by Joe Pepitone
I had hit ten home runs in spring training, and the minute I saw the Binghamton park with its short fences, I said to myself, I’m gonna hit a ton of home runs this season. Then, a few weeks into the season, I was hitting nothing, and I couldn’t handle it. I got so depressed, I thought I just couldn’t do it, that I’d never make it as a ballplayer. Shit, I couldn’t even stand in there against Class A pitching. What the fuck was it like in the major leagues?
The more depressed I got, the worse my attitude got. I began playing like I didn’t give a shit—which I did, but this was a kind of defense, I guess. I stopped hustling after balls, stopped running as hard as I could on grounders I hit to the infield. It got so bad that the Yankees sent a special coach to talk to me, Bill Skiff. My average was around .220, I’d shown no power, and it looked like I wasn’t even trying.
Skiff came over to me after a game and said, “What’s the problem, Joe?”
“The problem is I’m all fucked up,” I said, feeling the moisture swell behind my eyes. “Baseball’s all fucked up, and I want to go home.” My eyes filled. “Fuck the Yankees.”
“Fuck the Yankees?” he said hotly. “Listen, you clown—the Yankees are the best organization in baseball, and you’re damn lucky to be with them. They sent me here special just to help you out. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and start playing baseball, goddamnit!”
The tears were running down my cheeks. I apologized and asked him to help me, told him I was scared, that I was bailing out of the batter’s box on every other pitch . . . Jesus, did I need help! He told me the pitchers were not that wild, that I couldn’t let them intimidate me, that I had to force myself to hang in there and watch the ball all the way into the catcher’s glove.
“Bear down, concentrate,” he said, “and you’ll see there’s nothing to fear. Another thing, when you go into a slump, you don’t stop hustling, you don’t give up. You bear down more, run harder on every ball. You’re fast enough to steal a lot of hits if you go flat out.”
He really encouraged me, picked up my spirits. And in a few more weeks, slowly but surely, I conquered much of my fear. In the second half of the season, I raised my average forty points to .260 and finished with thirteen home runs and seventy-five RBIs. I also threw out fifteen base runners from the outfield, leading the league in assists. All in all, at the end of the season I felt good.
The following spring, 1961, I hit well in Florida, around .500, and with power. I made the Amarillo ball club in the Texas League, AA ball, and even though I started slowly I didn’t get down on myself. I had my confidence now—knew that if I kept taking my natural swing, the hits would start coming. They did. The quality of the pitching was tougher than it had been at Binghamton, but the control was better and I appreciated that. I’d filled out more through the chest and arms, and I was drilling the ball to all fields: line drive, line drive, line drive. I loved it.
Texas was where I started banging around a bit at night, as most players did when we were on the road. I didn’t have a lot of luck picking up chicks, but the hooker scene was fun, particularly in San Antonio. Hell, just hanging around saloons in San Antonio was fun. One night after a bunch of drinks, another player named Joe Miller and I came into the hotel where the club was staying, at about 4 A.M. Sheriff Robinson was our manager, and he relied on the elevator operator at this hotel to report the late players. We hated that stool pigeon, who this night was asleep in a chair, just outside the elevator. We got down on the floor, crawled past him into the car, and closed the door. It banged shut, woke up the old stool pigeon, and he started hollering. We took the elevator up, but stopped between the third and fourth floors. I climbed up through the trap door in the ceiling and pried open the door to the fourth floor. Joe Miller climbed up behind me and we looked through the peephole in the door—all you could see was the shaft, no car. We snuck down to the third floor and checked the peephole there.
“It’s perfect!” I said. “Let’s go to bed.”
The old stool pigeon called our manager, Sheriff Robinson, and said, “One of your goddamn ballplayers stole my elevator!”
Robinson said, “What do you mean ‘stole’ your elevator?
How the hell can anyone steal an elevator? Have you been drinking?”
“No, I been sleeping. And my elevator’s gone. I checked every floor and it’s gone. One of your goddamn players took it.”
