by Jerry Reuss
For Dodger front-office personnel and members of the media, Dodgertown was the ultimate in convenience. Meals in the cafeteria were just a few steps from their temporary office, which was a short walk from their room. The media members used the pressroom, which was complete with phones and outlets for each at their personal work area. Many writers claimed that the room’s best feature was that it bordered the bar!
For fans, Dodgertown was a dream come true. Though some areas were roped off, fans had easy access to players for autographs, pictures, or just a chance to say hello. Of course, if you’re a player trying to get from the clubhouse to Holman Stadium where the games were played or even from one field to another, navigating the crowds could be a problem. Most of the time, the fans were well behaved, and players would take some time with them.
By far the best spring-training experience in my career was in Vero Beach. I’ve never heard of a player from another organization who experienced spring training the way the Dodgers had it.
That Once-in-a-Lifetime Thing That Happens Every So Often!
Every year I pitched there was a subtitle to the season. Something unique occurred that defined that year. In 1980 there was the no-hitter, and in 1981 we were the world champions. There were four games in 1982 that most pitchers experience maybe just once a career.
On April 21 at Dodger Stadium I pitched my second career one-hitter against the Astros. Then, just ten starts later, on June 11, I allowed a leadoff double to Eddie Milner of the Reds and then retired the next twenty-seven Reds batters in order. It was a perfect game after the first batter! That was my third and final one-hitter of my career.
On August 17 at Wrigley Field, the Dodgers were tied with the Cubs 1–1, as the game was suspended after seventeen innings because of darkness and rescheduled for completion the next day. Lasorda pulled out all the stops to win the game and as a result used every relief pitcher we had.
With no relievers available, his solution was to have me pick up the suspended game in the bottom of the eighteenth inning. The game, already strange because of the length and substitutions, took on a whole different dimension in the nineteenth inning.
Steve Sax walked to start the top of the nineteenth. John Vukovich, who was the acting manager for Lee Elia, the Cubs’ manager who was ejected the day before in the eighth inning, was ejected for arguing the balls and strikes with home-plate umpire Eric Gregg. The umps were just getting started.
In the top of the twentieth inning, Ron Cey singled to right and was picked off first base before the next pitch. Cey was ejected for pushing first base umpire Dave Pallone, who also ejected Lasorda for arguing Cey’s ejection. Are you still with me? The game became crazier because of the Dodgers’ defensive moves.
In the home half of the twentieth inning, Pete Guerrero moved from right field to third base to replace Cey, and Fernando Valenzuela went to right field and batted in Cey’s spot in the lineup. After I retired the first two Cubs batters, left-handed-hitting Bill Buckner came to the plate. Dusty Baker, who was playing left field, switched with Fernando for Buckner’s at bat. Buckner singled, but left-handed-batting Leon Durham forced Buckner at second to end the inning.
I grounded out to start the twenty-first inning. Steve Sax doubled to right and advanced to third on a wild pitch. Ken Landreaux walked. With runners on first and third and one out, Dusty hit a fly ball to right field. Sax tagged and headed home and scored on the play, as Gregg had his arms in motion to call Sax out but switched to signal safe at home. Of course, the Cubs protested vigorously, but surprisingly no one was thrown out of the game. After Guerrero was walked intentionally, Fernando grounded out to end the inning.
As we took the field with a one-run lead, Fernando was replaced defensively in left field with another starting pitcher, Bob Welch. After Cubs pitcher Steve Ripley flied to center to start the inning, Dusty switched from right field to left field with Welch before right-handed-hitting Jody Davis grounded to short for the second out. Once more Baker and Welch switched positions for righty-hitting Steve Henderson. Henderson grounded to second to end the game.
