered room service for the morning, it made life on the road much easier. In the days before I used this method (it only took me twelve to fifteen years to figure it out!), I would get up early and eat in the hotel restaurant.
In San Francisco the Dodgers stayed at the Hilton near Union Square. On Sunday mornings they had the league’s best buffet. So I got up early, held a table for four, and had a place for teammates to join me. One Sunday morning, while four of us occupied a table, Lasorda spotted us, grabbed a chair and place setting from another table, and ordered coffee. With his fork he speared food from all of our plates. “Hey, these sausages are great! When ya go up there again, bring the skipper back a few of those sausages,” he said. “How are the eggs? Those potatoes look pretty good. Could ya get me some of those when ya go up there?” he continued. Within a few minutes he had everybody at the table running through the line for him. If you protested, his comeback was “With all the food I get you in the clubhouse, you’re gonna treat me like that?” What could we say? Tom kept us running through the buffet line until he was finished. When the checks arrived he told the wait
er he only had coffee, put the check on the table, and said, “You guys take care of that for me. I still gotta check out.” And off he went. We sat there, looked at one another in total amazement, and then laughed because we knew we had just been “Lasorda-ed”!
Sign the Balls!
The Dodgers were the only team I played for that put out six dozen balls a day to be signed. Other clubs would have a player sign a dozen or so once a home stand. Why so many? It was because of the demand. And most of it would come from the manager.
Lasorda would send or personally deliver a dozen balls to a charity or religious institution for a fund-raiser. Maybe they were destined for a military outpost or a police or firemen’s auction to help someone in need. Quite a few found their way to a children’s hospital along with Dodger promotional items.
He could also take a dozen baseballs and turn them into free meals or merchandise. Many of the postgame meals in the clubhouse were the result of bartering the autographed baseballs. Many restaurant owners around the league delivered food to the clubhouse, rubbed elbows with Dodger players, and took home a dozen baseballs. Many of these restaurant owners have become good friends over the years. The players loved it, as they now had a place in town to take their family and friends with a good chance of the meal being comped, or, at the very least, they would enjoy preferred seating. So for Tom, the coaches, players, and trainers, it was a win-win situation. The lesson was a simple one: if you signed the balls, a lot of good things could come your way.
Because the food was in his office and he was responsible for procuring it, Lasorda treated the spread as his personal domain. Tom realized it was easier to get a player’s attention by denying him postgame meals than by levying fines against him. I can’t count the number of times I was barred from his office for various infractions.
Once I was given the heave-ho for commenting on Tom’s penchant for double-dipping with his fork in a tray of barbecued beef, a gross breach of clubhouse etiquette. I stood next to him in a state of culinary shock and asked, “Rather than use the serving pan as your personal plate, why not get a dinner plate like the rest of us, take what you want, and eat at your desk?” He didn’t bother to swallow before telling me, “Really? Why don’t you get your ass out of my office if you don’t like it?” Still sputtering, he added, “Make it three days!” Because there were other players who were banished at one time or another, we developed a system of hiding sandwiches under towels as we left the room to deliver to our shunned brethren.
Wait ’til Next Year
The 1980 season ended with three games at Dodger Stadium against Houston that were as exciting as any series I was a part of. Coming into the series, we had to win all three games to force a playoff to determine the division champion. Dodger fans had a different intensity, as they upped the excitement level a notch.
The Astros were leading 2–1 in the top of the ninth of the first game on Friday night against Valenzuela. Houston needed three outs to enter the postseason for the first time. With two men on and two outs, Cey singled to center to tie the game. The Astros went quietly in the top of the tenth. Leading off the home half of the tenth, Joe Ferguson hit a walk-off homer against Ken Forsch to give us the win.
I beat Nolan Ryan on Saturday night by a score of 2–1, as Garvey was the hitting star with three hits and driving in what proved to be the winning run. I retired ten consecutive batters from the sixth inning that took us to two outs in the ninth. The Astros wouldn’t go quietly. Cedeño and Art Howe singled before Gary Woods grounded out to end the game.
On Sunday afternoon the Astros knocked Burt Hooton out early, as they led 3–0 after four innings. We scored a run in the fifth, another in the seventh, and two more in the eighth on Cey’s two-run homer to take the lead. Like Saturday, the Astros threatened in the ninth. With two runners on base and two outs, Don Sutton, who started Friday’s game, came in to retire Denny Walling on a grounder to force a Monday playoff.
The Astros scored two in the first against Dave Goltz, two more in the third, and three in the fifth. We managed only a run on six hits, as Joe Niekro threw a complete game for his twentieth win of the season. Art Howe drove in four runs with three hits, including a home run.
