Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126)

by Jackson, Reggie; Baker, Kevin

  Playing all the time now, Piniella got hot. Nettles was blistering; he was doing everything. Making every play in the field. He was Player of the Month for August, with ten homers and twenty-five ribbies. Chambliss revived and hit .386 over a two-week stretch.

  Mickey Rivers brought his game up to an unreal level. He hit .405 for August and drove in twenty-one runs from the leadoff spot. That was his best season. He seemed to be driving in the winning run or tying run every night for us, hitting home runs into the porch out in right, bunting his way on to start rallies. He never looked very imposing, but I think that put the other teams to sleep. There was nobody better in the clutch. Steinbrenner announced after the season that Mick hit .452 with men in scoring position. Today, they’d be all over that stat; he’d be the MVP.

  Everything was working for us, everything that Billy did, or Gabe did in the front office, worked. Catfish was still hurting, and by then Don Gullett had hurt his back and missed all of August. Billy inserted Dick Tidrow into the rotation, and Dirt went 4–0 for the month, ended up 11–4 on the year. Tidrow was always underrated. He did everything—starter, long man, short man, middle relief, and even closer at times.

  Gabe brought in Cliff Johnson from Houston, part-time catcher, part-time first baseman, and a premier pinch hitter. Cliff was a big man and hit monster home runs all over the Stadium, left, right, and center. He didn’t want to play every day, and he’d tell you such. He did a good job catching when he filled in for Thurman from time to time, throwing runners out. Later, in mid-September, Gabe picked up Dave Kingman in a waiver deal, and he hit four homers for us in just twenty-four at-bats. I mean, can you imagine, deep as we already were, having a guy like Kingman who would lead the National League in home runs a couple of times? Coming off the bench for us as our maybe second-, third-, fourth-string designated hitter? We were tough and getting tougher.

  I told the press we were playing “connoisseur’s baseball.” That’s what it was.

  We were winning games in all sorts of ways. We threw seven shutouts down the stretch, or one almost every seven games. We crushed teams with hits and home runs, beat them 10–1, 10–0, 11–1, 15–3, 15–0. We won close games, too.

  We beat Texas 1–0 when Guidry pitched a two-hitter and I singled in Nettles with the only run, off Dock Ellis. We beat the White Sox, after we blew a 9–4 lead in the ninth inning, and got down, 10–9. I was already out of the game with an injured knee, but Piniella took over in right and made a leaping catch over the wall in right off Richie Zisk. Then, in the bottom of the ninth, Thurman worked a walk, and Chris Chambliss hit the ball into the second deck in right. Just like that, we won after all, 11–10.

  When Seattle came into the Stadium, Sparky Lyle bailed out Figueroa as he was blowing a 5–2 lead in the eighth, struck out Larry Milbourne with men on first and third. Then Sparky pitched all the way through the eleventh. Talk about a closer, dude! If Sparky could have spent his career pitching just the ninth inning the way closers do today, he might still be pitching. Mickey Rivers hit another home run to win that one for him. That same home stand, we came back from down 5–1 in the sixth to Texas, when Nettles drove Rivers in with a triple for the winner.

  It didn’t matter who we played or who pitched against us. We went 16–5 against teams with winning records. We went 19–3 against left-handers, who we weren’t supposed to be able to hit, winning fourteen in a row. We had so many left-handers in the lineup it seemed like teams would go down to the Bowery, and if a guy was drinking a beer left-handed, he’d pitch against us that night.

  Of course, with that, out the door went Billy’s theory about how he had to sit me against lefties. Not that he would admit it. He even used the occasion to take another shot at me, when the reporters asked him about it.

  “I can bat Chris [Chambliss] any spot in the lineup, and he won’t complain,” Billy told them. “I wasn’t getting the best out of Reggie.”

  So it wasn’t his mistake, benching me all the time and batting me in the wrong spot. It was my problem, for complaining.

  You know what? I didn’t care. I was so pleased to be able to come to the ballpark and know where I was hitting and that I was playing every day. One of the writers asked me if I was having fun now. I told him I felt more relieved than like I was having fun—but I’d take it.

