by Ron Guidry
Then a reporter asked him the question that had been on my mind for a couple of years now. “How in the hell is he going to get that experience if you never bring him in?”
The second night in Kansas City the same scenario played out. We were tied 3–3 in the seventh after our starter that day, Ed Figueroa, gave up back-to-back doubles, and the top of their lineup was coming up. Billy looked to his pen. On other days, Sparky would’ve been the obvious choice. But he had thrown five innings the day before so he wasn’t available. The phone rang in the bullpen, and I was in.
I would’ve loved to be sitting next to Billy at that moment, because I’m sure he was furious he had to put me in. But with Sparky unavailable, Tidrow having pitched the prior day, and Billy having faced all those haranguing questions from the media, he didn’t have much of a choice. But for Billy, it was a win-win. If I blew it, he was vindicated. If I pitched well, the Yankees would win.
In any event, I was thrilled to be in the game. This wasn’t just my first game of the season—it was the first time I was pitching in a game that mattered. And I hadn’t pitched in the ’76 playoffs. It was a pivotal game and a chance to prove myself. What I didn’t like was that George Brett was the first guy I had to face, with a man on second base.
George Brett is one of the greatest hitters to play the game. He batted over .300 in his career and hit more than three hundred homers. He hit for power and average. He hit a huge home run in the playoffs against us the previous year, tying game five at 6 apiece. Forget lefty on lefty, this guy could hit anybody.
And he hit me, roping a single right up the middle. Damn. Except Mickey Rivers, our fastest outfielder, was playing center. And Royals Stadium had turf in the outfield, so the ball skidded fast. On grass, especially when it’s wet, the ball can slow down so that it takes a while for the outfielder to get to it. In Kansas City it zipped right to Mickey, who fired home and nailed the runner from second base at the plate. Phew. Then, with two outs, I walked McRae to face Mayberry, the other lefty. And I struck him out. I pitched two more scoreless innings after that without allowing a hit, and we scored in both the eighth and ninth to win 5–3. It was my first major-league win.
You know what Billy told the reporters after the game? “I planned that all along. I wanted to bring Guidry along slowly.” Yeah, sure. Like I said, it was a win-win for Billy.
* * *
—
My second break came at the end of April. I was getting into games sporadically but still wasn’t one of the main guys. And then those trade rumors that had been swirling around the clubhouse finally came to fruition. Except it wasn’t what so many people expected—the deal didn’t involve me. That was Gabe Paul’s influence. He had seen the reports about my stuff in the minors and knew I could be good. He also had a hunch that if other teams wanted me, there was a reason. So we ended up trading pitcher Dock Ellis, a guy Billy and George disagreed about. Billy saw Dock as an important part of his rotation. George saw a pitcher who had called him out in the press for underpaying him. These days, Ellis is most famous for saying he was on LSD during the no-hitter he threw with the Pirates in 1970. In any event, he was gone, traded to Oakland, and in return we got Mike Torrez.
The Yankees traded for Torrez on Wednesday, April 27. He was expected to start that Friday, April 29. Should have been no problem. But instead of flying straight to New York, Torrez flew home to Montreal first to tend to a family health issue. Remember, this was before everybody could communicate so easily and send a quick text message or e-mail to clarify what was going on. Not everything was made clear to the team, and Torrez didn’t know he was slated to start. And the afternoon of the game, Billy had no starting pitcher. He couldn’t use Tidrow or Sparky because they were his setup guys in the bullpen, and he couldn’t turn to some of the other relievers because they had pitched prior days. So after I got to the ballpark, as I was leaving the clubhouse to go to the bullpen, Billy called me over. Our interaction was brief and to the point.
“You’re going tonight.”
“All right,” I said. And with that I was the starting pitcher.
Nobody expected much of me. I had been working as a reliever, preparing to take the ball at a moment’s notice. I had started only once in the big leagues, in 1975, and that was in a meaningless game in September, against the Red Sox, where I gave up four runs in five and one-third innings. Not impressive. But not dreadful, either. Anyway, it felt like a lifetime ago. And by that day I was a totally different pitcher, with everything I’d learned from Tidrow and the slider I worked on with Sparky. But those things had made me a viable reliever. Could I prove myself as a starter? I wasn’t so sure. Nobody expected me to blow hitters away. Billy told me he wanted me to make it through five innings; the bullpen could go the rest of the way. But even he understood that it’s no small thing to learn you’re the starting pitcher right before the first pitch.
An hour later I stood on the rubber at Yankee Stadium against the Seattle Mariners, 60 feet 6 inches from home plate. I struck out their leadoff man, but then things started unraveling quickly. Craig Reynolds singled. Steve Braun walked. Juan Bernhardt singled. Bases loaded, one out. This could’ve gone one of two ways. I could’ve given Billy every reason to never call my name again. Or I could prove myself by working my way out of it.
