Lou

by Lou Piniella

  I should’ve known better than to lower expectations for my team. Just as Junior came back and gave us a huge boost, the Angels went into a stunning free fall, with two nine-game losing streaks between August 25 and September 26. At the same time, nine days after he returned to action, Junior hit a game-winning two-run homer in the ninth inning, on August 24, against the Yankees’ closer, John Wetteland, and we went 24–11 the rest of the season. The one unsettling part of our great comeback was the vote, on September 19, in which King County’s residents rejected a subsidy tax amendment to fund a new stadium. Immediately after the vote was announced, our owners threatened to sell the team.

  The 1995 AL West division race came down to the last series of the season—the Angels playing three games against Tony La Russa’s A’s, who had just swept them in Oakland the week before, and us playing four games against Texas. We, in turn, had swept Oakland the week before, enabling us to go into first place for the first time all season. With a two-game lead and four to go, I got a call from Tony telling me, “If you just split with Texas, you’re in, because we’ve played well against the Angels all year.”

  That may have been true, except Tony got swept by the Angels, and after winning the first two games against the Rangers, we lost our last two and suddenly it was back to 1978 for me—tied for first place and faced with a one-game sudden-death playoff for the division title. Here we go again, I thought. After all this, win or go home. At least unlike 1978, when Al Rosen lost the coin flip for the Yankees and we had to go to Boston, this time the Mariners got the home field on account that we’d had a better regular-season record against the Angels. Even though it all happened on such short notice, there were 52,356 people in the Kingdome, and I don’t think there was ever a louder place in baseball.

  The pitching matchup—Randy versus Mark Langston—was ironic because six years earlier they had been traded for each other. In the fifth inning, Vince Coleman, the six-time National League stolen base leader, whom Woody had acquired in a trade with the Royals on August 15, broke up a 0–0 game with an RBI single through the hole at shortstop. Two innings later, we really broke it open with four runs against Langston, the big blow being a bases-loaded double by Luis Sojo. The game ended up a 9–1 blowout, with Randy dominant throughout with 12 strikeouts. As Junior said afterward, “There was something about the Unit when he stepped on the field today. It was as if he said, ‘Just give me the one run and I’ll take care of the rest.’”

  What a feeling. The Seattle Mariners were division champions for the first time in their nineteen-year history and now we were going to play the Yankees in the first round of the playoffs. I couldn’t help thinking of the similarities—the ’78 Yankees overcoming a 14-game deficit, the ’95 Mariners being 13 behind as late as August 2, and both teams winning sudden-death elimination games. And just like Bob Lemon had had to use our ace, Ron Guidry, to win the playoff game in ’78, I’d had to use Randy in this one.

  We played the Yankees tough the first two games of the best-of-five division series in New York, which was encouraging to me, even though we flew back to Seattle 0–2. In game 1 in New York, after the Yankees knocked out Chris Bosio in the sixth inning, Junior hit his second homer of the game to tie it 4–4 in the seventh. But then the Yankees scored four runs off my bullpen in the bottom of the inning to put it away. Game 2 became a baseball classic, a five-hour, thirteen-minute marathon in which we outhit the Yankees 16–12, but blew four separate leads. It all came down to the bottom of the 15th inning when, with one out, Jim Leyritz homered over the right field wall off Belcher. Almost as soon as Leyritz’s ball landed in the seats, the heavens over Yankee Stadium opened and it began pouring. It was still raining hard as we got into our bus to the airport, and the Yankees fans hovering around the parking lot were really heckling us unmercifully. That was when I decided to show some bravado, letting my team know I had confidence in them. As I started to get on the bus, I turned to the fans and shouted, “Enjoy this while you can. This is the last game you’ll be watching this year!”

  I truly felt, down 0–2, we had them right where we wanted them. I certainly felt good about having Randy rested and ready for game 3, and he shut the Yankees down on two runs over seven innings, outpitching Jack McDowell, the 1993 Cy Young Award winner who’d won 15 games for the Yankees during the regular season in ’95. After Tino Martinez took McDowell deep for a two-run homer in the fifth, we knocked him out of the game by loading the bases with one out in the sixth. That’s when we broke it open against Buck Showalter’s bullpen, Tino delivering an RBI single off Steve Howe to put us up 3–1, followed by three more runs against Bob Wickman.

