by Bob Gibson
Simmons was a bright guy, and he learned. It took him a while, but he caught on. As a rookie, all he thought about was hitting line drives, which he did very well. You can forgive a catcher for a lot of sins when he clears the bases with a double.
Reggie Jackson
Bob views the catcher from the specific vantage point of working with him, but I see the role as a little broader than that. I’ve always thought that a catcher should be a team leader, as well—a lot like a quarterback.
We certainly had that with the Yankees in Thurman Munson. I had my troubles with Munson when I first got to New York, and they were magnified because of the admiration and support he had from his teammates. They stood by him when they perceived me as a challenge to his stature on the club. Later, he and I worked things out and developed a mutual respect. Munson was a proud man, and a good leader.
I like Posada’s leadership skills, as well. That’s an important quality when you’re handling a pitching staff.
Bob Gibson
You know, they made so much out of the business of me not wanting the catcher to come out and talk to me. The truth is, I didn’t mind that much. It broke my rhythm, and I didn’t appreciate that, but a pitcher needs somebody back there who will keep him from drifting, to read his body language and get him back on track if he’s straying from the plan. I used to give McCarver a hard time just to give him a hard time.
He’d come out and I’d say, “What the hell are you doing out here? What?”
“Well, you got a man on first …”
“I know that. I put him there.”
“Give me a shot at him.”
“Give you a shot at him? Who’re you kidding? You’re not going to throw him out.”
“Aw, the hell with you.”
And then he’d trudge back and on we’d go.
When Johnny Keane was the manager, he’d give a signal from the dugout that meant Tim had to come out and calm me down. Tim knew that I saw the signal, too, and he’d look at me and I’d be glaring at him and he’d just as soon walk on glass as come on out to that mound. He’d go about halfway and pretend he was telling me something.
If there was strategy involved, that was a different thing. McCarver would lumber out to make sure everybody was straight on the way we were playing it. All the infielders—including Dal Maxvill, our shortstop—would gather around, breaking my rhythm a little more. There’d be runners on first and third, and Tim would tell me, “Maxie’s covering second, go for two.”
I’d say, “No, I’m going home.”
“Why?”
“Because you guys can’t score and I’m not giving up another run.”
He’d say, “Well, that’s not the way you play the game.” “Well, that’s the way I’m playing it. Now, get on back there.” Thankfully, McCarver understood me. Hell, he even understood Steve Carlton.
Bob Gibson
Batters cheat. They watch the catcher and try to pick up the signs.
Sometimes they peek. Other times a catcher will set up his target too quickly and the hitter, with his peripheral vision, can see him moving over to the outside part of the plate or wherever.
Reggie Jackson
It’s not always cheating. If a catcher’s shuffling around too much or making a lot of noise back there, you can sense what he’s up to even if you’re not looking. Good catchers will move to their target late.
But yeah, some hitters will try to see what they can see. Steve Garvey was always checking his bat when he was up there, like he was making sure the label was in the right place. A lot of people thought he was really checking out the catcher.
Bob Gibson
I’m convinced that Hank Aaron did it. He was always looking around, looking back, looking down, looking, looking. He bothered me doing that. I’m watching him and I’m thinking, “Is that sucker looking at the catcher? What’s he looking at back there?”
Sometimes I’d have the catcher set up away and I’d bring the ball inside, just to see. McCarver would put his target on the outside corner and I’d buzz one under Aaron’s chin. It would go back to the backstop, because Tim wasn’t going to catch it if I crossed him up. That was just my way of telling Aaron to be careful now, you might be looking at the wrong thing.
I’d have to say, though, that Aaron was more subtle about it than Mays. Back in the fifties they’d just use fingers for everything, and then catchers began to touch their shinguards for location and sometimes for the pitch. One time McCarver was going through all this rigmarole back there, and Willie calls time out and turns to him and says, “What the hell was that?” He couldn’t figure it out.
Oh yeah, they peek.
Reggie Jackson
I didn’t want to know what the sign was. I honestly didn’t pay attention to that, because I needed the whole count, the whole context, to figure out how I was going to hit. I couldn’t gear myself for a certain pitch. If a guy threw it and it was a ball and I couldn’t hit it, I’d think, okay, now where am I? I’d gotten off my pattern.
Teammates would say that so-and-so is tipping his pitches. I didn’t want any part of that, either. Some of them were good at reading the catcher and then signaling the hitter somehow. Graig Nettles, for one. He’d give you the location more than the pitch. But there are guys who sit in the dugout and whistle to tell the batter if it’s a fastball or breaking ball.
They do that until the pitcher hears it a time or two, and then the next pitch somehow hits the guy in the ribs.
Bob Gibson
Gene Mauch used to whistle all the time when I was pitching. Every time I’d wind up, he’d start whistling. He had me doing all kinds of stuff to try to throw him off.
Mauch used to coach third base when he managed, and one day I walked by him and said, “Gene, if you keep whistling, you’re going to get somebody killed in there.” It got kind of quiet after that.
