by Jerry Reuss
I attended the January workouts at Dodger Stadium and hit the ground running once we arrived in spring training. But something was different. My baseball mojo was out of whack. And my left elbow showed some signs of strain.
On the field the year was split in three distinct sections. With a record of 5–1 on May 14, I was right where I wanted to be. Then the problems began. There were some tough-luck losses that followed, as I pitched ten innings against Houston on June 25, striking out eleven and walking none, when I experienced some elbow problems. I missed the next thirteen days and struggled in my next six starts before missing twelve days from July 30 to August 11. All told, in fourteen games started between May 20 and August 11, I went 1–9 but with an ERA during that period of sore elbow and bad mojo of 3.55. Once the elbow soreness disappeared, I was 6–1 in the ten games I started from August 16 through the stretch run, as we won the Western Division by three games over Atlanta.2
After losing to the Phillies in the playoffs, the time came to file for free agency. There was an exclusive negotiating period with the Dodgers, and I wanted to explore my options with them before looking at other possibilities. I wasn’t interested in becoming the highest-paid player in the game. As long as the dollars slotted me among the other top pitchers in the game, staying with the Dodgers was my top priority. And why not? I had my best seasons in Los Angeles, and the Dodgers were willing to do whatever it took to win championships.
The Price Was Right
The Dodgers and I agreed to a four-year guaranteed contract with a fifth-year option in early November. There was an emotional toll that had to be paid for this contract. Even though I was able to compartmentalize the game on the field, the negotiations, and just life itself, there were moments when the stress from that moment of truth regarding the contract overwhelmed me. There were more than a few nights during the 1983 season that I tossed and turned. I hesitated taking or making phone calls to friends or family members because my contract status would inevitably come up. Mere mention of the contract from reporters, announcers, and other players started my heart racing. As the season progressed the stress intensified. The elephant in the room was making its presence known.
I don’t know of any metric that quantifies the toll this stress had on me. I learned, however, that it found an outlet in 1984. But first . . .
A Standing Ovation from the LA Beat Writers
I had already played for three teams before landing with the Dodgers in 1979. And it takes a while to adjust to new surroundings: new teammates, a new city, a new organization, and a different group of writers who cover the club. The writers who covered the Dodgers during my tenure were a good group both professionally and personally. Instead of the every-man-for-himself attitude that I witnessed in other cities, these guys would share quotes and work as a team.
Of course, there was a break-in period for both the writers and a new player when he joined the club. The writers asked general questions after a game with hopes of landing a good quote. If they didn’t get something they could use, they would ask a question to illicit a yes or no answer and then alter their question into a comment and attribute it to the player. Not exactly accurate, but their job is to report the game and make it an interesting read.
When I turned my career around in 1980, I still didn’t trust any media types—meaning reporters, broadcasters, and even the Dodgers media department. For instance, when I was asked if this was my best season (it was), I was defensive and answered, “Up to this point, yes.” The next question was “What was a better season?” “Probably 1975,” I answered, still giving them virtually nothing. “Do you remember how that season went?” they pressed. “Not really. But isn’t that info in the press guide? You can look it up,” I responded. An interview with me was like pulling teeth.
Finally, after a few more press-guide references, they set me up. After a win on a shutout at Dodger Stadium, I was asked about the most shutouts that I had in a season. “Guys, it’s all there in the guide,” I answered as nicely as I could. At that point, all ten or so of them reached in their pocket, whipped out the press guide, and went directly to the sentence about my best season for shutouts.
Gordy Verrell, then with the Long Beach Press-Telegram, read aloud: “Had six shutouts in 1975 . . .” Another writer continued, “tying him for second in the National League.” Gordy looked at me and said, “Thanks for all those references to this handy guide. We’d have never known if you hadn’t pointed it out.” There was a pause. “Okay, I understand. Your point is well taken,” I told them. “I’ll give you whatever you need.” After that verbal attitude adjustment, we never had another problem with an interview.