First came Bill Stein, who I struck out. That was an especially big deal, because with the bases loaded, there are a lot of ways to score a run. Fanning him meant it didn’t matter how I got the next guy, Danny Meyer. An out, any out, would end the inning.
Meyer was a lefty, which I liked, but he had dangerous power. In ’77 he hit twenty-two homers with 90 RBI. I worked the count to 2-2. The slider I threw next is what baseball folks like to call a cement mixer—basically, the ball spins but doesn’t move. Usually it’s hit a far ways off. Meyer connected…but it went foul. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. Next I threw a good slider. Strike three.
As rattled as I was in the middle of the inning, I had proved to Billy—and to myself—that I could work my way through a jam. I struck out the first two guys in the second inning as well. The first five outs were all Ks. By the time Billy pulled me for Sparky with one out in the ninth, I had allowed just seven hits and no runs, and won 3–0.
* * *
—
I may have sent a message with that start, but it didn’t get results immediately. Even though I was lights out that day, once Torrez arrived we had our five starters. I went eight games over nearly two weeks without setting foot on the mound again, before I got another relief appearance. Then, on May 17, Billy needed me to start again. Catfish had gotten hit around the last time he was out and spoke up about a sore shoulder that had been bothering him.
For eight innings in that start, the A’s couldn’t touch me: three hits, no runs. We scored twice off Vida Blue, one of the finest pitchers in the game and someone I had studied closely. We were a lot alike in how we worked. He wasn’t especially tall or burly, but he was a lefty who threw fire and destroyed batters with a killer breaking ball. He was a big reason that Oakland won three straight World Series titles from 1972 to 1974. He was also from Louisiana, albeit a very different part of the state. Essentially, he was somebody I tried to model myself after, in more ways than one.
I took the mound in the ninth with that 2–0 lead and promptly gave it away. Home run. Out. Home run. Walk. As quick as that, it was 2–2, with the winning run on base. Out came Billy. The game was knotted up, and I was in danger of letting it completely fall apart. Sparky came in and got a double play to salvage the tie—and save my ass. Sparky didn’t leave until the game was over…in the fifteenth inning. If I remember correctly, he joked that he crawled off the field, he was so tired, throwing six and two-thirds shutout innings before our bats put up three runs to give us a 5–2 win. I was upset because I’d given up the two bombs. But the bigger picture was that I had pitched well a
gain. Good enough that there was no taking me out of the rotation. In my next four starts, I pitched well enough to get into the ninth three more times. I had pitched into the ninth inning in five out of my first six starts.
Which raised the question: When was Billy gonna let me finish one of these dang things?
* * *
—
That was the question racing through my mind during that start against the Royals. I had been pitching well. You don’t consistently pitch into the ninth if you don’t have good stuff. But each time, Billy shuffled out to yank me. Sparky asked me about it. So did Bonnie. I knew I was good enough to finish what I started. But Billy didn’t seem to think so.
The game against the Royals, though, had a different feel. First, we had a commanding 7–0 lead. In a close game, I could understand pulling me: Sparky was the best damn relief pitcher in baseball. Give Sparky a lead, and you win the ball game, simple as that. And beyond Sparky being a mentor and teacher, I can’t overstate the importance of knowing, as a starting pitcher, that I had Sparky behind me in that bullpen. Sometimes as a starter you can try to outdo yourself because you don’t trust the relief pitchers to hold your lead. I never had to worry about that with Sparky. He could get ready at a moment’s notice and shut the other team down. Most important, he could do that for several innings. You don’t see relief pitchers like Sparky Lyle anymore. Today, most closers come in and get three outs. Sparky could come in during the middle of a game and finish it off. For him, that was routine.
Sometimes when I showed indications of tiring, giving up a hit or walk, pulling was the right thing to do, even if it was frustrating for me. This time, though, even after I walked George Brett to start the ninth, I knew I was still pitching well. All game, the Kansas City hitters couldn’t touch me. This dangerous, powerful Royals lineup had just three hits against me. And with a lead so big, there was no reason to bring in Sparky. It would be a waste. Still, after I walked Brett, out came Billy. He was taking me out—or so I thought.
This time, however, the process didn’t play out the same way. When Billy stepped out of the dugout, he usually signaled for the reliever immediately. At the same time, Thurman would time his walk to the mound to arrive right when Billy did. They’d tell me I’d done a good job and that was that. But this time Billy didn’t signal. And Munson, instead of walking gingerly from behind the plate to reach me, burst into a jog to get there before Billy.
Thurman was our captain for a reason. You could describe him a lot of ways: tough, grizzled. More than anything, he was ornery. He didn’t get along with everyone, but he didn’t have to. His job was to lead, and what made him so damn good at it was that he always had the pulse of every situation, in the clubhouse or on the field. Understanding why he was so important had to do with smaller moments like this. He knew not finishing games was eating me up. He also knew Billy. And he was busting his ass to beat Billy to the hill to give me the lay of the land. He covered his mouth with his glove so nobody could see what he was saying.
