But I knew what my role was. It was to be a banger. Put a number on the board, and drive in runs.
In the sixth game of the World Series against the Dodgers, I remember calling upstairs to Gene Michael in the box in Yankee Stadium. Checking how he thought they would pitch me. I got a lot of insight from Stick and trusted him; I trusted our scouts. They had so much time in the game.
We were in agreement that they would try to come in on me. It’s the most common approach with most players with power. Once a player gets his arms extended, he’s able to hit the ball a long way. Better keep that player crowded, keep the ball in and make him hurry, keep the ball in on him so that he doesn’t get a chance to extend his arms. If he does, it’s a loud sound: boom!
After I got a walk my first at-bat, Stick said, “Hooton’s gonna pitch you fastball in.” That’s what I expected. Nice to have him co-sign my thought.
What I did was, I stepped back in the batter’s box about four inches—four inches farther away from the plate. From the tips of my shoes to the balls of my feet, that’s how I measured it.
I always cleaned the batter’s box before I got in. Did a little gardening. I didn’t want to see another guy’s mark and think it was mine. I always went in, swept everything away with my feet—and that gave me the chance to measure where I wanted to stand. Four inches farther away from the plate than where I would normally stand. Then I leaned forward, toward home plate, to make it look as if I wasn’t in a different spot.
Soon as Hooton threw the ball, I was spinning.
I hit it hard, a low bullet—a nice four-iron—that went deep into the crowd in right field. It got out in a hurry, and it scored Munson ahead of me and put us up again. I came back into the dugout, saw the camera right there in front of me with the red light on, and just held up one finger.
I knew I was going to do well. The ball seemed big, and I was very comfortable and confident. The crowd was very much on my side, screaming on their feet, full of support. I could look in George’s box and see he was standing up. I could see friends and family sitting close by. Nice feeling.
I got up again in the next inning. We’d scored another run in the fourth. We were up, 5–3, and the Dodgers had pulled Hooton for Elias Sosa. They knew they had to stop us there.
Sosa was an outstanding relief pitcher. Threw hard. Harder than Hooton, ninety-five miles an hour or so. Seems the Dodgers always had guys who threw in the high nineties.
This time Willie Randolph was on first when I came to bat. I knew Sosa was still going to keep the ball inside. I watched him warming up when he came in; I saw what he threw. I thought of Stick and Birdie Tebbetts again and what we had talked about. That was enough. I knew Sosa would try to pitch inside as well.
I was just hoping he’d hurry up and throw a strike early. Sure enough, he threw it in. I turned on it. Smashed it. I was worried it wasn’t going to stay up because I thought I’d got on top of it a little. It was hit so hard I didn’t think it had a chance to get up high enough to get out. I was afraid I smothered it a bit. I remember running down to first base saying, “Stay up, stay up, stay up, stay up, stay up.”
It did.
It seemed like I hit it harder than the last one. Too fast for anybody to snare it. Went just four or five rows into the seats, but it was enough. I think it might have gone through the wall if it had been a little lower. I noticed that the moment it went out, Tommy Lasorda came running out to the mound to pull his pitcher. Too late.
I was just excited that I had put us ahead by 7–3. I knew we had a good chance to win then. And I could hear the fans. They were yelling, “Reg-gie! Reg-gie! Reg-gie!” The whole Stadium.
That was nice to hear. It helped, hearing that. It helped me to focus.
You focus on the moment. Just the pitcher and me. If I got anything to hit, I was going to be on it.
I’m just focused on the ball coming out of the pitcher’s hand. And I was going to put a swing on it, and I was going to be on time. You want to have the barrel of the bat there, right on the ball. Oh, boy, did I!
In the dugout, I turned to the camera, held up two fingers this time, and dropped a big “Hi, Mom!” She couldn’t be at the game, she wasn’t feeling well, but I was the one who started that whole “Hi, Mom!” thing. This was October 18, 1977—so I want the copyright on “Hi, Mom!” LOL.
