by Jerry Reuss
I got my asterisk that night, September 7, 1990. It was in the eighth inning, and Stan Belinda was pitching in relief of John Smiley. Belinda gave up a leadoff single to Marquis Grissom, and the phone in the bullpen rang. Tommy Sandt, the bullpen coach, answered it, looked at me, and said, “Get ready!”
I thought, “Get ready? I’ve been dreaming about this all year long. I am ready!” A single and a strikeout later, the phone rang again, and Tommy asked, “You ready?” “Yep,” I answered.
Jim Leyland, the Pirates’ manager, made his way to the mound and signaled for me. I grabbed my jacket and started running to the mound. That voice of wisdom inside me said, “What’s the hurry? They’ll wait for you. Besides, you need a moment to shift your focus from the moment to the job at hand.” The voice, as always, was right. It was a very nice ovation from the twenty-two-thousand-plus on hand, but my concern was Larry Walker of the Expos, waiting for his turn at bat after I finished my warmups.
Walker took the first pitch for a ball and then tried to pull an outside fastball and slapped what should have been an inning-ending double-play grounder to second. We got the out at second, but Gary Redus, an outfielder most of his career and a first baseman this night, missed tagging the bag at first. A stolen base and an intentional walk loaded the bases, but I got out of the inning on a grounder to short.
After the game I walked across the field through the gate in center field on my way back to the hotel. I thought about all that I went through just to get there. There was spring training with the White Sox, a couple of weeks in Georgia, a few more in Tucson, a month of Sunday-league ball in Pasadena, and six or seven weeks in Buffalo before the September call-up.
Mentally, it was a lot more difficult. There was the doubt about my ability that would creep into my mind after disappointing games in spring training and again in Tucson. There was another kind of doubt after pitching in the Sunday-league games, wondering if the scouts who attended saw enough to give me a recommendation. I stopped in the middle of center field, looked around the ballpark in the dim light, and asked myself, “Was it worth it?” You bet your ass it was!
Know When to Hold ’Em, Know When to Fold ’Em
Knowing that I would retire at the end of the 1990 season, I had my camera by my side everywhere I went. On road trips I arrived at each ballpark early in the afternoon and took pictures from every angle possible. On more than one occasion, teammates would join me as we made our way around the ballparks of the National League East, each of us with camera in tow, talking baseball, ballparks, and photography as we bonded. It was a trip in a time machine reviewing some of these pictures before I posted them recently on Flickr. The ballparks that no longer exist and the players who were Pirates in 1990 are alive and well (and young!) on the Internet.
On our final road trip in St. Louis, I mentioned to Jim Leyland (in the bathroom, no less) that this was my last season. I was retiring, and I wanted him to know before I mentioned it to the sportswriters. I thanked him for everything, knowing that I might not have the chance during the last few days. We shook hands (yes, we had both washed with soap). He appreciated the consideration and later mentioned our conversation on his daily radio show.
The Pirates clinched the Division Championship in St. Louis on September 30. The postgame celebration on the field spilled into the clubhouse. I stayed on the field and visited with friends for about fifteen minutes. Somehow, it seemed to me that the celebration was about the guys who were there the whole year, and I wanted to give them some space. I did get in the spirit of things when I joined them later. I grabbed a bottle of bubbly and wrapped it in a towel, as I wanted to share it with my wife, who was waiting for me in Pittsburgh. Just like the Pirates, I wanted to celebrate the moment with the person who was with me the whole year.
Once the Pirates’ charter arrived in Pittsburgh, I could see that the fans who waited for the arrival of the plane had started their celebration without us. They were yelling and screaming as the team made their way through the police lines in the terminal to the buses that would return us to the ballpark. I enjoyed the moment, not for myself, but for the guys who earned it with their performance during the season. It was their time. I remembered similar celebrations with the Pirates of the seventies and the Dodgers of the eighties. That was my time.