Reggie Jackson
I don’t think it’s cheating if a runner on second base picks up the catcher’s signs. It’s up to the catcher to make sure he doesn’t. As a hitter, if you’re smart enough to get ’em, then get ’em, any way you can. Some guys like to have that advantage, some don’t. Personally, I didn’t. Jeter doesn’t, either.
Mostly, a runner on second will watch where the catcher goes and give the batter the location, in or out. The batter watches where the runner puts his hand, or some other signal. But some catchers will deek you. They’ll set up in one spot and then slide somewhere else if they see the runner flash a sign to the hitter.
Catchers love to take advantage of a hitter they think is trying to pick up the pitches. There are some who will pound their glove right under the batter’s ear so it sounds like the ball’s coming inside, then scoot over real fast to the outside corner. Even if there’s a runner on second who’s watching it all, it’s too late by then to get a signal to the hitter.
A guy can get messed up if he plays that game. Make sure you know what you think you know, or don’t do it.
Bob Gibson
If the runner at second picks up on the location, he might take his lead with one arm or the other sticking out, and that arm tells the batter where the ball is coming. The runner probably doesn’t know the signs, but he can certainly see where the catcher sits. That’s why the catcher should start in the middle and not move until the pitcher begins his motion.
But you still have to be careful how you give your signs with a man on second. Maybe we’ll add one to whatever the sign is, or add two. Then, say, the second place the catcher touches will be the location.
We wouldn’t have to be so tricky if these guys didn’t cheat.
Reggie Jackson
There are players who can read the pitcher’s grip on the ball and determine from that what they’re throwing, but I couldn’t do it. At least, I didn’t do it.
If it’s a curveball, the pitcher will sometimes raise the ball differently while it’s still in his glove. Maybe you can see his wrist turning a little bit. Sometimes, you might be able to tell
from the angle of his forearm whether it’s a fastball or a breaking ball. Or it could be that, because of the way a pitcher wraps the ball for a curveball, he won’t come down as low when he starts his motion.
I might have been able to pick up on all that if I’d tried, but I wasn’t interested. I didn’t want to be looking in several different places when I was up there. I didn’t want to get in the way of myself, which I could do pretty easily if I thought about too many things at once.
I felt I had a lot of gifts, and I didn’t want to clutter them. That said, there’s always a guy who is so bad about tipping his pitches that you just can’t help but know what’s coming.
Bob Gibson
I complained a lot about the Cardinals’ hitting, but I never complained about our fielding. For me, it started with Curt Flood in center, because I was a fly-ball pitcher.
Not long after the 1968 World Series, some woman actually came up to me and asked if I still spoke to Flood. She was referring to the long triple that Jim Northrup hit in Game Seven, and the fact that Flood took a step in before he went back on the ball. I said, “Lady, how could you ask me something like that?”
My goodness. If Flood couldn’t catch that ball, nobody could. And even if he had misplayed it, there’s no way on earth that I would ever complain about anything Curt Flood did in center field. It’s not just that he was a great friend and outfielder. I’d never complain about any teammate who busted his butt out there like Flood did.
Reggie Jackson
A pitcher can really tick a guy off by turning around and staring at him for making an error. The first thing the fielder’s going to think is, “Well, if you’re so great, buddy, don’t let him hit it to me.”
Actually, that’d be the second thing. The first wouldn’t be as pleasant.
Bob Gibson
What aggravates a pitcher is a fielder making a mental mistake. That tells you his heart and head are not in the game while you’re out there pitching your arm off. But errors are going to happen, just like hanging sliders are going to happen. If your fielders turned on you every time you made a mistake, you’d have a mess on your hands. So you can’t throw any tantrums out there when they make one—as long as it’s physical. And you can’t complain about them when the game’s over. That’s no way to rally the troops. You need those guys.
I trusted my fielders. They knew what they were doing. I didn’t tell them what to do or where to play.
Reggie Jackson
Only Jim Palmer did that, and most of the time he was right. But it looked kind of weird. Some players didn’t like it.
Bob Gibson
The coaching staff moves them around from the dugout, anyway. They have spray charts showing where guys are likely to hit the ball.
I didn’t think a lot of those, though. They’re like scouting reports: They assume that a hitter is going to do the same thing against every pitcher. They also assume that you’re going to throw the ball where they expect you to throw it. Sorry, that doesn’t always happen.
Reggie Jackson
If I were playing right field behind Bob, I’d position myself well off the line against certain left-handers, because I’d know they weren’t likely to pull him into the corner. That’s just common sense. I’d know I might see some balls off the bats of right-handed hitters, because a lot of them would swing late. Plus, he’d be pitching away from them. I’d also move around, depending on the count. If he’s behind two-and-oh or three-and-one on Frank Robinson, I might shade toward center because Frank probably wants to turn on a fastball in that situation.
Then, late in the game, I might take into consideration that he isn’t throwing as hard.
Bob Gibson
Don’t assume that.
Reggie Jackson
I’d watch. I’d pay attention.
Bob Gibson
That’s what I assumed. I just left the fielding up to the fielders.
