Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126)

by Jackson, Reggie; Baker, Kevin

  I put the fans in a special place, because I feel as though we constantly stretch their loyalty to the game. It’s a fragile bond, the love affair that we all, as fans, pass on to the next generation.

  Playing through this time of transition as I did, I absolutely noticed a change, an increase in the number of fans thinking that players were greedy. It was most of the fans thinking the players were greedy—not the owners. Fans believe that owners are entitled to profits, most of which are never disclosed by these privately held entities.

  In our world of entrepreneurship, business, and commerce, we’ve gotten comfortable with businesses taking profits. It all really gets down to your pool of selection. There aren’t many millionaire owners in the world. But there are even fewer people who can hit .300, or hit forty home runs, or win twenty games at the major-league level. There’s one LeBron, one Adrian Peterson, one Kareem. One Michael, one Mickey, one Verlander. It comes down to a basic business calculation. The skills that top professional athletes offer are very rare, and a lot of people want to see them perform. That means they will command a big salary in the marketplace. But that’s cold consolation to a fan who must pay so much to take his kids to see a game today.

  George and his Yankees brought players in to help the team win. There couldn’t be as much concern about players’ feelings. It’s hard to keep our emotions out of it, but you have to make the decisions that will keep the team a winner. That was the calculation Steinbrenner made back in 1978. Goose was twenty-six going into that season, Eastwick was twenty-seven. Sparky was thirty-three. It’s that simple, and that cruel sometimes. Because time keeps moving.

  It’s like that line from The Godfather: “It’s not personal, it’s business.”

  So it was tough on Sparky, but to his credit he got along with Goose. He did everything he could to help him fit in with the team. That’s the kind of guy he could be.

  It was tough for Goose, too. He got into Billy Martin’s doghouse right away. Besides the guys he made dislike him, Billy usually had two or three guys he easily got into it with, for whatever reason.

  I already knew what that was like. Goose was about to find out. Here’s one of the premier relievers in the game, the Goose and his 100-mph fastball. One of the biggest free-agent pickups in the off-season. We started playing spring training games, and Goose is about to pitch to a young outfielder on the Texas Rangers named Billy Sample. From what I later learned after talking to Goose, the first thing Martin says to him is, “Hit this blankety-blank in the head.”

  I don’t know why Billy had such a grudge against Sample, who was a rookie that year. I don’t know if Sample ever knew why.

  Goose said he wasn’t going to do it. He didn’t have anything against Sample. He wasn’t just going to hit him in the head to settle some score for Billy. He told him, “Sample never did anything to me. I’m not gonna fight your fights. Whatever this is, I’m not gonna get involved.”

  Goose would take care of business if he had to hit somebody for the team, if we’d had a guy beaned or something like that. He wouldn’t hit Sample for nothing—and Billy never forgave him for that. He told Billy, “I hit Sample in the head, I could kill him”—which was true, as hard as Goose threw. Billy told him, “I don’t give a s—t if you do kill him!” He called Gossage every name in the book. A really vile tirade. But Goose just wasn’t for it.

  Gossage always said he thought it was a test of loyalty on Billy’s part. I don’t know. I never knew another manager who needed a test of loyalty. But then, I never knew another manager like Billy Martin.

  I’d say events proved Goose right. Martin never got over him refusing to hit Sample during a spring training game. It’s hard to believe. From then on, Goose and Billy had no relationship. Goose used to say, “I can’t stand the blankety-blank.” I understand that.

  I think all of the nonsense in spring training and the pressure he was under already as the big, new free-agent signing got to Goose a little early on. I knew what he was going through.

  We opened up on the road, in Texas. Guidry pitches a great game, gives up one run in seven innings, but we wasted all kinds of base runners. Goose comes in, gets the side out in the eighth; Richie Zisk hits a homer off him leading off the ninth. Ball game.

  We went to Milwaukee next, and Billy brings Goose into a game we’re leading, 3–1, in the sixth. Gives Kenny Holtzman the quick hook. First batter, Goose gives up a two-run homer to Larry Hisle. Tie game. Next inning, Nettles of all people boots a ball. Goose gives up a single to Lenn Sakata and a double to Don Money. We lose, 5–3.

