Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126)

by Jackson, Reggie; Baker, Kevin

  There were all these moments when it just seemed, “Good, great, we won, everything’s right with the world now. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  But it never did.

  14

  PINCH HITTER

  TWO WEEKS AFTER the Reggie Cleveland game, I hit a grand-slam home run in the first inning against the Indians. We rolled from there, 10–0. It was my twentieth game-winning hit of the season—and with that win we clinched at least a tie for the division title, going four games up with four games to play. The race was over. Time for the playoffs. Ahhh!

  In those days the league championship series was still best three out of five, you against the other division winner. Only two teams in the league playoffs, and not seven games, five. It was almost sudden death, a short series, and you were always playing a great team.

  We would be playing Kansas City, which was a formidable organization. They were outstanding at the plate, outstanding in the field. They had a deep staff, led the league in pitching.

  They had the great George Brett at third, Hal McRae, a tremendous offensive player, and Al Cowens, who had a terrific season in the outfield and at the plate. Amos Otis in center, great offensive and defensive player. Darrell Porter behind the plate. Big John Mayberry, left-handed power hitter at first, Frank White and Freddie Patek, a couple excellent gloves up the middle who were also good offensive players. Whitey Herzog was their manager; he was a good one, a Hall of Fame manager. Their general manager at the time was John Schuerholz, who of course went on to have a great career in Atlanta, too, and became one of the greatest general managers of all time.

  We won 100 games; the Royals won 102. They had a season a lot like ours, but without the clubhouse drama. They had a tough race with two or three teams most of the way, then got hot down the stretch and just ran away and hid. They pulled off winning streaks of eight, ten, sixteen straight games. Won thirty-five out of thirty-nine and went from five and a half back at the start of August to ten and a half up by mid-September. They came close to beating the Yankees the year before, when I was with Baltimore, and they wanted this bad. The Royals thought they were the better team, and they wanted to prove it.

  They always played us tough, regular season, postseason, whenever. We’d split the ten games in the regular season. They were especially tough at home, where they went 55–26 and beat us four out of five that summer. This year, they would have the extra game there. They were a team built for the AstroTurf they had at home, in Royals Stadium. When you play on turf, you need lots of speed on defense. The ball travels so much faster on carpet. They were a team that could steal bases, run down anything in the outfield. They were going to be hard enough to beat. It didn’t help that our manager would play them with a handicap.

  When we finally won the division title, it seemed like there was a kind of truce in the clubhouse. At least, I did my part to try to make it that. I’d make sure to stop in Billy’s office, just talk with him a little. Not much, just a little—Fran thought that would be a great idea. For his part, Billy would come in and make sure the writers saw him come by my locker and say, “How you doin’ today, Big Guy?” or “We need you today, Big Guy.” Like we were all getting along.

  Now, I knew from some of the writers that when they asked him how he really felt, Billy told them, “Off the record? He’s a piece of s—t.” But I went along with the act. I figured we didn’t need any more distractions. I even went into his office after we clinched the division and offered him a drink from my champagne bottle. We drank together, and he told me, “You had a hell of a year, Big Guy. I love you.” I guess he thought I had changed my name to Gullible.

  Was it all a pretense? I don’t know. I don’t know if Billy Martin knew how he felt, either. Maybe he meant some of it. Maybe it was more that he was already trying to lobby for a new contract from Gabe Paul and George. He was in the papers trying to take credit for everything, saying about George, “He’ll find out these guys aren’t that easy to manage.” So subtle.

  George wasn’t having any of it. “He’s crazy if he tries to take credit for our success,” he said. “I would just tell him that he’s not indispensable. That this is just another example of his immaturity.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Even the best managers in the game, guys who were light-years ahead of Billy, didn’t win when they didn’t have the team. If you don’t have the horses, you can’t win. And that’s something Billy never cared to understand.

  I was past caring much about what Martin said about anything by then. And even though I thought I was getting along with Thurman better than ever, he was quoted as saying, “How could I ever like that blankety-blank after what he said about me?”