The crowd was yelling so much Ray Negron was trying to push me out to take a bow. I remember him telling me, “Go back out there for the fans.”
Guys do that all the time now, even in the middle of a regular-season game. It didn’t happen so much back then. You did that then, you were liable to get a fastball in your ear next time up.
I wasn’t about to take a curtain call. Not in the sixth inning of a World Series game. I told Ray, “All I want to do right now is win this thing”—which is how I felt.
Ray was still elbowing me, saying, “Maybe you’re gonna hit three.” I kind of pushed that off. I told him, “I don’t know about that.”
I didn’t need that kind of distraction. I’d already hit two. That’s enough. Whoever heard of anybody hitting three? Babe Ruth. That’s who did that—though I didn’t know it at the time.
I was more excited because we were in the lead. Everybody was excited. We felt that we were going to win. Mike Torrez had got into a groove; he was pretty much in control on the mound. We had Sparky Lyle in the bullpen, who was rested, and he was the best.
For once, there was no envy, no jealousy. Billy was genuinely excited. He was happy for me and the team. We had a chance to win as the Yankees. We were a team at that point—a team at last.
When I came up again, it was leading off the bottom of the eighth. We were still up, 7–3, and the Dodgers brought in Charlie Hough, who led them in saves that year with twenty-two. Another outstanding pitcher, later had a whole new career as a starter for the Rangers, pitched twenty-five years in the big leagues.
He could do that because he was a knuckleball pitcher, a whole different kind of cat. A lot of guys had trouble hitting knuckleballers, especially after seeing a couple of hard throwers in the same game.
But I got to say, I was a little surprised to see him running in from the bullpen to face me, because I had a great history against knuckleballers. Hoyt Wilhelm, Wilbur Wood, Steve Hargan—I always banged them on the nose. I looked around, and I thought, “They must not know that I hit knuckleballers, they’re bringing him in.” I was really happy that they did because I knew I was going to get a couple of home run cuts, always did against knuckleballers.
The key to hitting a knuckleball is timing. I got this from Sal Bando, who was a great knuckleball hitter with the A’s. He taught me about how to hit it: “Just stand there, Reggie. Don’t even get into your stance. Just face forward, and take a nice full cut.”
I sat the bat on my shoulder, just kind of stood there. When Hough wound up, I got ready, but I didn’t sit there in my stance. I kind of stood there nice and loose, because the ball came so slow. Then when he winds up, get ready to time it.
You’re never supposed to admit that you hit a monster shot. You’re never supposed to admit that you got it all. You’re always supposed to say, “I didn’t quite get it.” Oh, well.
But I got all of Charlie Hough’s knuckleball, and a little more.
I must have hit it 475 feet or more, into the black in center field—the black background they had for hitters in the old Stadium, where no one sat. I was the only person to do that in the Stadium up to then except for Jimmy Wynn, back on Opening Day.
I hit the ball high and far. I just had to stand and watch it a little. The ball bounced once out there, and then all these kids were scrambling out of the bleachers to fight for it. People were throwing confetti on the field; they were throwing anything they could rip up.
It was like a movie, that whole scene. It was like the movie that I felt I experienced in New York when I first came to talk to George Steinbrenner and people were stopping us on the street, saying, “
You got to come play in New York, Reg.” On this night, it was the movie I had always thought New York could be.
Running around the bases, I almost couldn’t believe my experience. I felt like I was running on clouds. Certainly, it was one of my greatest moments. The only moment that compared with it was when my parents were there together to see me inducted into the Hall of Fame. They were divorced for so many years, but they were there together. It put a smile on my heart to see them there, one that’s still there today.