When the dust settled the game of six hours and ten minutes saw the Dodgers use all twenty-five players, as the Cubs used twenty. Walking off the field with the win, we were informed the regularly scheduled game would begin in thirty minutes. Lasorda met me at the bottom of the stairs as I made my way to the clubhouse. “How do you feel?” he asked. I told him, “I’m fine.” He responded, “Then you’ll start the regular game and go as long as you can.” I asked pitching coach Ron Perranoski, “I’ve never pitched in two games thirty minutes apart. Any idea on how I should warm up?” Perranoski looked at me, laughed, and said, “How should I know? I’ve never done it either!”
In the clubhouse I changed into a dry uniform, drank some water, walked down the stairs, and returned to the field. I was ready in five minutes on that warm August day. I lasted five innings, allowing two runs on four hits, as we led by a score of 6–2. Three Dodger relievers held the lead, and we won 7–4.
For me, it was the strangest day in my Major League career. I won two games in the space of four hours. Prior to August 18, 1982, I won a total of just two games at Wrigley, one in 1970 with St. Louis and the other in 1977 with Pittsburgh, over the course of twelve years! There’s another note of interest: I never won again at Wrigley, as I appeared in four more games through 1990.1
Frank, May God Bless You!—Tom Lasorda
When the subject of umpires comes up in conversations with former players, many guys have favorites, while others have umps they can’t stand. For me, they were all good. I preferred umpires like Lee Weyer, who would clean home plate with his brush and proceed to dust off a couple of inches beyond the black edge as if to say, “This is the zone today, gentlemen!”
When behind the plate some umps controlled the game as it came to them. Others took charge of the game before it began, especially if there was bad blood between the teams. Frank Pulli was the exception to both types of umpires. Frank challenged the game to come to him! If somebody had something to say, Frank pulled off his mask and took care of business on the spot. He’d let you have your say but not without a look in your direction that could melt steel.
As a pitcher I not only wanted all seventeen inches of the plate but a few inches of Lee Weyer’s strike zone from every home-plate umpire. If a pitcher was consistently down in the zone and stayed on the corners, umpires would give him the benefit of the doubt on a close pitch. Frank worked the plate that way for the first two strikes. But for that called third strike, the pitcher had to get some of the plate. Granted, Frank would take a longer look at that borderline pitch, but would then take a deep breath, look at you, and shout, “No, that’s a ball!”
There was a game when this happened to me a few times. Now, I had a habit of glaring at an umpire if a close call didn’t go my way. Frank let it slide the first time I did it. The next time, he came out from behind the plate, pulled off his mask, and told me, “That’s the last time you’ll do that, Jerry!” he shouted. “Next time you’re gone!” I guess I showed him. No more stares or glares from me.
Frank also kept the pace of the game moving. He’d let a player know if he took too much time at the plate or a pitcher taking too long between pitches. He’d also let a manager or coach have his say on a disputed play, but if he took too long, Frank ejected him.
Frank was behind the plate on a hot, humid Sunday afternoon at Dodger Stadium, and his edge that day was sharper than I had ever seen. His voice was louder, and his actions were more demonstrative. I figured he’d had a tough Saturday night. Being the sympathetic soul I was in those years, I thought I’d help him through the game.
First, I sent the batboy out to Frank with a cup of coffee. Frank, who had already sweated through his shirt, looked at the batboy like he just handed him a turd, took the cup, poured the contents onto the grass, and gave the kid the empty cup.
So I had to try a different approach to bring back the Frank we all
knew and loved. I watched the game from the home-plate side of our third base dugout, standing behind the seated ball boy. I noticed every time a ball was fouled into the stands or had a mark on it from the clay-dirt combination that composed home plate and was thrown out of play, the ball boy would reach into the leather bag on his left, remove a new ball, and place it by his right foot. This way he knew how many balls to deliver to home plate when the ump signaled for them.
It occurred to me that an uplifting message on one of these new baseballs might inspire Frank. So I pulled a ball out of the bag and wrote on it:
Frank,
May God Bless You!
Tom Lasorda
(You really didn’t expect me to sign my own name, did you?) I placed the ball near the kid’s right foot with the writing facing the dirt so he wouldn’t see it. Frank finally asked for new baseballs, and out went the ball boy to deliver them.
