Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126)

by Jackson, Reggie; Baker, Kevin

  This was all strange to me, but I understood the frustrations and anger that were behind it all. It was the first time that I had firsthand experience of what it was to be a black person at a time when people were speaking out about what it meant to be a black person in America—something that was long overdue. The trend that had started with Jackie Robinson and progressed through the civil rights movement had by now evolved into a demand for dignity and respect. These words had long been on the minds of all black people, but unfortunately, that is where it ended for many of us. What we thought and what we said were two different things.

  I was never a very political guy, and I was not involved with what was going on around me politically. But I was showing up every day doing my job while people were getting beaten by police within a few miles of the A’s ballpark, going to jail, starting fires in the streets, and being told by Black Power advocates that there was a new day coming and that they should get guns. I could not help being affected by it, no matter how much I tried to look away. At the time, sports in general had always been oblivious to politics and social unrest, but it was hard to avoid these things in Oakland in the late ’60s and during what turned out to be our terrific run in the early to mid ’70s.

  I started to grow my hair and was probably one of the first black ballplayers to wear a mustache and an Afro. I thought I was just keeping up with the times. But I was surprised to learn from some of my friends that other people read more into my looks and my actions than I did. They saw me as speaking out as a black athlete when that was not done by black people and, especially, black athletes—the example of Tommie Smith and John Carlos in the 1968 Mexico City Olympics notwithstanding.

  Oakland’s racial scene started stirring the pot inside of me, and I think my consciousness about being black in a white man’s world was rising. Apparently, people read into what they were seeing on the field and reading in the press about me and concluded that I was starting to act like I “wasn’t going to take it anymore.” I think that when I left Oakland, this perception might have come with me—perhaps not consciously, but I think it was there. I was developing the reputation among certain segments of society as someone who was willing to speak out and say what other black athletes were merely thinking. The way I carried myself on the field, the way I looked in my uniform when I was at the plate, the results I got—it felt to them as if I was there to challenge everyone I faced. I think people were so charged up, and, at the same time, confused with what was happening around them, that some folks saw me as a leader in the black community for things I had nothing to do with.

  That never really went away. In fact I was, at one point, so influenced by this that when Muhammad Ali retired in 1981, I truly believed that it was an obligation to take my turn and continue the move forward for people of color, African American and Latino American.

  Even before that, this perception that I was some kind of racial firebrand or agitator became attached to me. As I look back now, I can’t think of one time when I said anything political in the press, but I think that this misperception of me as some kind of revolutionary was picked up by the press, and that it perpetuated this image of me, which I am sure did not go unnoticed in other parts of the country. I was branded with something I really did not understand, but it was certainly something I felt.

  There was at the same time a confluence between all the social revolutions going on in our society at large, and the labor revolution going on in baseball. “Dignity” and “respect” were now also something that black athletes, especially, were demanding be applied to them by management and white players—something that I know shaped some of my attitudes. I think that, as a result of our demands to get rid of the reserve clause and restore our rights, many current players of all ethnicities and backgrounds have an entirely different concept of themselves than players of my time had. We were just meat then, and some of us were lower than that. Now we’re all men. I think it all started in the era that coincided with my coming to New York, and, for me, in my own way, it came to a head there.

  I am now starting to realize that part of my experience in New York in 1977 might have been shaped by how New York players and fans perceived me, based, in part, on what they had read about me, the way I looked, and what I had to say. Take a look at the pictures of me in ’77 before George made me shave. Yeah, sure, I was young and brash. But I did not look like other black ballplayers in New York. Couple that with statements like “bringing my star with me” and POW! I’m someone who should be ostracized. Things like the article in Sport magazine that would cause so much ill will just confirmed what people were already feeling about me.

  I was not the revolutionary these people perceived me to be. But in retrospect, I was clearly a new breed of black player in New York. Everyone else had acted like they were lucky to be there, but I was seen as someone who expected to be there, too cocky for my own good. I was seen as a black athlete who felt that he did not need to respect authority, Yankee history, or even his new Yankee teammates. I was seen as making my own rules in a town where that was just not what black people did or what black athletes ever would have thought about. And, most of all, I was seen as someone who did not appreciate the opportunity I was being given to play on the big stage. And here I was coming with attitude from the radical Left Coast.

  So, now I have to ask myself: Was it really all about me coming to New York with my star—or was it about me coming from a place where black people were starting to act differently, like they weren’t going to take it anymore—and that I was bringing some of that attitude with my star? I guess I looked the part, and many people felt that I acted the part, even though I did not really feel the part and may have not really understood it. Lots to think about, especially when I look back on my relationships with my white teammates when I arrived in New York—very few of whom saw me as I saw myself. Becoming a Yankee was a childhood dream come true—and, in my mind, I was the furthest thing from an “angry black man” coming to New York to “put it to the man” or show people up.