  A few days later, against Baltimore, Martin brings him in to relieve Catfish in the fifth inning, in a game we’re already losing, 4–1. Goose gave up a two-run homer to Doug DeCinces, takes us completely out of the game. Two days after that, we’re up in Toronto. It’s April, and it’s cold. Kenny’s pitching again, and Billy gives him an even quicker hook this time. He pulls him for Goose in the bottom of the fifth—bottom of the fifth!—with us down one run.

  It was kind of nuts, even for those days. Bringing your top reliever in that early in the game, that early in the season, even with Sparky in the pen … But we battled back, Cliff Johnson hit a home run, and it was tied, 3–3, going into the bottom of the ninth.

  Goose gives up a single to John Mayberry. Then Rick Cerone, who was the Blue Jays’ catcher at the time, tries to bunt Mayberry over. Goose picks up the ball and throws it way wide to second, trying to get the lead runner. Almost threw the ball away. Two on now, nobody out.

  Next batter lays down a bunt, too. Goose picks it up, looks to first base—and this time he throws the ball to me. I’m in right field, backing up first base. He must have tossed the ball six feet over Chris Chambliss’s glove. It went all the way out to me, where I was running over to back up the play. The runner trotted home from second, and we lose the game.

  That put us at 5–6 on the year. Goose had four appearances, no saves, no wins, and three of our losses.

  That Toronto game broke his heart. He came into the clubhouse, and he fell into the chair in front of his locker so hard it broke. He was really sad, holding back the tears. Sitting there still in uniform—he must’ve sat there for an hour. Then I went over with Thurman and Lou Piniella and Nettles and Catfish. We just told him, “Look, you’re coming to dinner with us.”

  That helped. He was all right after that. It was just bad luck, a bad start. Goose was enough of a veteran to shake it off after that.

  But once again, it was the question of what was going on with the manager. Where was Billy Martin when one of our key players was struggling? Oh, was he still punishing him for not hitting Billy Sample in spring training? Some wonder, too, if that’s why Martin was putting Goose out there so early, so many times—to pitch so many innings when it was still cold weather.

  It didn’t matter. We veterans took care of it. Thurman was great with him. Goose would come into a game, and Munson would go out to the mound and ask him with a straight face, “So how you planning to lose this one?” Pretty soon it got to be a ritual. Gossage would say, “I dunno, but get your puny ass back there and let me find out.” Mickey Rivers, out in center field—when Goose came in, he would turn his back on the plate and get into a sprinter’s stance, as if he was already set to race after the ball. Other times, he would stand in front of the golf cart they used to drive Goose in and say, “No, no, don’t let him in! We want to win!”

  Stuff like that is what you need to do to stay loose over the long season. We knew enough to do it—especially after everything that had happened the year before. We were, in many ways, a team that could run itself. We didn’t have any choice sometimes.

  Despite the slow start, none of the players were worried. Our worrier-in-chief was the Boss—he needed to win all 162. We’d started even slower the year before and ended up winning it all.

  We were an outstanding team, and we’d made some improvements. Besides Goose and Eastwick, we picked up Jim Spencer, who was a Gol
d Glove and left-handed power hitter, to platoon a little with Chambliss at first, DH, and pinch-hit. We’d lost Mike Torrez to the Red Sox as a free agent, but we added Andy Messersmith and a rookie, Jim Beattie, to the rotation. We had a lot of depth everywhere; we were strong through and through.

  On Opening Day at the Stadium, we came off the road just 1–4, but it was one big celebration. They had Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris on hand to put up the world championship banner—first World Series title the Yankees had won since they were both in their prime, back in 1962.

  Roger was there to throw out the first pitch. Both Mickey and Roger were always great to me. I remember Roger Maris came over to me when I was having a tough time once, laid a hand on my shoulder, and said, “Don’t worry about it, Reg. You’re all right. You’re a great player. You’ll come through the mess.”