Time to take a seat on the bench as far away as I could from Frank . . . and Lasorda . . . and wait for something to happen. Only nothing happened! Frank never checked a ball going into the game. He just reached into his pouch and threw a new one to the pitcher.
Oh, well! I forgot about it and went on to something else when the inning ended and we came off the field for our turn at bat. Tom Niedenfuer, who was pitching for us, sat down next to me with a big smile on his face. “What’s so funny?” I asked him. “You’re not going to believe this. I got a new ball from Pulli that had some writing on it,” he told me. So Frank did put it into play! “Well, don’t they all have writing on them with the commissioner’s signature and all?” I asked him. “No, this had handwriting,” he told me. “What did it say?” I asked, not admitting to anything. “It said, ‘Frank, May God Bless You! Tom Lasorda,” he said, still laughing. “No shit! So what did you do with it?” I asked. “I threw it,” he answered proudly. “I got two pitches with it before it was fouled into the stands in the family section,” he said dejectedly. (The family section was directly behind home plate in the second deck.) “Damn, I was hoping to use that ball for the whole inning,” he said. “Well, look at it this way,” I told him. “You used it for two pitches, and you have a great story to tell.” It was a great story for Niedenfuer. Still, I had no reaction from Frank . . . at least not yet.
After the game Lasorda called me into his office. “I just got a call from Jo [his wife],” he started. “How is she?” I asked. “She’s fine. She just told me a story, and somehow I think you’re involved in it.” He took a sip from a cup and continued, “She was sitting in the family section when a foul ball landed two rows behind her. The guy who caught the ball came up to her and said ‘Mrs. Lasorda, I thought you would enjoy seeing the autograph on this ball.’” It was Niedenfuer’s ball, I thought. Lasorda paused, took another drink, and continued, “Jo told him that mistakes happen, and sometimes an autographed ball can slip into a game. Well, the guy told her, ‘Well, that may be so, but this ball is special for me. You see, Mrs. Lasorda, my name is Frank!”’
Lasorda took a long swig from the cup, burped, and continued, “Why is it that I think you had something to do with this?” I paused, looked away, and started to answer as he stopped me. “No, I know you’re gonna come up with some kind of bullshit right now, and I don’t want to hear it.” “Tom . . . ,” I blurted before he interrupted, “What did I just say? Go home and enjoy your evening.”
As I walked out I passed Vin Scully walking into Lasorda’s office. “Vinny, sit down. Have I got a story for you!” Lasorda said as I left the ballpark.
Apparently, the story that Lasorda told Vin was about the ball signed to Frank. Vin spun it into verbal gold and shared it with the Dodger faithful on the radio the next night. For the next few days, people asked me if I really put a signed baseball into play. Normally, I deny everything. But it was a good story. Besides, Vin Scully said it on the radio. It had to be true.
I had no idea how far the Dodger network reached. I found out the next time Frank Pulli came to town. There was a note on my chair that said, “See me now! Frank.” I knew it wasn’t Sinatra.
I made my way to the umpires’ dressing room and knocked on the door. The attendant asked, “Who is it?” I told him it was me and that Frank wanted to see me. I heard Frank’s voice in the background shouting to the kid, “Tell him to wait a bleepin’ minute!” I guess Frank put his game face on early!
I knew I was in for a Major League ass chewing. As I entered the locker room, there was Frank, standing in his underwear, hands on his hips, head tilted, and that steel-melting look in his eyes.
“What the bleep were you thinking?” he started. “And how are you, Frank?” was what I thought. “You know I don’t tolerate any bullshit, but no, you pulled this shit off,” he said, just warming up. Then it was about the game’s integrity and how he had to write about this in a report to the league office and then to the commissioner’s office. When he finally stopped to take a breath, I said, “Frank, okay, it was wrong. I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again. Honest to God, I thought you’d look at a ball before you put it in the game,” I said, stating my case. Frank was on a roll, and he wasn’t about to lose that head of steam. “So, it’s my fault? My fault because I don’t read the balls before putting them into the game, is that what you’re saying? Now I gotta read the bleepin’ balls before I throw them to the pitcher?” I wanted to respond but thought better of it.