I remember seeing a picture of me running out that third home run the next day, I think in the Daily News. One they took of me when I was between second and third and both my feet were off the ground. That was exactly how I felt, just like I was off the ground, the whole way around the bases. I remember seeing the players on the Dodgers as I circled—Garvey, Lopes, Russell, and Cey. Seeing Yeager when I crossed the plate. I remember them looking at me in admiration. It was just a nice feeling of respect from player to player.
After I got across the plate, the first player there was Chambliss, who was excited. Everybody was excited back in the dugout. They were all looking to shake my hand—and I was looking to shake theirs. My teammates.
I was looking especially for Willie Randolph, who had always been supportive of me that year. Lockering over in the corner with me the whole season. I sought him out, and when I found him, he gave me a big smile, and then we had a big hug.
I looked over at the dugout camera, and this time I held up three fingers and said, “That’s three, Mom!”
I was looking around for Ray Negron, who they’d sent down to the clubhouse for something. We hugged, and then he started on me again: “You ought to go out. You ought to go out. You owe them that much.” Ray, always the director!
So I went. I went up to the top of the dugout steps, and I took off my helmet and held it out to them. The Stadium was rocking. I tried to turn around and wave to everybody. You could feel it shaking, like it was going to come down. Some 56,407 fans out there, and they were shouting, “Reg-gie! Reg-gie! REG-GIE!” like I’d never heard before.
17
SITTING IN THE ROCKING CHAIR
I WENT OUT to right field in the top of the ninth. I know Billy must’ve wanted to make a defensive replacement, put Paul Blair out there or something. But to his credit, he didn’t. He let me go out there and take another big hand from the fans.
It was wild in the Stadium by then, like everything had been that whole summer. All the crazy stuff that went on—the Son of Sam, the blackout and the riot, the heat, the bad economic times. For me, I missed a lot of it. I was too caught up in my own crazy, jamma-ramma, soap opera episode, or whatever you want to call it. I had been stuck in my own little corner of the world for four or five months. On this night, stormy clouds were starting to clear. I was truly excited and happy.
The fans were throwing down everything. Not at me, not aimed at any of the Yankees, of course, but they were throwing out anything that wasn’t nailed down. They were excited. I remember there were bits of paper coming down continuously. It was a little scary—I even went back in and got a batting helmet to wear. They were going nuts out there. They started sitting on the edge of the wall in right field, sitting with their legs hanging over the wall. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d had to go back for a ball there.
I remember Rick Monday, my old friend, did hit a ball pretty deep, but I was able to haul it in. They got a run when Vic Davalillo laid down a bunt, but that was desperation. There was no way they were going to score five runs off Mike Torrez with the world championship on the line.
Big Mike, still dealing. He got the last out, caught it himself, and then it was off to the races. I knew what to expect. I’d seen the end of the game in the playoffs at Yankee Stadium the year before, after Chambliss’s home run, when I was working in the broadcast booth. The moment Torrez caught that ball, fans were jumping down on the field by the hundreds. The police were racing right out after them, tackling them, grabbing them, doing whatever they could to try to control them. In an instant, it was a crazy running of the bulls—this time in Yankee Stadium.
I was a little afraid, it was so out of control. I pulled my helmet off, tucked it under my arm, and took off for the dugout like a baseball version of Jim Brown. The whole way there, someone was trying to steal my helmet, steal my glove, pull them right off me. Grabbing at me the whole way.
I wasn’t panicked, but I knew I needed to get out of there, and I had the ability to do so. I made the greatest broken-field run of my life. Dodging around guys, running into a couple of them, giving them the slip. I could run pretty fast, and I just made my way through whatever obstacles were in front of me. Somehow, it was a lot like the whole season.
Back in the clubhouse, the reporters and the cameras were all over me. I was the MVP of the World Series, and they told me I had broken all sorts of records.
Five home runs in one World Series. Nobody else had ever done that. Home runs in three straight World Series games. Nobody else had ever done that.
Three home runs in one World Series game. Babe Ruth did that, twice.