  Like I say, it wasn’t just me. It was the whole team turning it around. But if I was that one piece—that one last, missing ingredient like I’d been trying to tell Robert Ward back in spring training—that piece was finally in its right place. And I really think that made everyone better.

  A good lineup’s like a finely tuned machine—like a great car. It works best if everything’s in its proper place. Because I was batting fourth, everybody was where they should be.

  Mickey leading off. Willie Randolph, or maybe Roy White, second. Thurman, who was a great, productive hitter, in the third slot. Lou Piniella or Chambliss fifth or sixth, Nettles sixth or seventh, where he would absolutely kill you. All the way down to Bucky in the nine slot.

  And me. I was ready to play. I had gotten my game together—I don’t think I’d really had it together most of the year. I started really swinging the bat, being productive. Down the stretch run, I had an on-base percentage of almost .400, a slugging percentage over .500. I had twelve or thirteen home runs, almost fifty runs batted in, in as many games—and I just thought, “Thank goodness.”

  I was picking up the ball well; I was getting big hits. Against the Angels in mid-August, I had a double and a triple, drove in Thurman twice, and broke open a close game. Next day I led off the sixth with a home run against California, broke a 3–3 tie, and we coasted, 9–3. Couple days later I tripled with the bases loaded and finished them off. Same week, I had a homer and two singles and drove in three runs to beat the Rangers.

  We didn’t lose two games in a row for almost a month. When we finally did, I helped get us going again out in Cleveland, hit a run-scoring double and a three-run homer. A few days after that, I really got going on a good home run tear, best one I had all year. I hit eight in the space of sixteen games. Hit two in one game in Detroit. Hit a three-run shot in the first when we crushed Toronto, then came back home and hit a slam in the first inning against the Indians.

  But even as well as we were playing, we still had to shake off the Red Sox. They couldn’t quite pitch with us, not with the staff we had. But they were capable of so much offense; they had such a great lineup they stuck with us almost all the way. Rice, Carlton Fisk, Yaz, Dewey Evans, Hobson who hit ninth. They started to come back on us, even after we got so hot. Mid-September, they came into town just a game and a half back, with 18 to go. We were 144 games into the season, playing great, and we couldn’t shake ’em. Even with all we’d won, we still hadn’t won nothin’ yet.

  It was wild, those three games in the Stadium. It was the middle of the week, up in the Bronx, but we drew fifty-five thousand every game. The park was shaking. This was all I’d dreamed about, playing baseball as a ten-year-old in my backyard. I was Mickey Mantle against the Dodgers …

  First game, Ron Guidry was a little unsteady. He gave up a triple to Yaz, let him score on a wild pitch, and we got down, 2–0. Then it was like he just shut the door. He struck out Rick Burleson with men on first and third, and that was that. He used to dominate the Red Sox, and this was no exception. He pitched a complete game, nine strikeouts.

  Mike Paxton was starting for them, and he was a gutsy pitcher. But we knew we could beat him, and we chipped away at him. Not trying to do too much, just getting our at-bats.

  First Lou drove in Chambliss with a single. Then Bucky got a hit to lead off the fifth, and Mickey Rivers dropped another one in the right-field bleachers. Chambliss scored me with a double, and we were up, 4–2.

  In the ninth, Billy left Guidry in to pitch to the heart of their order, even though we had Sparky rested, and this was the biggest game of the year. Neither Billy nor Art Fowler, his pitching coach, liked to play young pl
ayers. They had to go with Guidry, who was young, but they called many of his pitches for him. That almost led to disaster for us in that last frame. Jim Rice hit a single off him, and then Fisk took him all the way to the wall in left-center, almost 430 feet. Mickey just pulled it in there.

  Billy was always yelling at Guidry not to throw his slider, not to risk grooving one. Ronnie had this very fast, very deceptive slider that looked more like a fastball. The next year, when he was allowed to throw it when he wanted, he used it to just overwhelm the league. But you couldn’t tell Billy anything, as usual. He just had Guidry keep throwing fastball, fastball, fastball that ninth inning. Guidry threw ninety-five and above, but even when you’re throwing that hard, someone has a chance to catch it for a feast. He kept going behind the mound, shrugging those skinny little shoulders, and it seemed like he always came back throwing a mile or two harder. Fortunately for us, he had enough left to strike out George Scott and Butch Hobson, who drove in more than two hundred runs between them for the Sox that year.