  To be honest, I thought Buck may have made a tactical mistake pitching McDowell against Randy, who was unbeatable at the Kingdome. While it was true McDowell was probably rusty after not having pitched since September 21 due to a back injury, it wouldn’t have made any difference if he sat out one more day. Buck could have skipped him and made Scott Kamieniecki or someone else the sacrificial lamb against Randy. If he had saved McDowell for game 4, there’s a good chance the outcome might have been different. Instead, Kamieniecki pitched the fourth game and we jumped all over him for nine hits, four walks, and five runs in the first five innings. Nevertheless, it turned out to be a kind of slugfest as my guy, Bosio, didn’t have much either, getting knocked out of the game in the third inning when my old pal, Big Paul O’Neill, hit a two-run homer to put the Yankees up 5–0. That was about the only time in the series I was really worried. We needed to hold the Yankees right there, and Jeff Nelson did just that, pitching four innings of shutout relief. That enabled us to come back and win the game against the Yankees’ bullpen, the big blow being Edgar’s grand slam off Wetteland in the eighth. Edgar’s seven RBI in the game set a postseason record.

  For the deciding game 5, I was really short, pitchingwise. I needed to get a good start—and some length—from Andy Benes against David Cone. I was really up against it. Before the game, Randy came up to me and volunteered to pitch in relief. “If you need me,” he said, “I’ll give you what I got.” That was Randy. I told him, “I want you to stay in the dugout and if the game is close in the seventh inning, I want you to walk out to the bullpen. The place will go crazy. They’ll tear the roof off the Kingdome.” And that’s exactly what happened.

  Benes wasn’t great, but he hung in there and got us to the seventh inning trailing only 4–2. The events from there made this one of the two greatest games I’ve ever been part of (the ’78 playoff game being the other). One thing that was very clear: Buck didn’t have a whole lot of confidence in his bullpen, especially Wetteland. For the first seven innings, Cone had been a real warrior, shutting us down on two runs, striking out nine, and stranding five base runners, but also using up 118 pitches. He began to tire in the eighth after giving up a solo homer to Junior that cut the Yankees’ lead to 4–3.

  After a groundout by Edgar, Tino worked Cone for a walk and Buhner singled to center. At that point, I sent Alex Diaz, a switch-hitting reserve outfielder, up to hit for my shortstop, Felix Fermin, and he, too, drew a walk. Cone was really laboring now, his pitch count over 130. Still, Buck did not make a move. He was hoping, I’m sure, his gallant right-handed ace could get him just one more out.

  Once again, I gave Buck a choice by sending up another switch-hitter, Doug Strange, for Danny Wilson. Strange was my super utility guy, a good professional bat off the bench who had gotten some big hits for us down the stretch, most notably a huge, ninth-inning, game-tying two-run homer off Texas’ right-hander Jeff Russell two weeks earlier. Cone was exceedingly tough on right-handed hitters and Strange was my last left-handed option on the bench. Again, though, Buck didn’t budge, and Strange worked Cone to a 3-2 count before drawing a game-tying walk when Cone bounced a splitter in front of the plate. It was his 147th pitch of the game.

  That was all we got in the inning. Buck replaced Cone with a skinny rookie right-hander named Mariano Rivera, whom we didn’t know a whole
lot about, since he’d spent very little time with the Yankees in ’95. We’d gotten our formal introduction to him in the 15-inning game 2 when he’d come out of the bullpen and completely dominated, no-hitting us over the final 3⅓ innings, striking out five. I remember saying to Uncle Elia, “Where has this guy been?”

  Rivera struck out Mike Blowers to end the eighth and leave the bases loaded. He was back out there for the ninth, but was replaced by McDowell, who pitched out of a first-and-second, one-out jam. Once again, we were in extra innings, and I took the occasion to bring in my big weapon, the Big Unit, who struck out the side in the tenth, but gave up an RBI single to Randy Velarde in the eleventh. For the fourth time in seven days, we were facing the end of our season. But we were home and the Kingdome was a din with 57,411 screaming fans imploring us for one more comeback.