There was also another reality. For many of the players on this bus, this moment was as good as it was going to get. They weren’t thinking of the ups and downs of baseball while watching the crowd like I was. For many of them, the downs would come soon enough and definitely much faster than they hoped. For me, I got to touch the brass ring one more time. And the best was yet to come.
Better than a Gold Watch
Because of the lockout during spring training, the regular season had to be pushed back three days to complete the full 162-game season. That meant there were three games to play at home against the Mets. Because the games didn’t mean anything in the standings, the next three games gave Jim Leyland a chance to rest some regulars, give some bench guys a chance to play, and set up his pitching staff for the playoffs against the Reds, who won the NL West.
I settled into a routine while pitching out of the bullpen. If I didn’t get up the day before, I waited until the fifth inning the next day before asking Tommy Sandt if I could throw. He would then call Ray Miller, the pitching coach, and ask for permission. That’s what happened on Monday, October 1.
Ray gave the okay, and I started my work. But the phone in the bullpen rang a few minutes after I started throwing. It was Ray, who wanted to talk to me. This was a first. I grabbed the phone and asked Ray, “What’s up?” “Jimmy [Leyland] heard my conversation with Tommy about you getting your work in. He asked me to ask you if you want to start Wednesday afternoon,” Ray told me. I stood motionless with phone in hand, mouth wide open, before I answered. “Ray . . .” I was speechless. “Absolutely! Thank you, thank you . . . and thank Jim for considering me,” I managed to say. Ray told me before he hung up, “Well, I guess you know more than me what you need to do to get ready.”
Tommy, who treated the bullpen phone like it was his personal domain, wanted to know what the conversation was about. I told him, “Ray told me Jim wanted to know if I wanted to start Wednesday’s game.” There was a pause. “Well, what did you tell him?” Tommy asked. “Are you shittin’ me? I told him, ‘Absolutely!’”
As was Jim’s daily regimen, he toured the outfield and talked to as many of his players as possible. There were some players with whom he’d share a laugh. Other times it was a teaching moment. Much of the time it was a chance to pat a player on the back while he was down. Jim paid me a visit on Tuesday.
“Hey, we haven’t had much time to visit, have we?” he said. “No, with all the players here, the upcoming playoffs, and the time you give the media, you have your hands full,” I replied. He paused a few moments, scanning the field, turned to me, and said, “You’re gonna be all right tomorrow, aren’t you?” he said, not asking a question but making a statement. I turned and looked at him and said, “Jim, I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity. This month has been better than anything I could’ve dreamed of. As far as tomorrow, I’ll be fine. Still, I don’t want to embarrass myself or the Pirates, so, if you sense the game getting out of control, do what you have to do. I’ll understand.” He nodded his head, smiled, and said, “Good luck!” and continued his tour of the outfield.
I decided to walk to the ballpark Wednesday morning. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, with a hint of fall in the air and a warm sun . . . the kind of day you pay full retail for. I tried to keep my perspective and focus on the game, and I was okay until I walked on the field through the center field gate. I started 547 games in my Major League career, and it hit me, you have only one first start and one last start. (For some guys, it’s one and the same!) So I took a moment to gather it all in.
Standing alone in the middle of the outfield, I looked all around the ballpark and acknowledged that this would b
e the last time I would do this as a player. The voice inside my head told me, “You’re ready now.”
Once inside the clubhouse I saw the new uniform in my locker. I asked Hoolie to change my number from 47 to 49. I was a September call-up in 1969 with the Cardinals and again with the Pirates in 1990. It just seemed right to wear the same number from 1969 to complete the full circle.
For a Wednesday afternoon game that had no bearing on the standings, there was a crowd of more than twenty-seven thousand on hand. For the Mets starter, Frank Viola, the game had a special meaning. He was going after his twentieth win.
Well, Frank had a two-run lead before he threw a pitch, as I gave up a pair of runs on three hits in the top of the first. We got one of them back in the third, as José Lind doubled, I sacrificed him to third, and he scored on an infield out.