As Frank paused, I heard muffled laughs from behind the wall in the bathroom. I looked at the wall and back at Frank. He had a sliver of a smile. Then the full force of pent-up laughter filled the room. The three other members of the crew were behind the wall, enjoying every minute of Frank’s tirade. Frank got me and got me good. The other members of the crew came out, still laughing their asses off.
“Frank, if I . . . ,” I started. “Uh-uh. Don’t say a bleepin’ word. I don’t want to hear your bullshit story,” he started. “Just shake my hand and promise me you won’t do this again . . . then get your ass out of here,” he finished. I shook his hand, looked at the crew, and said, “Gentlemen, see you tonight!”
All of this took place sometime in the early 1980s, though I can’t pinpoint the exact date or even the year. After spending the last half of 1987 and all of 1988 and 1989 in the American League, I lost track of Frank.
Fast-forward to 1990. I returned to the National League with the Pirates in September and had just announced my retirement. Before the game in Pittsburgh on Monday, October 1, I stood in the bullpen as the umpires ran to their respective positions after the lineup cards were exchanged at home plate. I looked at the umpire making his way down the first base line, which was near my spot in the right-field bullpen. And there was Frank, with his back turned to me. He was a little grayer (who wasn’t?), but still dared the game to come to him. I had to let him know I was there. And I knew just the way to do it.
I grabbed a new ball out of the bag, took out a pen, and signed it:
Frank,
May God Bless You!
Jerry Reuss
I instructed the ball boy located in front of the bullpen gate to give it to the umpire. I watched as Frank, who thought he was possibly getting another turd, read the ball.
Suddenly, his head dropped, and he turned to the bullpen with a smile as big as it was in the locker room back then and walked my way. I came out to meet him. Instead of shaking my hand, he gave me a hug. It surprised me in the same way a hug from an old friend from the past would.
“How you doing?” he said. “It’s good to see you. I don’t see many guys from your era still playing.” “Frank, it’s good to see you,” I said. “Still enjoying the life?” I asked. “Yeah, but it’s different now,” he told me. “Everybody’s gotten younger,” he said with a sigh. “Look, the game’s ready to start. I wish you the best!” he said as he turned. “Frank, good luck to you,” I said. As I made my way back to the bullpen, he yelled at me. I turned around and he said, “Thanks for the ball. At least this time you owned up to it!”
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br /> The Breakfast of Champions
The path from my locker to the field at Dodger Stadium took me past everybody’s locker. One Sunday morning as I headed for the field, I spotted Steve Yeager, who was in the early stages of getting dressed while sitting in his chair with a lit cigarette, stirring his coffee with cream and sugar, and eating a glazed donut. “You know, you’re gonna be late and piss off Lasorda,” I told him, knowing my inquiry would set him off.
“You worry about you being late, and I’ll take care of me,” he groused. “Besides, I need to eat something. I’m in there today,” he said, taking a bite out of the donut. I looked at him and asked, “You’re in there and that’s what you’re eating? That’s hardly choosing from the four food groups,” citing what I’d remembered from a report I wrote in high school. He swallowed and answered, “I’ll be fine. Besides, I am eating from the four food groups.” I wondered what four food groups he was thinking of. He gulped down his coffee and responded, “Yeah, sugar, fat, caffeine, and nicotine. Should be good for a few hits!” Who can argue with that?
1983: The Walk Year
After posting the three best years of my career from 1980 to 1982, I wanted to be absolutely sure I’d be in the best marketing position following 1983 as I reached the final year of my contract and free agency approached. Not fully learning the lesson from 1981 of what overwork did to my body, I rationalized that I would rather risk working too much as opposed to not enough. Besides, I would take some days off as a precaution. So I kept my off-season workouts at full speed from the end of the 1982 season through the winter.