A little while later the phone in my room woke me up. I looked at my watch and said into the phone, “Who the fuck is this at five o’clock in the morning?”
“You know who this is—it’s Skip,” Robinson said very loudly. “I want you to tell me why you stole the hotel elevator. And what the hell did you do with it? Where is it?”
“Skip, what the hell are you talking about?” I said. “I’ve been asleep for hours. Why do you call me and blame me? It really pisses me off that I get blamed for everything.”
“Don’t try to talk your way out of it, Pepi. I know you stole that elevator.”
“Skip, I didn’t steal no elevator.”
“Damn it, let me talk to Miller. Put him on this phone.”
“He’s asleep, Skip.”
“Wake him up!” Robinson yelled.
Joe Miller had his face in a pillow to muffle his laughter, but he got control of himself and took the phone. “Hell, no, Skip. Pepi didn’t steal no elevator. We been in this room since eleven o’clock.” Pause. “Yes, I swear.” Pause. “Okay, good night, Skip.”
The hotel manager and the old stool pigeon finally opened the lobby elevator door, looked up the shaft, and saw the car. But they had a helluva time getting to it. Down with stoolies!
To this day, Sheriff Robinson doesn’t know for certain that it was me who stole that elevator. For over twelve years, every time I ran into him, Sheriff would say to me, “Pepi, you stole that elevator, didn’t you? Tell me. You can tell me now.”
“You still believe I stole that elevator?”
“I know you stole that elevator, Pepi. Admit it.”
“Well,” I’d tell him, “I didn’t.”
Robinson got sick during that season in Amarillo, and my old friend Steve Souchock came in to take over the team. We had an interleague arrangement with the Mexican League. The Texas League clubs each played in Mexico for about a month. When we went there, Phil Linz and I were the top hitters in the league. Phil was batting about .346, I was about .344. Souchock told us that we had to be very careful of the food and water. He warned us not to eat anything from a street vendor, that their stuff could kill you.
I thought I had a cast-iron stomach, so about two days after we were there, a bunch of us were bouncing around, and I ate a mess of enchiladas, tacos, and tortillas from street vendors. The guys had to help me back to my room. For days I thought I was dying, that I’d never see New York again, that I’d be buried down Mexico way. Guys came to see me and I’d mumble, “Remember the Alamo, you bastards.” I was sick for two solid weeks, lost fifteen pounds. I got back just in time to help seven of the guys steal the team bus one night, so that we could examine the native culture a little closer. We visited a small town populated almost exclusively by prostitutes. Steve Souchock apparently got back late that night and noticed the team bus was missing. He was waiting for us when we returned at 3 A.M. We were all fined.
I was weak when I resumed playing, had no zip at all. My average fell to around .320. Phil Linz heeded Souchock’s warning about the food, and left Mexico hitting over .350. He ended up leading the Texas League in hitting, with a .349 average. I finished with a .316 average, twenty-one home runs, and eighty-seven RBIs. When you also consider the fact that I led the league in stolen hotel elevators and team buses, it wasn’t a bad season.
In 1962 I was asked to take spring training with the Yankees for the first time. The New York Yankees were world champions for the skatey-eighth year in a row. Joe Pepitone, from Park Slope in Brooklyn, was going to play ball with Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra and Roger Maris, g
uys I’d watched and rooted for at Yankee Stadium and on TV for as long as I could remember. I was going to be dressing in the same locker room with them, playing on the same field with them—on the same team with them! Christ, I only wished Willie could see me now!
The Yankees had switched their training camp from St. Pete to Fort Lauderdale in Florida, and the accommodations were even nicer. What an organization—always first class. I reported to the advance camp with the pitchers and young talent. Joe DiMaggio—the Yankee Clipper whom I’d admired for so long—had been hired as a special coach by Ralph Houk, who’d become the manager when Stengel had been fired. DiMaggio spent a lot of time working with me, giving me little step-saving outfield tips. Mainly he told me to keep doing what I was doing, because I had unusual ability. My head swelled so much, my cap almost shot off!