I looked at it like my old teammate, Curt Simmons. He’d just tell everybody, “When you see those great big ol’ guys up there, play deep. With the little bitty guys, come in a step or two.”
Bob Gibson
There was really only one thing about a ballpark that mattered to me: the size of it.
In small parks, I tended to pitch guys away more often so they couldn’t pull the ball for cheap home runs. I’m talking about lefthanders, for the most part. Normally, I tried to come in on left-handed hitters, but if they could just poke the ball over a short right-field fence, never mind. In old Busch Stadium, for instance, where we had that damn roof in right field, they could step back on an inside pitch and dump it up there real easy.
Reggie Jackson
I didn’t want the ballpark to change my approach. At pretty much all times, I preferred to keep the ball toward left center. For example, when we played in Detroit, where they had a short porch in right field, I tried not to think right field because it would hurt my swing. Fortunately, Tiger Stadium also had a short porch in left field.
My best hitting park, all around, was probably Fenway. Since I liked to hit the ball the other way, and opposing teams were happy for me to do that, I had some fun with that wall out there. I didn’t even have to square the ball to bounce it off that thing. The result was a whole lot of doubles. I also stroked a bunch of balls into the net for home runs. As far as homers go, Fenway, for me, was second only to County Stadium in Milwaukee among parks that I never played in as a member of the home team. But I hit more doubles there than anywhere else.
Comiskey was interesting. It was basically a pitcher’s park, with deep fences, but I enjoyed all that space in the outfield. Except for RFK in Washington, where the Senators played through 1971, Comiskey was the only park I batted .300 in for my career. I didn’t hit many home runs there, or drive in many runs, but as a visitor I scored more runs at Comiskey Park than anywhere else.
Bob Gibson
Forbes Field was a lot like that, real big in center field. It went forever. Flood could cover it, too. It was so far out there that they put the batting cage right on the field. Against Clemente one day, Curt ran out and caught a ball smack in front of that batting cage. It had to be 450 feet away. I’ve got to believe that was one of the longest outs in major-league history.
Down the right-field line, though, Forbes was short, like Yankee Stadium. I just made sure lefties couldn’t pull me, and I got along nicely there.
The worst park for me was old Busch. It was only 354 feet to right center, 322 to straightaway right, and 310 down the line. The screen ended at the 354 mark, so you could hit a 355-foot fly to right center for a home run. It was amazing how many balls happened to land just to the left of that screen.
For my career, I lost the exact same number of games at home or away, but I won seventeen more on the road. My ERA at Busch was a third of a run higher than it was in other ballparks.
But Stan Musial sure liked it.
Reggie Jackson
As much as I believed in not trying to pull the ball over a short porch in right field, I still found myself doing it at Yankee Stadium. When I was there, I even went to a half-inch shorter bat to give myself a quicker swing so I’d be out in front more often.
It didn’t work. I homered in New York at about the same clip that I did in Oakland. And most of them were to right center and left center. I had a knack for finding the biggest part of any ballpark.
Bob Gibson
I was a natural high-ball pitcher, and that didn’t change in a small ballpark. It didn’t change when they lowered the mound five inches, either.
The guys most affected by that were the breaking-ball pitchers who threw from over the top. They liked to keep the ball down, and a lot of them had a hard time doing it after 1968. I didn’t throw many curves anyway, but starting in 1969 I threw even fewer because they were always up in the zone.
You know, the Dodgers didn’t lower their mound in ’69. Instead, they raised home plate. The infield at Dodger Stadium had a steep crown to it, so the
mound always looked like—and felt like—it was sitting way up high. But because the whole middle of the diamond was already elevated, the mound itself wasn’t sloped very much. If they’d leveled it another five inches, it would have been too flat. The new rules said that the mound had to be ten inches higher than the plate, instead of fifteen, so the Dodgers achieved the same result by jacking up the plate. I don’t know if that accounted for the full five inches, but it was definitely different.
I wish more teams had done it that way, because three of the next four games I pitched there were shutouts.
Reggie Jackson
Whatever they did in the American League, it worked for me. I hit more home runs in 1969 than any other year.
Bob Gibson
But then, I liked playing on the West Coast in general. It was cooler. Especially San Francisco. It was cold in San Francisco, and the wind would be whipping, and I loved that. The hitters didn’t care so much for it, though. The bat stings when you hit the ball in cold weather. If it were up to me, baseball could take a little vacation from June through August, just like school. You should have to shovel the field before you play.
Actually, the main advantage of cool weather is that you don’t get so tired. In San Francisco, or in Chicago or Milwaukee in April, I’d wear long underwear and I’d put on wintergreen and hot oil and it wouldn’t take long at all to break a sweat. I’d be nice and warm, and the hitters would be blowing on their hands and wishing for a walk. That’s a good formula. The pitcher’s mound at Candlestick Park was tilted and a little cockeyed—the rubber wasn’t square with home plate—but I felt so good out there that it didn’t matter. Then we’d get back to St. Louis and it was so sticky that you’d be whipped by the fifth or sixth inning.