But I had hit three home runs on the first pitch—three consecutive swings of the bat. Since I walked on four pitches in my first at-bat—and since I had homered on my last swing against Sutton the game before—that made four home runs on four consecutive swings of the bat.
Four swings, four home runs. Nobody could think of when anyone ever did that. Not in the World Series. Not in major-league baseball history. Not in minor-league history. Not in the history of organized ball. At least not yet.
For the Series, I hit .450, with ten runs scored and eight driven in. I finished with a slugging average of 1.250, an on-base percentage of .542, and a combined on-base and slugging average of 1.792. I set a record with twenty-five total bases.
But I never thought about it that way, what I did that night. I think there’s a reverence for those records, for that performance, I get from the people, the fans, wherever I go to this day, and I so appreciate it. I’m grateful for God’s work. I remember being thankful to God that evening. I remember those last few months of the season, I talked to God more than I ever had in my life.
I was praying every day. I was a dependent son. Still am.
I felt truly humbled that night, in the clubhouse. I thanked everyone—Dad, brother Joe, Gary Walker. And a tip of the cap to the Boss, for sticking by me. I told the press and the TV people, “I’m not a superstar, but I can always say that on this one night, tonight, I was a superstar.”
That was how I really felt. You know, I thought of superstars as the guys in the Hall of Fame, the all-time greats, like Aaron and Mays. Clemente, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Koufax, Frank and Jackie Robinson. I felt truly humble to have been in their company for that one night.
It was a strange time in the city. I wasn’t able to pay much attention to all that was going on around us. None of us were; we were too caught up in what we were doing, trying to survive. This was the World Series when they kept showing buildings burning in the Bronx, not far from where we were playing. Howard Cosell talking about it on the air. With everything that was going on, it seemed sometimes like the whole city could just come apart at the seams.
I remember responding to a question about how I got through that summer and saying, “I couldn’t quit this summer because of all the kids and the blacks and the little people who are pulling for me. I represent both the underdog and the overdog in our society.”
Taken out of context, it can sound crazy. But I meant it. What I think that says, right there, is something about what it means to be a black man and a black star in this society—both in 1977 and even today.
I was the overdog. I was at the top of my profession. I was making the biggest salary. I was playing for New York, the biggest city, which lots of people thought of as the bad guys.
At the same time, I was a man of color in this society—in the America of that time. As minorities, we were alw
ays having to prove ourselves. I was representing all people of color, all who came from whence I came. For a person of color nothing was ever given, nothing was ever assumed, nothing was ever safe. There were people who disliked me just because of what I looked like, without ever knowing me. They wanted me to fail. They wanted me to disgrace my community.
That’s what successful black men and women have to battle against in our country, far too often. That’s what even someone like President Obama has had to deal with. The higher you go, the more of a threat you become to some people.
We all contribute to our social problems as the people of this great country. The laws try to make the playing field even, but we have to make the laws work.
My dad and my sister Beverly came down to the clubhouse after the game. That was good. He was pretty excited. I was very lucky my father and I had such a great relationship. Not only were we father and son, but we were best friends. I kept saying “Hi, Mom!” to the cameras for my mother, who wasn’t feeling well enough to attend the game. But I knew she was there in front of the television, watching every out—and every home run!
I was feeling so good after that game I even went into Billy Martin’s office and started talking with the man about next season. I told the press, “Billy Martin, I love the man. I love Billy Martin. The man did a helluva job this year.” I told them, “There’s nobody else I’d rather play for.” I said to him in front of all the media there, “Next year, we’re going to be tougher, aren’t we, Skip?”
Billy was feeling pretty good; he agreed we would be tougher. I told them, “Next year is going to be different. We’ll win because we have a manager who’s a tough bastard and I’m a tough bastard. If you mess with Billy, you’re in trouble, and if you mess with Reggie Jackson, you’re in trouble.”
Somebody asked what if we messed with each other.
Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126) Page 21