Til Ferdenzi, a sweet man, interviewed me at length. My mother clipped the story from the Journal-American and sent it. The story said that, among all the young talent in Lauderdale, I had the best chance of making the Yankees. Til quoted Joe DiMaggio on me: “Good wrists—a good-looking hitter. A nice swing and good power. And in the outfield, he’s got the knack of going back for a ball. That’s instinct. You can’t teach a boy to take that quick look, then turn tail and run back to where the ball is dropping. That’s an instinctive thing, and this boy Pepitone looks as though he might have it.”
Ferdenzi also quoted Ralph Houk, “Pepitone has some pretty good qualifications. In the first place, he plays first base and he plays in the outfield. That makes him valuable to our way of doing things right there. Then, he can pinch-hit and he can be used as a pinch-runner. All these things, plus the way he played last year in Amarillo, make out a pretty good case for the boy’s chances.”
I’d told Til about my problems at Binghamton, how Skiff had helped me, which set up my strong season in Amarillo. “More than ever before in my life,” I’d said, “I realized I had to bear down every day and produce. I feel that way more than ever now. I’m married and have a wonderful wife and a wonderful eight-month-old daughter, Eileen. And I know I can make a spot on this club if I can prove to them here that I can be useful.”
Deep down I didn’t believe it, though, that I could actually jump from double-A ball to the Yankees. I worked my ass off. I hit ten home runs in twenty-five exhibition games, but I watched Pete Sheehy, the clubhouse man, come up to guys and say, “Ralph wants to see you in his office.” The next day those guys were gone. Week after week they disappeared, and I was still there with my Richmond (International League) contract, and every day I expected it to be my turn.
Cutdown day came, and I was still there. Then, sure enough, Pete Sheehy walked to my cubicle after the game and said, “Ralph wants to see you in his office.” Oh, shit, I said to myself, here it comes. Understandably, because the Yankees were well-covered in the outfield and at first base. Bill Skowron was the first-baseman, and catcher Ellie Howard could also play there. The outfield—with Mantle, Maris, and Yogi and Hector Lopez splitting time in left—was set. What the fuck had I been dreaming about, thinking I had a shot at making this club?
I got up off my stool and walked into Houk’s office with my head down, my insides trembling. As I passed through the players, they said, “You’ll get it next time, Pepi.” “Hang in there.”
I stopped, turned to a group of the guys, and said, “But didn’t I have a good spring? I mean, didn’t I hit good?”
“Don’t worry about it,” they said. “They just want you to get a little more seasoning. No sweat.”
I knocked on Houk’s door. “Who is it?” he yelled gruffly.
“Pepi . . . Joe Pepitone.”
“Come in.” He was sitting at his desk smoking a big cigar. “What the hell do you want?” he said.
“Unh . . . Pete said you wanted to see me.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, flicking his cigar. “I wanted to tell you to get your clothes packed—you’re going to New York with us.”
I ran out of his office yelling, “Yeaaaa! Yeaaaaa!” Then I noticed all the guys were smiling. They had known. “You cock-suckers!” I yelled.
The guys came over and congratulated me, shook my hand, and I was so goddamn happy I was like a little kid. I felt like my whole body had turned to liquid as those guys I’d idolized gave me skin. I was one of them, a member of the New York Yankees!
I hurried to the telephone in the locker room and made one call after another. I called my wife, I called my mother, I called my grandfather, I called my Uncle Louie—and I told them all the same thing: “I made it! I’m going to New York—I made the damn ball club!”
VIII
“Joey, you gotta make us Italians proud!”
Ralph Houk used me as a fill-in player in 1962. I pinch-hit, pinch-ran, and replaced Moose Skowron at first base late in games for defensive purposes. I covered a lot more ground, was a much better fielder than Moose. I did get to start a number of games, mostly splitting doubleheaders with Moose against tougher right-handed pitchers. I’d come off a hot-hitting spring and I stayed hot at the plate through the first month of the season. I slugged five home runs, including two in one inning to tie a major-league record.