Players and the media seldom met socially, as if it were an unwritten code. Players avoided talking to media other than in postgame sessions lest they be branded as a leak if something unfavorable appeared in a newspaper or on TV. Reporters and broadcasters stayed away from the players socially because they had to maintain the air of impartiality in their work. That code was put aside on a train ride from Philadelphia to New York on a warm summer evening in August 1983.
The Dodgers beat the Phillies 8–3 on August 28, 1983. It was a Sunday day game, and afterward the team boarded buses to make the trip to our next series in New York. I pitched a complete game that day and asked Lasorda if I could take the train to New York, as I had a business meeting with members of a public relations firm. Tom said it was okay, if I’d give him a call once I got there.
I had my meeting, boarded the train to New York, and took a seat in the back of the dining car. As I pulled a book from my briefcase and got comfortable, I noticed the LA writers were riding in the front of the same car, near the bar. I waved, sat down, and opened my book.
Terry Johnson (T.J. as he was known) of the Pasadena Star-News came back to my seat with an interesting proposition. I would be welcome to sit with the “dignitaries” (the name he chose for the writers; players were known as “oafs”) if I wished. However, I would have to pay the same initiation fee as a new beat writer would. “Just what is the initiation fee?” I asked curiously. “You would have to purchase a round of drinks for the dignitaries,” he said seriously. “T.J., I’m honored that you would ask. Sure, I’ll pay the price,” I said with a smile.
Because the trip to Philadelphia was the first leg of a three-city trip that included New York and Montreal, I had cash in my pocket. With T.J. and the slant of dignitaries,3 I made my way to the front of the car to the makeshift bar. As the writers hovered, I pulled out a crisp, clean hundred-dollar bill, put it on the bar, and said to the bartender, “The first twenty is yours. The remainder will be for these fine gentlemen. Please, make sure their glasses are never empty. If you need more, just let me know.” I turned, looked at the ten or twelve writers, as they stood wide-eyed with their mouths open in amazement, and told them, “Enjoy! The honor is mine.”
As I made my way back to my seat, I heard the deafening applause. To my knowledge, it was the only time in baseball history that a player received a standing ovation from sportswriters.
“Bring in the Right-Hander!”
When I pitched I liked to work fast and control the pace of the game. I didn’t like casual visits from infielders, pitching coaches, or managers. I tolerated catchers only because of their instant feedback. The pitching mound was my place of work. I had a job to do. And no one was welcome without an invitation.
Of course, there were some memorable meetings on the mound with Lasorda. Once, he came out to talk to me, and I immediately told him to get the hell off my mound. He looked at me and asked, “It’s your mound, huh? Who the hell gave it to you? Me, that’s who! I can give it to you, and I can take it away. Right now, I’m giving it to Castillo.” He turned to the home-plate umpire and said, “Bring in the right-hander!” I guess he wasn’t that impressed with my approach.
One night during a rain delay, Tom was telling the story about a shortstop who had a rough game while playing in a game he pitched. When the manage
r came to take Lasorda out of the game, Tom told him to take the shortstop out of the game. “Hell, I’m pitching a pretty good ball game. He’s the one who’s struggling. Take his ass out.” What pitcher can’t relate to that story?
While pitching in a game a few starts later, Dodger shortstop Bill Russell had an awful game in the field behind me. He booted a ball for an error and threw another one away for another error. I gave up a couple of hits, and the wheels fell off the wagon. So out of the dugout came Lasorda.
He made his way to the mound and waited before signaling for a reliever. I knew he was going to take me out, so I thought I’d give it my best shot to stay in the game. “Hey, you remember that story you told us on the last trip about the shortstop who had a bad game while you were pitching?” I asked. “Yeah. What about it?” he asked. “You gotta chance right now to correct that injustice!” I said. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked. “Go over to Russell, talk to him, and then signal for Derrel Thomas to replace him. Hey, I’m only asking you to do the same thing you wanted your manager to do.” He started laughing. “You are crazy. And you gotta a lot of me in you. I like that. What I don’t like is the fact we’re three runs down.” He turned to the umpire and said, “Bring in the right-hander!”