  That really got me. I think we really became friends; I think we were in the process of becoming friends even then. But Thurman had his pride, and people were continuing to tell me that he was still grumbling about the fact that he didn’t get the bonus money he thought he was promised and that he was still bitter about the article in Sport magazine. He was a very prideful man, Thurman, but I respected him no matter what he thought. If I can’t control something, if it’s beyond my capabilities, then I try to move forward. That was all I could do.

  So even though it seemed like we were going into the playoffs full of serenity, there were still a lot of resentments just under the surface. How much it distracted us, I don’t know. I just knew you couldn’t let up against the Royals, they were too good a team.

  First game, they smoked us in New York, beat Don Gullett, 7–2, when his shoulder tightened up. We had pitching issues now. Catfish hadn’t pitched in a month, with his bad arm. Figueroa pulled a muscle in his last start; he was out nine days. Billy had to pitch Dick Tidrow almost seven innings in relief of Gullett. We were running out of arms.

  Ron Guidry came back and pitched a three-hitter against them the next day to even the series. Thurman got three hits; Cliff Johnson had a double and a home run. But now we had to go to Kansas City, and all the Royals had to do was to win two games out of three to beat us.

  When the series moved out there, they beat Mike Torrez, 6–2. They beat him just chopping the ball into the turf, the way they liked to do. Now we’re down, 2–1, in games, we had to win both games remaining in their park—and we didn’t really have a pitcher for the fourth game.

  We didn’t have any off days in that series. Gullett’s shoulder was still bothering him, and he’d just gone three days ago. Tidrow had pitched most of a game, Catfish was out, Torrez had just lost, Guidry had only two days of rest. We were in trouble. Suddenly we were down to a six-man staff, counting Sparky.

  Billy decided to throw Figgy, even though he was still hurting from that muscle he pulled. He gave it his best, and we got him some runs early, got up, 4–0, but he couldn’t get out of the fourth inning. Billy brought in Tidrow again, but he didn’t have anything, either.

  So Billy brings in Sparky with two outs in the third inning still, with our lead down to 5–4 by then. I think that shows the whole difference in relief pitching from now. You’d never bring a closer in that early now. And Sparky had pitched over two innings just the day before.

  He’d had a tremendous year that year for us, one of the great years for a reliever. He pitched 137 innings, won thirteen games, saved another twenty-six, and earned the Cy Young Award. He was tough, and he had tremendous endurance. It was nothing for him to come in and pitch three innings.

  As it happened, in that fourth game of the 1977 ALCS he went the whole rest of the way. Five and a third innings, two singles, no walks. That must be one of the all-time great relief performances in a postseason game. Thurman drove in an insurance run with another single … and we were still alive. The series was all even, 2–2.

  And Billy Martin decided to bench me.

  He told the press it was because I didn’t hit Paul Splittorff, who was starting for the Royals. It was true I didn’t have a great season against him. He was a good left-hander, a mainstay of their staff, great co
ntrol. Counting the first game of the playoffs, that year I was 2–12 against him, although I hit a double and my first home run as a Yankee against him, in Kansas City. But he pitched all of us tough. That year he was 3–0 against us, going into that last game of the playoffs.

  It was true, too, I’d been having a bad series. I was only 1–14 in the championship series, with just a lousy single. It was about the worst playoff series I ever had. I just stunk. But a lot of guys weren’t hitting that well. Nettles hit .150 on the series; Bucky wasn’t hitting. Chambliss went only 1–17. But all those guys were going to start; they were playing.

  I honestly didn’t know what Billy thought he was trying to do. I don’t know if he was trying to make a statement, show he could win it all without me. I heard in 1981 that George Steinbrenner got into the same head when he was about to let me go. George did things at times with an advisory committee. He tried to listen to his advisers, and then he did the implementation. The loudest voice saying “Reggie Jackson’s career is going to end quickly” belonged to our hitting coach, Charley Lau. That was the story I heard, anyway. George then tried to show that the Yankees could win the 1981 World Series without me and tried to sit me down.