  Others, though, saw me as exactly that. They conflated the idea of a black man who was comfortable in his own skin, who knew his own worth and ability, who was able to shape his own destiny in the game, with their stereotype of the angry black radical. So much of the controversy that surrounded me in New York came from their inability to forget their preconceived notions of what I was, and see the reality.

  One of my major disappointments was that in New York they didn’t want to hear about the anti-Semitism or prejudice on the ball team. At least not from me. Nobody in the media ever really stood up for the Jewish player on our team. I was disappointed and hurt that the press wouldn’t defend him, and I believe he was as well. To this day, I don’t know if he has gotten over it. The media were there when Billy and other people said what they said, but they never really asked questions about it. The newspaper guys never put questions to Billy or anyone else about whether he was anti-Semitic. I still can’t get past that. The media are supposed to report. They sure as heck did report on me—but not on this.

  Many of our writers were Jewish. They were on the same side that I was—I thought. They were the victims of the same prejudices. I was so disappointed that they wouldn’t talk about it. Not only wouldn’t they stand up for this player, but the writers didn’t defend themselves. I lost respect for them, because of the fear that they had. They were more interested in getting their stories than in standing up for their own beliefs.

  I know that Henry Hecht said a player called him a “backstabbing Jew c——er,” when he reported that the player went out a window in a hotel once to break curfew in spring training, and he did write about that. But there was so much else they did not report.

  Some of those writers were as bright a bunch of people as I’ve met in my baseball life. Bright, sensitive people. But they would not write about so much of what went on.

  I understand they didn’t want to interject themselves into the story. But I will alwa
ys believe that they did not do what they should have done. It’s not whether or not you put yourself in it; you just do what’s right and report what should be reported to the public. You’re supposed to do the right thing. You’re supposed to report what’s happening. They would write about everything else. But they wouldn’t write about the social inequities they themselves felt and experienced.

  I do wish, too, that I had been more forthcoming and better able to explain the double standard that I felt I saw here. It was all of our responsibility to do something about it, and I blame myself as well for not finding a way to get across what I knew.

  Part of the problem, I think, was that they didn’t want to hear it from me. I was always good for a quote, but they didn’t want to hear anything from me that didn’t fit in with some preconceived image.

  I was raised to be honest; I was raised to be straightforward. I was too straightforward. You couldn’t be direct with the writers in New York. No one ever spoke their feelings—especially if they were black. It didn’t matter. You didn’t count. We were supposed to be glad we were allowed to play—period.

  It was a touchy social time. It was 1977; there were very few black players who spoke out. Muhammad Ali. Henry Aaron, Kareem, Bob Gibson, Frank Robinson, who said what they thought. Jim Brown spoke out, and he was considered a militant. You were labeled a clubhouse lawyer if you spoke up. You were a troublemaker. You were considered unappreciative if you had any comment that didn’t fit in with a “good ol’ boy” way of thinking.

  Henry Aaron was not considered the social giant that he is now when he was breaking the record. He was a colored man who shouldn’t have been breaking a white man’s record. He was supposed to feel lucky to be here.

  Your great black athletes at the time were considered “gifted athletes.” However, if a white athlete was a great athlete, he was “a general on the floor.” He was “a coach on the floor” or in the clubhouse. He was bright, analytical, and calculating. Rather than the black athlete just being physically talented. Thank goodness for Branch Rickey, Walter O’Malley, Red Auerbach, Vince Lombardi, Jerry Buss, Phil Jackson, and other white coaches, owners, and general managers in sports who were able to see beyond these stereotypes.

  Nonetheless, it went on for a long time. Magic Johnson was just “gifted.” Jordan was “gifted.” It wasn’t that he had great leadership skills or great communication skills or a superior philosophy. He was just gifted.

  That’s where we were, socially, as a nation at the time—that’s where we still are, sometimes. So any comment from me about what I thought was right or wrong came off as “Yeah, who’s this colored kid, colored man, black man,” whatever you want to call it, “who is he to be making a comment about what is right or wrong?”

  And so I became “arrogant” and “egotistical,” rather than “sensitive” or “bright” or anything that was complimentary. I was tooting my own horn or trying to sound smarter than I was.

  If I ever took out my billfold and counted how much I had left in it, I was “flashy.” There was a company in New York that gave me a couple of fur coats—I didn’t even wear ’em. They gave them to me; I still have them in storage. But I was “flaunting a fur coat.” Joe Namath was “cool” when he had his.

  I felt the connotation at the time was, “What’s this black guy doing with all this money? What’s this black guy doing in a fur coat?”

  On anything that had to do with color, or a different viewpoint in the game of baseball, or a different view about society—if a black person spoke out and said something truthful, he was either a loudmouth or trying to cause trouble. It always had to be about “Here’s a black man speaking.” It was always, “Where’s he going with that? He should just be glad to be here.”

  I was just supposed to shut up and play ball. When you were born in this country in that era, you were black first, a boy or a girl second.

  The frustrations I had came from the things I saw happening in the clubhouse, the things I saw happening in the game of baseball at the time. They were legitimate frustrations. I saw all this blatant prejudice in this city that was supposedly the great melting pot of the world. But it was always my problem—not anyone else’s problem, telling Jew jokes around the batting cage.