For a while Steve Yeager caught me exclusively. Over time we developed a rhythm. And we were winning some games. All was right with the world. Only this night in Dodger Stadium, it wasn’t happening. True, I was struggling, but I knew I had enough left in the tank to complete the inning. Also, I knew when Lasorda came out of the dugout that he wanted to make a pitching change. So I had to head him off at the pass.
“Okay, just hear me out!” I said when he got to the mound. “I can tell by the way you walked out here you want to take me out of the game. I want to stay in it. That’s one vote for and a vote against the change. How about letting the democratic process determine this move and have Yeager cast the deciding vote?” I was shocked that he agreed to it. So when Yeager got to the mound, Tom told him, “He wants to stay in; I wanna take him out. You cast the deciding vote.” I figured, “I’m so still in this game. Me and the Boomer are tight!” Yeager looked at me, then Lasorda, and said, “You should’ve taken him out two innings ago.”
As my mouth dropped to my belt, I dejectedly gave Lasorda the ball, but as I started my trip to the dugout, Lasorda grabbed my arm and said, “Is this a great country or what? Even on the mound at Dodger Stadium, we see democracy in action! Now get your ass outta here!” He looked at the home-plate umpire and said, “Bring in the right-hander!”
Rub-a-Dubbin’ in the Tub
After a spring-training workout was finished in early-March 1984, Lasorda chose some players for extra batting practice at Holman Stadium, as he wanted to throw that extra BP. Fans who stuck around were treated to a show of nonstop taunts, encouragement, and challenges issued by the man on the mound. Usually, he threw for twenty minutes, thirty minutes if he really felt good. This particular day he overdid it and threw for an hour!
By the time he made it across the fields to the training room, he was struggling mightily from the heat. With his clothes dripping and his skin turning white, he made it to the clubhouse, where team personnel attended to him. Trainer Bill Buhler filled the whirlpool with cool water, knowing this was the best way to bring Tom’s temperature down. Getting him in there was a different story. “I’ve never been in the whirlpool . . . and I’m not starting now!” he proclaimed. Finally, Lasorda listened to Buhler and got in the tub. But he wouldn’t stop talking.
While I worked my free-weight program (the training room was dual purpose, as it also served as a weight room), I heard Lasorda’s story over and over whenever someone new entered the training room.
Finally, Tom stopped talking about his BP session. Instead, he talked about how great the whirlpool was. “Now I know why guys love this so much. This tub is outstanding!” he said at the top of his voice. I had heard enough. It was time to take one for the team.
So I walked over to the tub and said to him, “Hey, Skip, tell me about your day.” He started about the BP again. “Sounds like you had quite a time,” I said. “But I’m surprised to see you in the tub. How does it feel after your workout?” He answered, “This is the greatest thing going.” I asked, “Is it that good?” He put his head back and said, “It’s the best!” I peeled off my shorts, climbed in the pool, and lowered myself right between his feet. “Oh no you don’t,” he screamed as I took a seat on top of his feet. “You can’t . . . Dammit . . . No. Get out!” he yelled. Once settled, I wiggled my toes, touching the skipper in a place where the sun never shines, and he got the giggles. “Hey,” I said. “You’re right! This does feel pretty good.” He started yelling, but with one more wiggle I tamed the beast yet again, as he started laughing. “Now,” I said quietly, “let’s talk about my day.”
1984: My First Trip to the Disabled List
After signing with the Dodgers in the winter of 1983, the elephant in the room disappeared. However, the notoriety of the new contract caused people to react differently to me. There was no more performing for the big payday in their eyes. Now, the expectations were to justify the investment. I didn’t anticipate this reaction. But it wasn’t going to be a problem. I was determined to perform at the same level I did for the previous four years.
I started my Nautilus program in December, much like I had since 1980. While working the overhead press in January, I heard a pop in my left elbow. After X-rays at Dr. Jobe’s office, I was diagnosed with a loose bone chip that had to be removed immediately. Because the surgery, performed by Dr. Jobe on January 24, was arthroscopic, my down time was minimized. Still, my routine was altered. I didn’t throw before spring training, and I couldn’t perform any weight work that involved my left elbow.4
I had no problems with my elbow through spring training, but I was behind the other pitchers in camp so the Dodgers kept me in Vero for another week to work in some Minor League games.