  Little Joey Cora started us off in our half of the eleventh against McDowell, beating out a bunt down the first base line, barely eluding Don Mattingly’s tag, and Junior followed with a single up the middle. Now to the plate came Edgar, who, to that point, had been a one-man wrecking crew against the Yankees in the series—11-for-20 with 2 homers, 2 doubles, 8 RBI, and 19 total bases. Red-hot Edgar versus a spent McDowell. I felt very good about where we were now. On an 0-1 pitch, Edgar launched a laser shot to left field, and as Cora crossed the plate with the tying run my eyes focused on Junior, running full tilt with those long, loping strides. I looked briefly over to the third base coaching box where Perlozzo was preparing to put on the stop sign, but Junior was having none of that. I was astonished to see him keep on running, steaming past Perlozzo, all the way to the plate where he slid safely just ahead of the throw. We had done it. Mariners 6, Yankees 5. I thought getting the Mariners to their first postseason was about the best feeling I’d ever had, but this was better. I will savor that game to my dying day.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t also mention the subplot of the series—the hitting exhibition that played out between Edgar and Mattingly. Though he hadn’t said anything official, everyone assumed that Donnie, who had really struggled with his bad back the previous few seasons, was going to retire after the 1995 season. But what a finish! In his final five games against us, Donnie was somehow able to reach back with a hitting display reminiscent of the mid-’80s, when he was the best player in the game. He seemed to match Edgar hit for hit, with a .417 average, 4 doubles, a homer, and 6 RBI. Donnie was always one of my favorites (and one of my earliest pupils)—a humble kid with no ego, a blue-collar player who became a star. It had hurt watching him those last few seasons, when balls off his bat that he used to drive out of the park became routine flies. That’s why it was so heartwarming for me to see him go out a star as well.

  I haven’t ever discussed that series with Donnie. I know how painful it was for him. But his performance spoke for itself. After the last game, Showalter came over to our clubhouse and congratulated us. I thought that was very classy and I never forgot it. As for the Boss? Radio silence.

  I wish I could say the thrilling game 5 against the Yankees was not our last hurrah in 1995, but the Cleveland Indians team we ran into in the American League Championship Series was quite formidable, with speed (Kenny Lofton and Omar Vizquel) at the top of the lineup and heavy thunder (Carlos Baerga, Albert Belle, Manny Ramirez, Jim Thome, Eddie Murray, and Paul Sorrento) throughout the rest of it. They also had superior starting pitching in Orel Hershiser, Charles Nagy, and Dennis Martinez, and a top-notch closer in Jose Mesa.

  For game 1, I was totally out of pitching, and after a long debate as to who to start, our assistant general manager, Lee Pelekoudas, cited this obscure rule that stated any player who had been on the major-league roster before September 1 was eligible for the postseason. So I decided to go with Bob Wolcott, a twenty-two-year-old rookie right-hander from Medford, Oregon, whom we’d left off the division series roster. Wolcott had pitched fairly well for us after being brought up from the minors in mid-August. However, when he walked the first three Indians batters of the game, I had to go have a talk with him.

  “Do you like to hunt?” I asked him.

  Wolcott looked at me curiously. “Well, uh, yeah,” he said.

  “Why don’t you think about being out in the woods back home in Oregon and having fun,” I said, before walking off the mound.

  Darned if the kid didn’t pitch out of it by retiring the next three batters, and from there he did a heck of a job in getting us off to a 1–0 lead in the series, holding the powerful Indians lineup to two runs over seven innings. In game 2, Belcher did not fare as well, getting knocked around for nine hits and four runs in 5⅔ innings. At the same time, we couldn’t get anything going against Hershiser, who held Junior, Edgar, Tino, and Buhner to a collective 3-for-15 in the Indians’ 5–2 win. In game 3, Randy gave us a strong eight innings (four hits, two runs) in outpitching Nagy, and my closer, Norm Charlton, followed up with three no-hit innings to set the stage for Buhner’s game-winning three-run homer in the eleventh.

  And that was it. We didn’t win another game.

  On the flight from Seattle to Cleveland, Andy Benes told me he couldn’t wait to start game 4 because it figured to be cold in Cleveland and he pitched well in cold weather. I’m sure he felt that way, but the Indians knocked him out of the game in the third inning, and Ken Hill and four Indian relievers shut us out, 7–0. Our hitters just shut down those final three games. We hit .184 for the series. Hershiser held us to just two runs in six innings in game 5, and Dennis Martinez and two relievers shut us out again, 4–0, in game 6.