With just two hits over the next four innings, the score was 2–1 after five innings. Tim Teufel led off the Mets’ sixth with a home run to left to make the score 3–1. The next batter, Tom O’Malley, grounded out to first. Out of the Pirates’ dugout came Leyland. I recognized the walk. He wanted to make a pitching change.
It was only fitting in my final Major League game that I’d hear another manager say, “Bring in the right-hander.” But it would be the last time. When Jim got to the mound, he didn’t say a word as he put his hand out for the ball. Instead of giving it to him, I shook his hand and simply said, “Thanks.” There was a short pause. “Mind if I keep the ball?” I asked. He smiled and said, “I don’t give a shit about the ball. I’m proud to shake the hand of a man who pitched twenty-two years in the big leagues.”
Once reliever Mike York got to the mound, I walked off the last time to a standing ovation. After shaking hands and exchanging hugs from teammates of just a month, I got to the bench, dropped my glove, grabbed my jacket, and put it on. At the urging of the Pirate players, I took a deep breath and walked a few steps onto the field to acknowledge the appreciative Pirate faithful.
I took off my hat, and, looking down the right-field line, moving my way to behind home plate, where my wife was sitting, I paused and said thanks to all of them. As I looked at the fans on the left-field side of the park, I saw the entire Mets team on their feet in front of the dugout applauding. I pointed with my left hand to each of them, thanking them for the show of respect. As I continued from left field to the fans in center, I saw the message on the scoreboard that read, Thanks for the Memories, Jerry!
That was the only curtain call I took in my twenty-two-year career. Hall of Famer Ralph Kiner, who announced the game for the Mets on TV, remarked that the ovation “was better than a gold watch!” You’re right about that, Ralph!
By the way, the Pirates scored two in the sixth to tie the game, which meant I spit the hook one more time and finished my career with a no-decision. The Mets broke the tie, as they scored a run in each of the last three innings to win the game 6–3. Frank Viola pitched seven innings and won his twentieth game, the second time in his career he accomplished the feat.
I sat on the bench for the seventh inning and then walked to the clubhouse. No sooner had I arrived when there was a call from White Sox trainer Herm Schneider. “Lefty, you did it just as you hoped you would. Congratulations!” I smiled and answered, “Hermie, it was a long, strange trip, but it sure got the job done. Thanks for thinking of me.”
On an emotional day, I wasn’t surprised that the feeling of relief overwhelmed me. I just knew when to say when. All year, I wanted to end my career on my terms. With the help of the Pirates who gave me another chance, a quirk in the schedule, and the class of Jim Leyland, I walked off the field in my final game with my head held high to a standing ovation. Very few players were given the opportunity to say good-bye in style. I’m humbled to be among those few.
After the game, I said my good-byes to all the players and coaches, thanked them, and wished them the best in the postseason. As I did with every club later in my career, I put my uniform in my equipment bag before leaving for home. I saw the uniform top every day that I worked on this book, as it’s displayed in its frame just to the right of my computer.
Maybe Pete Peterson knew something back in 1977 when he told me he hoped I would finish my career with the Pirates. However, I don’t think Pete had this career path in mind. Maybe Willie Stargell was right when he said, “What goes around comes around.” I was the luckiest twenty-year-old in St. Louis on my first day in the big leagues and had a fairy-tale ending on my final day some twenty-two years later. On October 3, 1990, I had come full circle with the Pirates and with baseball, and I was ready to begin the rest of my life.
November 5, 1990: Granted Free Agency
As one door of opportunity closed, another one opened. While I was a member of the White Sox in 1989, Jeff Torborg sent me to the radio booth to work the game that afternoon with Sox announcer Wayne Hagin. WMAQ in Chicago, which carried the Sox games, gave me an audiocassette of the broadcast. I sent a copy to ESPN in the winter of 1990 that led to an in-studio audition for the cable network in its second year of broadcasting Major League Baseball. I signed a three-year contract as an analyst for their Tuesday- and Friday-night games beginning in 1991. My playing career was in the past, and a broadcasting career was under way.