My first at-bat in the majors taught me a lesson. The first pitch was up around my shoulders, and the umpire said, “Strike.” I stepped out of the box, turned to the ump, and said, “What the fuck is this? That pitch was at my shoulders. They got better umpires in the minors!”
He stepped right over to me, his face six inches from mine. “Listen, you guinea bastard,” he said, “from now on you better be swinging at every pitch!”
“Well, I’ll tell you something, you blind bastard,” I said. “I’m gonna be swinging at every pitch—because you are horseshit!”
That’s one reason why I never walked much in the majors, why I always went up there swinging. I swung at the second pitch that day, and hit into a double play. I went back to the dugout mumbling about the fucking umpire. Mickey Mantle came over to me and said, “Don’t mess with that guy. He always tests rookies.” Thanks for the early warning, Mick.
At the end of that inning, I went out to first base, a runner got on, and the next batter hit a towering pop fly between home plate and me. I had played more in the outfield than at first, and I hadn’t had much practice on high pops to the infield. So I moved in for the ball, saw it was carrying deeper than I thought, and started backing up. I tripped over the bag and fell on my back, my head banging off the ground and knocking me silly. The ball bounced next to me, my right hand went out reflexively, and I caught the ball in my glove while lying on my back. Somehow, I managed to whip a throw to second and nail the runner, who had held up, expecting that I’d catch the pop.
After the game, a writer came over and asked me how I liked playing in the big league. “Well, I couldn’t do much worse,” I told him. “I hit into a double play and fell on my head.” But I added, “At least I showed one thing. Clete Boyer is famous for throwing guys out from third base on his knees. I showed I could throw them out on my back.”
I was always making brash remarks like that, coming up with some kind of foolishness to make guys laugh, gain me a little attention. I needed attention, which translated to me as affection, and I desperately needed guys to like me. They called me “Pepinose” and—because of my Italian descent, my Brooklyn background, and the silky, tight-clothes way I dressed—said I was the first member of the Mafia to play for the Yankees.
“Dat’s right,” I’d say in a deep voice, “and you guys fuck wit me, I’ll order ya a pair of cement shoes.” I’d sneak a look over at Mantle, Maris, Ford, the big stars, see if they laughed. They did, and I loved it. I went along with anything they said about me, because I knew that if guys bothered to kid with you, they liked you.
I was only twenty-one years old, but I was already starting to lose my hair in front. I used to stand in front of a mirror for half an hour combing it, patting it, telling it to hang in there, fellas. I’d do this before a game a
nd after a game. Of course, everyone would notice, make fun of me. But it was good-natured, something I came to expect . . . even look forward to. That was the way I was.
I remember one day a photographer asked Mantle, as we stood by the batting cage, to pose as if he were talking to me. Mickey grimaced and turned his back, saying, “I can’t stand to look at that face.” I laughed, thought it was funny, but as the photographer shot a picture of Mantle with his back to me, I began wondering: Doesn’t he like me? Was he serious about not wanting to be photographed with me? Did people in the stands see him turn his back on me? When the photographer finished, I hurried over to Mickey and started talking to him, glancing at the stands out of the corners of my eyes to make sure everyone knew we were friends, that he’d only been kidding. This was very important to me, acceptance, just as important as being with the club.
When we went to Los Angeles to play the Angels for the first time in 1962, I felt I’d really made it with Mantle. Guys had told me you had to be with the Yankees for about nine years before Mantle would ever invite you to go out with him. This night Mantle invited me to a party. The Angels were still playing in Dodger Stadium then, and the public-address announcer, who was called Tiger, seemed to know just about every good-looking chick, every starlet, in the city, as well as every party that was going on. He told Mantle about one, and when he asked me if I’d like to go along, I almost flipped.