“You have to tell him something. Tell him anything, or he won’t let you complete the game.”
“Okay,” I told him. By not immediately bringing in a reliever, Billy seemed to be feeling me out. When he arrived moments later, he didn’t say “Good job” like he usually did. Instead, he asked: “Well, what do you think?”
“You really wanna know what I think?” I said.
“Yeah, I really wanna know.”
“I think you oughtta get your ass off my mound so I can finish my damn game.”
Billy looked at me for a moment. Then he said, “Okay, you got it.”
And he went back to the dugout. It was all a mind game, a test. It might sound brazen or stupid to challenge Billy Martin that way. But the truth is, that’s exactly what he wanted to see. Billy was a brawler. He wanted his players to fight too, to burn with the same fire that consumed him. If you can fight me, he thought, you can fight anybody. And I wasn’t afraid of Billy. I had been sent up and down to the minors, forgotten and abandoned in the bullpen, insulted and driven to the brink of quitting. Nothing could faze me. If you’re man enough to come out here, I’m man enough to tell you to get the hell out of my office. And to tell the truth, I’m pretty sure that’s what he wanted to hear. He wanted to know what I was made of inside. When I told him to get off my mound, I think it made him feel better. I got the next three guys out, for my first complete game, a 7–0 shutout. From that point on, he never took me out of a game again until he asked me how I felt. We established something between us in that moment that would allow me to anchor the New York Yankees rotation. Trust.
Edith Garland Dupré Library, University of Louisiana at Lafayette
Playing for the University of Southwestern Louisiana, 1971.
© Jeffrey W. Morey,Syracuse, NY/Syracuse Chiefs
Playing Triple-A ball at Syracuse in 1975.
Courtesy of the author
Bonnie and me on our wedding day, September 23, 1972.
Courtesy of the author
The Yankees starting pitching staff in 1977: Ed Figueroa, Mike Torrez, Catfish Hunter, and me.
Harry Harris/Associated Press
Relaxing before a game.
Associated Press
Eating ribs and icing my arm after a game.
Associated Press
With Manager Billy Martin.
Associated Press
In the dugout with reliever Goose Gossage.
Associated Press
With Yankees third baseman Graig Nettles.
Associated Press
Being congratulated by the team after winning Game 4 of the 1977 World Series against the Dodgers.
Richard Drew/Associated Press
Being congratulated by Thurman Munson and Chris Chambliss after striking out eighteen batters in a game against the California Angels in 1978.
Heinz Kluetmeier/Getty Images
With Thurman Munson in Game 3 of the World Series against the Dodgers in 1978.
Bettmann/Getty Images
With Reggie Jackson, after beating the Los Angeles Dodgers in the sixth and final game of the 1978 World Series.
Michael Zagaris/Getty Images
Pitching off the mound: At 5'11", I needed perfect mechanics to generate that 95 mph fastball.
Focus on Sport/Getty Images
A time-lapse sequence of my pitching motion.
Courtesy of the author
Hunting for ducks in the Louisiana bayou.
New York Daily News
With my wife, Bonnie.
5
DID THE BRONX REALLY BURN?
Arriving at the ballpark every day in 1977, I was a witness to a type of theatrics the likes of which had never quite occurred in baseball history. While the drama—usually with George, Billy, and Reggie Jackson as the main cast, sometimes joined by Thurman—played out on the sports pages, on the radio, and on TV, drawing in the entire country, for us it played out live in the clubhouse, on the field, in the dugout. I’d get to my locker before the game, and it was like turning on the TV. When I’d leave, it was like turning the TV off.
You’d hear shouting and high voices. Billy and George going at it in Billy’s office. The slamming of the furniture. Then Reggie walking in and the three of them going at it. Not every day, but often.
Everything that went on in the clubhouse that s
eason has become so dramatized—literally, in the ESPN documentary The Bronx Is Burning, based on Jonathan Mahler’s famous book about our team and New York City at the time. Now when we all get together, when I’m talking with Goose, Sparky, Willie, or Bucky, we ask one another: Did we really go through that shit? Despite all the sensationalizing, the answer is yes. And it was entertaining as hell. There was never a dull moment. It made me want to get to the park, just so I didn’t miss anything. When I got there I’d ask, “What the hell happened last night after I left?”
Amid all of this, my personal journey—struggling to win a permanent spot in the rotation—was hardly front-page news. And that’s how it was for most of us. We went about our business. Willie Randolph, Bucky, Graig Nettles, Chris Chambliss…you didn’t see our names in the paper brawling with Billy or George. The rest of us just played the damn game. But that doesn’t mean the drama was unimportant. It was.
The baseball season is long. There are 162 games across six months. Seven months when you add the playoffs. More than eight when you count spring training. If you don’t have fun in this game, it’ll drive you crazy. And we had a blast. And everything that went down, that’s what made it so fun. In other circumstances, it might not have been fun. The reason it was, though, is that we went through all of it and still won.