  That didn’t work out so well.

  What was Billy thinking? I don’t know. At this point, I didn’t know, and I didn’t care why. It was an insult, and I was offended. Billy didn’t even have the guts to come and tell me to my face. What I heard was that he told Stick Michael, who was one of our coaches then, to go tell me. Gene told him, “I ain’t telling him. You tell him.”

  That was Billy. If he was pleasant, he would talk to me. If he had something negative to tell me, he wouldn’t talk. Not to my face, anyway. He would say a lot of things behind my back.

  When Gene Michael wouldn’t do his job for him, he went to Ellie Howard to do it. Ellie told him to get lost. Finally, he found Fran Healy and asked him to tell me. Fran told Billy, “Why don’t you tell him?” But Billy said, “No, you do it for me. You go tell Reggie.”

  That was an interesting choice, because before the playoffs started, Billy wanted to put Fran on the disabled list. He was hurting, and Billy didn’t want to play him, so he was going to put him on the DL, and the Yankees were going to put him in the broadcasting booth, as a color commentator.

  Fran would go on to make a great career for himself as a broadcaster. But if he goes up in that booth just then, he’s not around to tell me. I wonder who Billy Martin gets to do what he was supposed to tell me as the manager—or if he ends up having to tell me himself.

  That would’ve been interesting. Anyway, Fran comes into his office. Fran said he looked scared to death: “I need you to tell Reggie he isn’t playing.”

  Fran was a little ticked off at how Billy was trying to get him off the team, too, and he told him, “You’re the f—in’ manager, you tell him.”

  “I don’t wanna,” he says.

  “So tell the coaches to tell him.”

  “They don’t wanna,” he says.

  Fran figured he better tell me, or I wouldn’t know I wasn’t playing. He told me he was thinking, “F—k, I’d better tell Reggie or he’ll be in right field. We’ll have two right fielders.”

  Fran ended up telling me. I was in shock when I heard it. I was like, “Wow, this is a different dude.” I don’t think I ever fully realized before, even after everything I’d been through that year, just how different this guy Billy was.

  Supposedly, he even went around to Catfish and asked him in front of the writers if I could hit Splittorff. The way they wrote it up the next day, Catfish told them, “Not with a f—ing paddle.” That’s what they wrote. I would doubt Catfish said it that way. He might have said, “Well, I’ve seen Reggie struggle with him,” or something like that, but he wouldn’t say, “Can’t hit him with a paddle.” I mean, I played with Catfish almost his whole career, thirteen seasons, and we were friends. The comment attributed to him didn’t fit the person.

  But no matter what anybody else said, I wasn’t starting. Billy made Cliff Johnson the designated hitter and put him in my number four spot, and he put Paul Blair out in right field.

  Both fine players. But you know, Cliff Johnson had played fifty-six games for us that year. Paul Blair played eighty-three. Neither one of them had two hundred at-bats. Counting the playoffs, Cliff was something like 3–5 against Splittorff. Blair was 1–3. That was no kind of measure; that’s not enough at-bats to make a decision like this one.

  That season, even with all the distractions, I had thirty-two homers, 110 ribbies, thirty-nine doubles. I was fifth in the league in homers, sixth in RBIs, third in slugging, tenth in on-base percentage, second in doubles. Anyway you sliced it, I was one of the premier hitters in the league, the premier hitter on the Yanks. It was crazy to play your biggest game of the year without your cleanup hitter being part of it.

  It was an attempt to put me down, I felt. Billy had this opportunity, he had his reasons, and he wanted to show the world that he was in charge, that he could win the pennant without me.

  The only good thing to be said about it all was that Fran did end up telling me I was benched for the game. Because he didn’t just come over and say, “You’re not starting.” He also said, “Make sure you don’t say anything negative. You’ve gotta be a team guy here. Watch what you do in the dugout. Whatever you do, make sure the camera doesn’t catch you emoting or doing anything they can tag a comment to. That camera will be on you. It will be looking for you to make some sort of scene or something. Just make sure you’re out there rooting for the team.”