  Just a very personal, confident conversation. I needed to hear that kind of stuff. Roger knew what he was talking about. He was a great player who got booed the year he broke Babe Ruth’s home run record, just because some fans thought he didn’t deserve to set the record. Now he’d come through it, and on Opening Day he got a huge hand. I could relate to what he was saying, to how hard it is to live up to the expectations some people might have for you.

  Mantle was the same way. He was someone else who had been booed at Yankee Stadium just because people decided he wasn’t what they thought he could be. Mickey was a Hall of Famer who won three MVP awards and led his team to twelve pennants and seven World Series titles, but some people felt he hadn’t lived up to his potential. Yet these were two guys who were so gentlemanly. They were just good people, and all the stories you ever heard about their generosity were true. They appreciated the opportunity to play alongside each other and for a great franchise.

  Everyone gets this chance at being booed in New York. You just need to play there. Save for Mariano the Great.

  You know, for all the talk from people like Martin and some of the press about how I wasn’t “a real Yankee,” I always found the old Yankees from Billy’s time very friendly, very welcoming. They couldn’t have been more appreciative of my play. There was no feeling of “You’re a hot dog or a showman.”

  I’ve got pictures hanging in my home of Joe D., with this inscription: “We’re all so proud of what you did with the Yankees.” Mickey Mantle would come and take me out to dinner—he came to my Hall of Fame dinner in 1993. I’ll never forget the friendly blue eyes of Bobby Richardson. The welcome from Whitey, Yogi, Elston, Moose Skowron.

  Through it all, I was still a fan. Still am to this day. I feel lucky to have been part of Yankees history. To have left a mark at the old Yankee Stadium. To have a plaque in Monument Park and my number still hanging on the wall, with all the other retired numbers. To have worked there and been able to watch, up close and personal, the greatness of the team from 1993 to this day. To have seen those Joe Torre and Joe Girardi teams, Posada, Pettitte. I saw Derek Jeter’s first game in the big leagues, and I’ll see his last. And to see maybe the greatest clutch performer in the history of sports, watching the great Mariano. I still get excited, ’cause I’m still a fan.

  It’s all fun, and all done with arguably the most recognizable franchise in history. That old, eccentric friend of mine, Gary Walker, was right after all about coming to New York.

  When I was still playing in Baltimore in 1976, I said, “If I played in New York, they’d name a candy bar after me.” I said it as a joke. That same year, I was in Milwaukee, and I said, “I can’t come here. There are only two newspapers, and I don’t drink.” All in the spirit of fun.

  When I went to New York, all summer Matt Merola kept calling every candy company he knew, asking, “Do you want to do a Reggie bar?” He called every company, and the last one he called was Standard Brands—and they took the bait! I got $250,000 a year for five years and a furnished apartment at Seventy-ninth and Fifth.

  The Reggie! bar was a little less than two ounces of chocolate, peanuts, and caramel, I think. A little square in an orange wrapping, with a picture of me swinging a bat on top. A bargain at just twenty-five cents.

  Opening Day 1978, Standard Brands hired a bunch of models and stewardesses to pass out seventy-two thousand bars to everyone coming to the game. Seventy-two thousand. We had about forty-five thousand people in the stands that day, so I guess some people got two.

  After all the ceremonies, and Roger and Mickey raising the world championship banner, I came up to bat in the first inning with Mickey Rivers on second and Willie Randolph on first. Wilbur Wood was pitching for the White Sox. He was a very good pitcher but another knuckleballer, which was trouble for the White Sox. I took the first two pitches for balls, then hit the next one deep into the stands in right-center over the 408-foot sign. That put us up, 3–0—and counting the World Series from the year before, that made four consecutive swings at Yankee Stadium, four home runs. Nice.

  I wasn’t thinking much about that, though. I was just doing my job, rounding the bases—when all of a sudden I saw these little orange squares start to come out of the stands.

  They said there was just one at first. It came out of the stands and landed near home plate. Then another, and another. Reggie! bars. You could really wing those things, the way they were packed into those tight little squares. More started to rain down, until, as Sparky Lyle put it, the fans realized “the beauty of the act.”