  Another key to the game—a big piece in our whole stretch run—was Thurman. Typically, he had an important night. Got two key singles that started one rally and kept another one going. By then, he was playing with all sorts of hurts, big and small, the way big-league catchers do by the end of a season, but he didn’t complain.

  That September, he was unbelievable. He hit .380 for the month, four homers, eighteen ribbies. Got back over .300 and a hundred RBIs again. He really showed me something. He was a paragon of professionalism.

  I had a lot of admiration for him, watching him play like that. By then, we were getting along better. I respected the fact that he was one of the guys who went out of his way to get Billy to hit me in the cleanup spot—to get Billy to leave me alone. He was largely responsible for getting me there and for getting Billy to put me in the four spot. Thurman was a big enough man to do that. He and Lou got Billy to take his foot off the back of my neck.

  It wasn’t always easy to know what to make of Thurman. He was a very quiet guy. Silent at times. But I think more and more, the longer I was on the Yankees, the more we came to respect each other. I remember Fran Healy, of course, and Ray Negron, who was another peacemaker. Negron was a clubhouse man who Steinbrenner caught as a kid trying to graffiti the Stadium. George got him by the arm, pulled him aside, and gave him a wagging-finger-in-the-face conversation. He then hired Ray to work for the Yankees, and he’s still working with the team. George changed his life.

  Fran and Ray got Thurman and me together to have a burger when we were in Detroit, and that went very well. We talked about different things, from baseball to family—Thurman always had a big soft spot for his family. That conversation started us on having more respect for each other. He had a sneaky sense of humor. I remember at one point, he snuck up on me and asked me if Steinbrenner actually gave me a Rolls-Royce. He didn’t, but I told him he did. (He didn’t really give me the Rolls, but he did give me the money for it.) We both got a chuckle out of that, and after that it got better, and after our problem with the article we got along great.

  The second game against Boston was going to be the big game of the series. We had Ed Figueroa going, who was a terrific pitcher, but he’d been up and down all year, trying to adjust to Billy Martin’s constant changes in the rotation. Eddie liked his arm to be a little heavy so his ball would sink. He liked to pitch out of a four-man rotation, going every fourth day, and when Billy wouldn’t do that, it bothered him. Plus, I think he was hurting a little by then.

  Meanwhile, they were starting Reggie Cleveland against us. He was a righty, just a little better than a .500 pitcher that year, but he used to give us fits.

  When the game started, they were hitting Figgy hard. Rice hit a triple in the second, and they got men on first and third, but he got out of it by striking out Butch Hobson. The next inning, they got two more men on, but he got Freddie Lynn to ground out and Yaz to fly out. Fourth inning, they got a guy to second. Fifth inning, they loaded the bases with nobody out.

  But Eddie got Lynn to tap back to him for a home-to-first double play. Then Yaz hit a shot back at him, but he stopped it with his foot and threw him out.

  Figgy was stumbling, putting men on base all the time, but he never broke. We couldn’t do a thing with Cleveland. Fortunately, Mickey was running down everything in center, and I was finally playing right field like I knew I could. I still had a bruised knee that night, but I was running well. I don’t know if it was the natural adrenaline, or what.

  But in the fourth, Boomer—George Scott—hit a ball all the way back to the wall in right-center, and I ran back, leaped high, and pulled it away from the fans. I made an even better play in the seventh. They had Denny Doyle on second with one out, and Bernie Carbo hit a little flare, a dying quail, out to right—just the sort of liner that makes the most trouble. I got a good jump on the ball, came running in full tilt, and caught it just before it hit the ground, making a diving, tumbling catch.

  After that play, you could feel the Stadium physically shake; you could feel the ground shake. If I wasn’t excited enough already, I was then.

  Bottom of the ninth, it was still 0–0. People forget, those Red Sox were also a terrific fielding team, and they were making great plays all over the field against us, pulling in long flies and line drives. It was a hell of a duel.