My elbow surgery seemed to be a thing of the past after I beat the Cubs in my first start on April 9. Then I experienced inflammation on the inside part of my elbow after my next two starts. This put me out of commission for the next sixteen days.5
During spring training I noticed that pain in both heels had worsened. When I returned to Los Angeles, X-rays diagnosed the problem as bone spurs. Bill Buhler, the trainer, cut out some heel pads for my shoes, which helped some. Eventually, I needed cortisone shots to handle the inflammation. To make matters worse, I pulled my right hamstring running to first base in a game against Montreal. It cost me another two starts.6
With my heels and elbow hurting after a game against Houston, I was put on the disabled list for the first time in my career on June 7. To ease the elbow pain, Dr. Jobe gave me a series of cortisone shots around the inside of my elbow. Dr. William Wagner, a foot specialist located in Whittier, gave me a cortisone shot in each heel. It seemed I spent more time visiting doctors than I spent on the field.
The pain in the elbow gradually subsided, and I was activated on July 11. I pitched once in relief and started a game in Pittsburgh on July 18. I lasted all of eighteen pitches, the first seven of which were balls. After three runs, two walks, two singles, a double, and a ground out, my night was finished. It was the low point for my season and one of many low points during my career. I believed I was throwing okay, but Lasorda saw things differently. “He had nothing on the ball, absolutely nothing.”7
I pitched out of the bullpen through August 26, a total of fourteen games. Gradually, my elbow came around. Although I had a few early bumps in the road, I allowed just two earned runs over my last eight innings, all pitched in relief. That was good enough to earn another start.
I pitched six innings against the Mets, giving up just a run on five hits. It was not a great game but good enough for me to turn the corner. I finished the season, winning three of my next four decisions. Over the course of those seven starts, I pitched fifty-one innings, allowing
just thirteen earned runs. I was back on course, and my confidence was restored.8
The elbow inflammation was gone. The pulled hamstring was nothing more than a blip on the radar screen. And the bone spurs on my heels, well, that was a different story. They had to be removed.
Dr. Wagner performed the surgery on October 26. I was on crutches through the holidays. The 1984 season began with a surgery and ended with another surgery. I took an extra sip of champagne on New Year’s Eve when the clock stuck 12:00, bidding good riddance to a lousy baseball season.
“Sorry, I Didn’t Catch the Name”
During the season at Dodger Stadium on any given night, there could be a celebrity sighting in the clubhouse. Let me drop some names: Don Rickles, Burt Reynolds, Tom Selleck, Jonathan Winters, Jerry Vale, Ed McMahon—all visited Lasorda’s office during the eight years I played for the Dodgers. Also, there were couples, Jane Fonda and her husband at that time, Tom Hayden, Ryan O’Neal and the late Farrah Fawcett, and the governor of Kentucky, John Y. Brown and his wife, Phyllis George, whom I met in the small lobby that connected the clubhouse, manager’s office, video room, ramp to the dugout, and . . . the restroom. Had Phyllis, the former Miss America and CBS Sports broadcaster, walked into the lobby a few seconds sooner, she would have caught a few players standing at the urinal, doing their business in various stages of undress. That’s just not the way one wanted to be remembered by this classy couple.
Once while returning to the clubhouse from the weight room (fully dressed, mind you), I opened the door and saw Lasorda and two guys my size wearing three-piece suits hovering around a smaller gentleman. As I tried to walk by, Lasorda grabbed my arm, swung me around, and said to the smaller guest, “And this is Jerry Reuss.” When the suits parted, there was Frank Sinatra. He put his hand out and said, “Nice to meet you!” I shook his hand and said, “Sorry, I didn’t catch the name.” Instinctively, the suits reached for the bulge inside the breast pocket of their coats, as Lasorda held his breath after muttering something like, “Oh, shit.”