We went from the highest of highs to packing for home in the course of twenty-four hours. Losing the tough games with everything on the line made one appreciative of winning the big games. It was a lesson in perspective. Still, it was “Wait ‘til next year.”7
1981 and Fernandomania
As a result of my 18–6 record in 1980, I was voted the National League Comeback Player of the Year. Although many players scoff at the idea of the award (“Where did I ‘come back’ from? I was here the whole time!”), I accepted the honor quite seriously. I believe the Comeback Player of the Year Award is far more important than the Cy Young Award or even the MVP, because it takes at least three years to win it! Hell, anybody can have a great year and win the MVP. But just to be considered for the Comeback Player Award, a player must have at least one good year, then a lousy year, and then another good year.
After my comeback season of 1980, I was determined to maintain the momentum through the winter and hit the ground running in the spring of 1981. Instead of taking some time off to let my body recover from the 229 innings I threw (at thirty-one years old), the most since 1975 (at twenty-six years old) when I accumulated 237 innings in thirty-two games started, I kept my in-season pace, alternating my aerobic program with a few games of racquetball six days a week all winter long. Like many players, I had that Superman complex and believed I was immune to any injuries. That disregard for common sense would eventually cost me.
When the Dodgers opened the clubhouse in January 1981 for the annual winter workouts, I was there and ready to throw fifteen to twenty minutes of batting practice. Once we arrived in Vero Beach, I was ahead of everybody and threw four innings in my first spring game. As the innings accumulated and my workouts increased in time and intensity, I noticed my legs weren’t recovering as quickly as they once did. Instead of backing off, I pushed harder, knowing that I would be the starting pitcher at Dodger Stadium on opening day.
During the last week in Vero Beach and through the Freeway Series with the Angels, I had soreness in both calves. This time I did back off. But it was too little, too late. At the workout at Dodger Stadium the day before opening day, I felt a snap in my right calf while chasing a batting-practice fly ball. I knew treatment with a bag of ice wouldn’t have me ready the next day.
Once Lasorda knew I would miss the start, he explored his options, as I wasn’t the only starter experiencing health problems. Burt Hooton had an ingrown toenail, and Bob Welch’s elbow was balking. Dave Goltz and Rick Sutcliffe had just pitched in the Freeway Series. Tom’s last option was Fernando Valenzuela, a twenty-year-old rookie with all of ten games of Major League experience under his belt.
Fernando’s opening-day start and ultimate five-hit shutout of the Houston Astros started a phenomenon that even after thirty years is hard to explain. Fernandomania was the legend that was created. It had an impact that went far beyond the baseball field.
Peter O’Malley said, “It was the most exciting period of time on my watch.” Vin Scully described it as “beyond fan love of a player. It became . . . a religious experience.” Jaime Jarrin, a Hall of Fame broadcaster in his own right who also served as Fernando’s interpreter, stated that Fernando “created more baseball fans than any other player in history. Thousands of fans from Mexico and Central and Latin America, who didn’t care for baseball, became fans overnight and still are to this day.”8
Initially, the attention was more of a curiosity than anything else. None of us had ever seen the likes of what was happening. As the weeks passed we marveled at the spectacle. Every day there were more writers, columnists, and photographers waiting at the ballpark. On nights that Fernando pitched, we watched the stadiums fill. The Dodgers drew a total of 581,167 fans when Fernando pitched at Dodger Stadium during 1981 for an a
verage of 48,431 a game. The crowds kept the ballparks buzzing, and the team responded to the excitement.9
Lasorda, concerned that problems could arise from the focus Fernando was getting, called the other four starting pitchers into his office for a meeting. “With all the attention surrounding Fernando, I want you to know that you’re just as an important part of this club,” he stated. Searching for something to say, he added, “Each of you will have your own press conference after a game.” I told him, “Tom, that’s not going to happen.” Burt Hooton added, “We don’t have a problem with Fernando. It’s allowed us to work without interruption.” Burt’s statement summed up the feelings of the players. It’s a long season, and everyone will have the chance to contribute. We kept winning as the focus, did our jobs, and enjoyed the ride.
Everything about Fernandomania was positive. The attention given Fernando splashed onto the team, and we played well in the spotlight with the best record in baseball through the middle of June. The cultural significance was even greater, as Mexico and all of Latin America had a new hero. Wherever we played on the road, the stadium was filled when Fernando pitched. The only inconvenience was the crowded locker rooms.
Baseball clubhouses of that time were not equipped to handle that kind of media attention. Once the Dodgers used the auxiliary clubhouse at Dodger Stadium for press conferences and instituted a policy on road trips of one press conference held away from the ballpark per series, the problem was handled.
One question that everyone had on their mind was Fernando’s age. No one could believe that a twenty-year-old could handle himself with poise beyond his years. After a while none of us cared. The fact that we were winning allowed us to enjoy the history being made right before our eyes. With Fernando leading the way, the Dodgers had a 14–5 April, were 33–15 at the end of May, and 3–7 in June when the players went on strike.10