  Then he told me, “Stay ready. You never know, you could wind up winning the game for us. So make sure you stay in the game.”

  It was great advice. I didn’t follow all of it. I didn’t really stay in the game. At times, I just thought about anything but the game. I was broken and couldn’t get past not playing.

  I couldn’t be mad for three hours, so I just kind of checked out. I just sat there kind of emotionless. Somewhat removed. Thinking about why Martin would bench me. I was just thinking, “What are you doing? What are you trying to prove? You’re going to prove that you can manage me? Show people who you are?”

  It was a crazy chance to take. If Billy had lost that game with me on the bench, he would’ve been fired immediately, or so I thought.

  But I didn’t let any of those feelings show. I took Fran’s advice, made sure I looked like I was in the game all the way, for the TV cameras. Made sure it looked like I was leading the cheers.

  When I went out to the dugout before the game, the press was all over the place, but Fran had told me what to say: “You’ve got to be down; your pride has got to be hurt. But if a man tells me I’m not playing, I don’t play. I sit down and pull for the club. I’m not the boss; I’m the right fielder. Sometimes.”

  All of that was Healy. Except when I said “Sometimes.” I had to have a little authenticity.

  It was a crazy night. I might’ve appreciated what a game it was if I’d been allowed to play in it.

  Billy was starting Guidry with just two days’ rest, and he didn’t have anything; it’s lucky he didn’t end a great career right there. But he had the guts to keep trying. We were scrapping. Nettles got into a ruckus with George Brett when he came in hard at third on a triple. Thurman singled in a run, but we were still down, 3–1, with just one out in the third.

  Billy brought in Mike Torrez. It was a desperation move, just like his move with Lyle had been the day before. Mike had only lasted five and two-thirds innings in Game 3 of the series, but he just had one day’s rest. Still, he was great; he mowed them down. Thurman threw out a couple guys trying to steal. But somehow we struggled to score off Splittorff, even with me on the bench. Ha!

  Top of the eighth inning, we were still down, 3–1. Just six outs left. But Healy, who had caught Splittorff when Fran was in the Kansas City organization, was telling us, “Stay close. He’s coming out of the game, he’s gassed.”

  H
e could see it, he knew it—and sure enough, he was right. Willie Randolph led off with a single, and Whitey Herzog decided to pull Splittorff for Doug Bird. Bird struck out Munson, then Piniella singled, and we had men on first and third, one out.

  Bird was a righty—so Billy has no excuse now not to bring me in. I think maybe George might’ve made him the first manager ever fired in the middle of an inning if he hadn’t. I pinch-hit for Cliff Johnson. Over forty thousand fans in the seats, all of them booing me, of course.

  I wanted to succeed more than at any time in my life. In all honesty, who wouldn’t feel that way? I mean, I had been in the postseason many times before, with the A’s. But this was different. This was unique. I think it would be normal to have that feeling, that need to succeed—and to say that would only make me normal.

  It’s hard to recall everything I was feeling at that moment. But I was also kind of stuck between “Should I give it my all? Or should I just say to Martin, ‘Dude, you think I stink? Let me just stand there. Take three strikes and go back to the dugout.’ ”

  I knew that didn’t make sense. That would only make me look like a fool. And I thought, “We don’t need two fools. We just need one.” I wasn’t going to prove Billy right by being wrong, by looking foolish.

  I knew better than to get up there and go for the fences. We needed a run driven in. Needed to keep the rally going. Nothing would be going on if I struck out. You can’t think home run there. A home run could happen, sure. But I needed to get that ball in play, get the run in.

  If you’re raised as a baseball player to win, that’s what you do. It’s what you’re supposed to do, as a professional. If you want to say I did the right thing, and I had the right things in mind, great. But it’s not a tribute. Any professional would do the same.

  I was always able to set aside the negativity when I played. To strike when the game was on, say what I wanted to say that way, with a bat in my hand. My dad would always say, “As long as you have the bat in your hand, you have the last say.”