  I remember after game 5 letting my braggadocio get the best of me by telling the writers that we would win the series back in Seattle. It was meant to show my confidence in my team, but it was also stupidity because it probably put extra pressure on them. I learned that later on in my career from Joe Torre, who always made his team the underdogs.

  As much of a letdown it was to lose the ALCS, 1995 remains one of the most satisfying seasons of my career. I’d gone to Seattle, where the Mariners had never won anything, where everyone had told me taking a job was a dead-end proposition, and I’d proved them wrong. Not only did we win games, we won fans.

  As if the 1995 season itself weren’t proof enough of what we’d accomplished, on October 23, the Metropolitan King County Council reversed the earlier vote and approved a financing plan for a new $320 million baseball stadium in Seattle, eight days before the Mariners’ deadline to put the franchise up for sale.

  That was the biggest win of all. We had saved baseball in Seattle.

  CHAPTER 11

  Don’t Like Good-Byes

  There has probably never been more eager anticipation of the baseball season in Seattle than in the spring of 1996. The first appearance by the Mariners in the postseason—which proved to be the impetus for the Metropolitan King County Council to approve the funding for a new stadium—sounded the alarm that baseball in Seattle was here to stay, and now the people wanted more. They had come to embrace the superstar talent—Junior, Edgar, the Big Unit—on this Mariners team, which had previously been mostly ignored, and they were not unaware that, in 1996, a fourth supreme talent would be joining that trio.

  Alex Rodriguez had gotten his first exposure to the big leagues in July 1994, when he was just nineteen years old. The Mariners had signed him on August 30, 1993, after making him the overall number one pick in the June amateur draft out of Westminster Christian High School in Miami. I didn’t have a whole lot to do with the pick other than being asked by Woody Woodward to look at films and offer my opinion of both Alex and Darren Dreifort, a right-handed pitcher from Wichita State whom the Mariners were also considering as the number one pick. I looked at Alex playing in his high school games and what I saw was a man among boys, a tall, rangy shortstop with a fluid batting swing and a strong arm, a kid who you could see just from the films knew how to the play the game. A complete player. For me, it was a no-brainer. Because he signed late, he did not start his professional career until 1994,
but we knew it would not take long for him to make his major-league debut.

  Alex immediately impressed me in spring training with his speed and athleticism, and I made a mental note to monitor his progress in the minors. We started him out at Class A Appleton of the Midwest League, and after he hit .319 with 6 homers in 65 games there, we moved him up to AA Jacksonville, where he continued to excel. Even though we had projected him to be our starting shortstop beginning in 1996, I wanted to see more of him firsthand, and in early July of ’94, I asked Woody if we could bring him up. Felix Fermin was doing fine for us at shortstop, hitting over .300, and Woody was very hesitant to rush Alex. He finally agreed, but with one condition: “Only if you play him every day,” he said. “I don’t want him coming up here and sitting on the bench.”

  I agreed, and Alex was our regular shortstop for most of the month of July in ’94, but he struggled with the bat (.204, 2 RBI in 54 at-bats) before we sent him to Triple-A Calgary at the end of the month. In retrospect, Woody was right. Alex wasn’t near ready. We did the same thing with him in ’95, calling him up for three separate stints when injuries hit our infield. But despite his early struggles in ’94 and ’95, I thought being around a big-league clubhouse and seeing how major leaguers conduct themselves was an invaluable experience for him. I can understand if Alex didn’t quite see it that way.

  “In ’94, I was just a baby,” Alex recalled in an interview for this book, “and they already had a good shortstop in Felix Fermin and a second baseman in Joey Cora, so getting sent back didn’t hurt, because I knew it was a long shot that I’d be staying. Woody drafted me and I was a big fan of Woody and Lou, so I knew I was gonna be part of the big club soon. But in ’95, I was brought up and down three times. On the third time, Lou brought me into his office. He was smoking a cigar and had a beer on his desk, and he said, ‘I’m gonna have to send you down to the minors again,’ and I just remember being heartbroken. That almost broke me. I remember driving home and calling my mom in Miami and telling her I was going back to the minor leagues again and asking her if my eligibility to play quarterback at the University of Miami was up. She said, ‘Son, you’re gonna stop this nonsense right now! You need to go down there and bear down.’