  Then it was a shower. A deluge. Little orange squares raining down all over the field before I could finish running around the bases. Thousands and thousands of Reggie! bars, fluttering down onto the field. Kids jumping down to help the grounds crew clean it up, stuffing the bars in their pockets.

  I didn’t know what was going on. I was worried. I thought they didn’t like ’em.

  Really, I was nervous. I didn’t know it was a tribute. I didn’t understand it at the time. I think the media did, and the PR people from Standard Brands. Afterward, it was in the news all over the nation. It was a tremendous coup. Standard Brands called me and told me how happy they were, what a success it was.

  I didn’t know. I was just glad I hit the ball out, glad we hung on and won the game. Afterward, the White Sox seemed pretty angry about it. I think they felt it showed them up.

  I just told the press, “I figured they’d be coming out on the field”—which I admit wasn’t true. Who could figure that? It never happened before. “I just appreciated it. It was a nice gesture,” I said, which was true, although not an opinion widely shared.

  “It was just a shame that something like that has to happen,” Wilbur Wood said after the game. Bob Lemon, who was managing Chicago, said, “They should advertise it as the candy bar made to throw.” He was pretty upset, saying, “It’s not called for,” and claiming somebody could have got hurt.

  “Let them throw them when he’s in right field, see how he feels,” he told the writers. “People starving all over the world and thirty billion calories are lying on the field.”

  Until then, I had no idea we could solve world hunger with Reggie! bars. Even Catfish got on that, saying, “The people must have a lot of money here, to throw away all that food.”

  Catfish was just poking me, like a lot of guys. He had, I think, the best line about the candy bar: “The Reggie! bar. It’s the candy bar that when you unwrap it, it tells you how good it is.”

  That’s pretty good, I thought.

  Yogi Berra said, “They wouldn’t be throwing Yoo-hoo like that,” which was also a pretty good line. Lou Piniella was waiting in the on-deck circle while they cleaned up all the bars. He picked up a couple and tried to hit them. Afterward, he told the press, “Hitting a Reggie! bar is very difficult. The flat bottom side makes it tough, and even if you’d meet one square, I don’t think you’d drive it very far.”

  That was pretty funny, too. In fact, the whole thing was pretty danged funny. And, you know—really cool.

  I never minded guys making fun of me like that. I always appreciated that line I think
Darold Knowles had about me, back in Oakland: “They call Reggie a hot dog. There’s not enough mustard in the whole world to cover that.”

  I could always take that sort of ribbing. That’s one of the great things about playing major-league baseball, spending so much time with guys who could tease you like that, guys you got close to and who soon became family.

  I could understand the White Sox being sore. They’d never seen anything like it. I’d never seen anything like it.

  But when you thought about it, it was kind of fun … Like something out of, I don’t know, a bullfight, more than baseball.

  Isn’t that why people come to the ballpark, to see something they’ve never seen before? There were a lot of new things going in baseball just then. Players having a little power, getting to play where they wanted to play. People changing teams, owners taking risks … and some great ball being played.

  Wasn’t it a pretty good time? Weren’t we all having fun?

  19

  HERE WE GO AGAIN

  THE REALITY IS teams that win have fun. Teams that don’t … don’t.

  We were playing pretty well once Goose got straightened out like we knew he would. Just like the year before, we turned it around. Near the end of May, I remember, Andy Messersmith and Rawly Eastwick combined to pitch a one-hitter against the Indians, and we won, 2–0. We were 29–15 after that and playing well. Messersmith hadn’t allowed an earned run yet; Eastwick had a 1.56 ERA.

  Billy wasn’t happy with it. He wasn’t happy those two guys were on the team. He used to call them “George’s guys” all the time. The fact that they were doing well didn’t matter. It was the same thing with me from the year before: He hadn’t been consulted about signing them, and as a result he didn’t want them. It seemed he had to find something to chew on.

  Then we started to lose again, and that brought on stress. Billy didn’t do stress.