  I had another disappointment. It was with many of the black players on the team who sided against me.

  I had some friends on the team. Ken Holtzman. Catfish Hunter. Lou Piniella was always good; Ron Guidry was a great friend. Fran Healy became my best friend on the team when he came over from Kansas City. Mike Torrez. But Willie Randolph was the lone black player who reached out to me. He was a good friend from the first day I was there.

  The rest … I felt they were always supporting the other side. I couldn’t understand it. Mickey Rivers was always in the middle, Roy White and Oscar Gamble were somewhat friendly, but always managed to stay in the middle.

  I looked for support. However, I never understood the fact that I didn’t get that support! Looking back, I would have tried to be more involved with them. “They aren’t giving, so I’m not giving,” was not the way to do it. I should have still given.

  The Yankees at that time probably had more black players than they’ve ever had, before or since. There were other black sports stars in New York at the time, such as Willis Reed, Walt Frazier, and Earl Monroe with those great Knicks teams of the era. But I was the first black baseball star in New York who spoke out since Jackie Robinson.

  Still, most of the black players on our team did not support me, and that hurt. I must make a note here. How many of us have been in situations where we’ve heard something that was a negative comment, that was contemptuous or even racist, and didn’t say anything? We’ve all been there. We’ve all said to ourselves, “Why didn’t I say something?” Even then, things were volatile, and most of us stayed away from a confrontation.

  I don’t know if it was about the money, or them resenting me because they won the year before, or if it was about Billy. Certainly, he did enough to make guys take sides. To test me. To push me to my limit.

  That whole spring, he kept putting me in the lineup anywhere from second to sixth. That is, anywhere but fourth. It was prestigious to hit cleanup for the New York Yankees. Almost my whole career, I came to the park knowing I was going to hit fourth. That was where I hit as one of the premier power hitters in the game; that was where it made sense for me to hit. That was where Mr. Steinbrenner wanted me to hit. But Billy was out there telling the writers I struck out too much to hit cleanup, or whatever came to mind that day.

  That whole spring, my left elbow, my throwing arm, hurt like crazy. When I reported to camp, it felt great, I was in great shape. Then the elbow. I’d never had arm soreness like that before; every time before when I had some soreness, it was in my shoulder. At first I didn’t say anything about it. I didn’t want it to be a problem. I kept my head down and kept playing.

  But the elbow kept getting worse. It got so I couldn’t throw with it, and it bothered my swing. Late in the spring, I hit a ball off the end of the bat, and the pain shot right up my arm to my elbow. It hurt so bad I couldn’t even run; it just took my breath away. But I stayed in the game.

  In fact, I was still in that same game in the bottom of the tenth inning, against the Cincinnati Reds. The tenth inning! In a spring training game—and I’m still in the game! As I think about it now, in 2013, I don’t believe I was in there. The score was tied, the ball gets hit out to me in right, on a hop, and they sent the runner from second. I couldn’t even make a throw. I just put the ball in my pocket and ran in.

  That was made into a huge deal, that I didn’t make a throw and we lost the game. But I kept playing, pretty much every day. Play all nine innings, play ten innings. Even after I told them about the arm. In those days, they didn’t even take you to the hospital. They just iced it. Ice, ice, ice everything. And put you back out there. That would be unheard of today.

  I didn’t get any relief until almost the end of s
pring training when Gene Monahan, the trainer, diagnosed it as tendinitis and gave me a cortisone shot. After that, it got better. But they kept playing me the whole time. I thought it was that they wanted me on the field, to draw the fans. That’s what I thought—“Play that old horse,” you know?

  Late in the spring, Phil Pepe, one of the writers, asked me about it. He said, “What’re you doing, playing every day? What’s the purpose?” And I told him, “Don’t ask me, I don’t know what he’s trying to prove”—talking about Martin.

  So he goes back and tells that to Billy, and Martin curses me out to Pepe and says I asked to play. He says I told him at the start of spring training I liked to play a lot of innings to get in shape.

  I don’t know where that came from. I didn’t say it. I never told him that.

  I was one of the few ballplayers at the time who worked out all year. I would lift weights, work out on those old Nautilus machines we had. I was into maintaining a proper diet, the way guys do today. Most guys didn’t really start showing up in shape until the 1980s. It was only then that they started paying attention to what they ate, understood diet better, because they could see how that would help. Some started having their food prepared for them.

  Then the teams got into it. The Yankees were one of the first teams to be concerned about their diet inside the clubhouse, started eliminating the candy, sugar, and the ice cream. The alcohol went away soon thereafter. Now the Yankees even have a chef, and our front office promotes a better, more healthy environment.

  But when I was coming up, there was nothing like that. Spring training was usually where you got yourself in shape. There were a few guys, men like Willie Mays, who would just come to camp with great bodies. (Mays always took care of himself, never drank or smoked.)