  Leading off the ninth, Thurman gets another clutch hit, singles to center. I was up now … and Billy gives me the sign to bunt.

  That would come back on me, too, because, like I said, on the Yankees—with Billy Martin—nothing ever really died. When he gave me the bunt sign there, Dick Howser had to call time and come down from the third-base coach’s box to make sure I got it.

  I struggled to believe it. I mean, I’m hitting cleanup to lay one down?

  Dick asked me which side I was more likely to bunt to, which was ridiculous since it had been years since anybody last asked me to lay one down. You don’t ask people to do things they can’t do. I told him, “Third base, I guess,” which was also a joke. He told me to bunt, but to look at him—Howser—with every pitch, in case the sign changed as the count changed.

  This is what I mean about Billy Martin making a team all about him. This is what I mean about his big strategy always being something that turned the spotlight on him. “Billy-ball.”

  It sounds like a good, fundamental, by-the-book play, right? Get the winning run on with nobody out, bunt him over to second. But how well is that going to work with a guy who hasn’t bunted in years? How does it make sense with a guy like me with power—and also good speed, so he can stay out of the double play?

  That whole season, I grounded into exactly three double plays. Three of them. Chances were, I was either going to get a hit, get a walk, fly out, or strike out. A good manager doesn’t treat his players like interchangeable pieces. He doesn’t pretend one’s the same as the other and they can all do the same things. All you’re likely to do is distract your player, as well as do the wrong thing by asking him to do something he can’t do.

  Do you ask Babe Ruth to bunt—or Cookie Lavagetto? Willie McCovey—or Phil Rizzuto?

  But I was learning. Billy Martin said bunt, I was prepared to bunt. Reggie Cleveland threw in on me, though, so I couldn’t get the bat out and had to take it for a ball. I looked back down to Dick Howser—and now the bunt was off. Cleveland threw a fastball, and I fouled it off.

  I looked back at Howser. The bunt sign was back on. Tell me, does this make any sense at all?

  I got ready to try to bunt again, but Reggie Cleveland threw another ball in. It was like they were picking up the signs, which maybe they were. It was like they knew I was going to try to lay one down.

  Personally, I thought they were making a mistake. If it was my team and Reggie Jackson wanted to bunt, let him bunt.

  Instead, the count fell in my favor, the bunt was taken off, and Cleveland hung a slider. It was room service. The rest is history.

  I hit that ball to
right-center, over the 407-foot sign, probably fifteen to twenty rows deep in the stands. Ball game. The whole place was shaking again; the crowd was going nuts. They were chanting, “Reg-gie! Reg-gie!” again. I think that’s when I finally won them over for good.

  And at the plate, whattaya know, there was a whole mob of my teammates. Slapping my back, pounding away at me. Billy Martin, too. When we got back in the clubhouse, he even told me, “I’m sorry I gave you the bunt sign.”

  Getting Billy Martin to say he was sorry—getting him to say he made a mistake on the ball field … I wanted to know who that really was wearing his uniform. I just told him, “I understood the situation well.” (Which I didn’t.)

  We’d won, that’s what mattered. Some of the other players and Ray Negron pulled me back out to the dugout, and the fans were still there, still shouting for me. I took off my cap and waved it, I gave them a bow, they went wild.

  That felt really good. That felt like what I came to New York for, what I imagined it could be. And afterward in the clubhouse, in the interviews, maybe I got a little carried away, but I didn’t care.

  I told the media, “If Reggie plays well, if we win, and if Billy and Reggie get along and George looks good, sociologically this city will be in better shape. I may be crazy, but that’s what I believe.”

  What I meant by that was, I guess, that just then anything seemed possible. Despite everything we’d all been through, despite all the nonsense, we really could put it together and make it work. And I know it probably doesn’t apply, but it seemed like it could be an example, maybe, for all of New York then. That if we could come together, anybody could.

  With the Son of Sam murders, the economy in the tank, the riot that summer, it just seemed like the right thing to say at the time, to say that we could all come together as a city. That was what it felt like, especially in the excitement of that moment. That was what was so strange with my first two years with the Yankees.