Epilogue
With a variety of jobs as an on-air analyst on both radio and television, I’ve been involved in the game of baseball since my retirement as an active player. After three years at ESPN, I worked on Major League Baseball’s Baseball Night in America in 1994–95. I split the California Angels TV duties with Hall of Fame manager Sparky Anderson from 1996 to 1998 and partnered with former teammate Rick Monday on Dodger radio broadcasts from 2006 to 2008. From 2000 to 2004 I was back in uniform as a Minor League pitching coach for the Expos, Cubs, and Mets.
Over those years I’ve been asked by a number of different sportswriters about a collaborative effort on a book. I took those conversations seriously, but for one reason or another, nothing ever came from them. Over the years, however, the dynamics changed.
After my dad passed away in 1998, followed by my mom in 2000, my brothers and our families sorted through the belongings and pictures of unknown people and places that passed through Mom’s and Dad’s lives. Because of today’s technology, the families have been able to piece together some of the facts about our legacy. We’re still making discoveries today.
I learned many lessons from their passing. One was cataloging my baseball memorabilia and the numerous photos I had taken over the years so that those who are interested in my life can get their questions answered directly from me. During my rehab for a knee replacement in 2005, I learned everything I could about Photoshop. Eventually, the resulting photos were good enough to place in an album for our ever-growing family. Instead of printing them, I posted them online through Flickr. A thought occurred to me while uploading the images . . . why not make them available for anyone in the world to view? And that’s where I am today! To see much of my baseball career (as well as some of my other work) in pictures, you can find them online at http://www.flickr.com/photos/jerryreuss/.
Over the years I’ve read or heard about my career in numerous books, articles, and interviews. The stories being printed or mentioned weren’t the way I remembered them. Because my broadcasting jobs allowed me flexible hours, I wanted to set my story straight, or at least the way I remembered it. Still, I wasn’t certain how I wanted to present it.
The solution came during a Dodgers Fantasy Camp in Vero Beach in 2008 when longtime friend and former Dodger Carl Erskine gave me a copy of his book, What I Learned from Jackie Robinson. The book contains 160 pages and was written as a vignette of first-person stories. I read it on the flight back home, and it dawned on me that if I ever wrote a book, I would use Carl’s book as a template.
In August 2010 my wife I watched comedian Tom Dreesen being interviewed on David Letterman’s The Late Show. The conversation turned to baseball, and to our surprise Letterman asked Tom if my sto
ry about umpire Frank Pulli and the signed baseball I slipped into the game was true. Tom didn’t remember the story, but the fact that Letterman recalled it put the thought in my mind that perhaps it was time to write that book.
I contacted Tom through his website, and within a few hours he called me, and we shared some laughs about a few other stories he did remember from my playing days. When I told my wife, Chantal, about the call from Dreesen, she suggested I write the Pulli story as I remembered it.
From my upstairs office, I did just that. When I finished I sent her the story via e-mail (the story was much too long for a tweet or a text). After a few minutes she laughed out loud! I walked downstairs for the full reaction. “Loved it . . . Got any more?”
I wrote and sent her another recollection. Same reaction. That’s how this book came to life. It took hours, days, months, and a few years of my time. But it was worth it. The story of my baseball life is here for all to share. My thanks to all of you who took the time to read it.
Notes
3. Life in the Minors
1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Kissell.
2. http://www.retrosheet.org/boxesetc/R/MU1_reusj001.htm.
3. http://www.ballparktour.com/Former_San_Diego.html.
4. http://www.baseball-reference.com/minors/player.cgi?id=reuss-001jer.
5. http://www.baseball-reference.com/minors/team.cgi?id=0e7b5034.
6. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1969_Major_League_Baseball_season.
7. John Helyer, Lords of the Realm: The Real History of Baseball (New York: Villard, 1994), 84–85.
8. Helyer, Lords of the Realm, 95.
9. Helyer, Lords of the Realm, 96.
10. Helyer, Lords of the Realm, 98.