by Ron Guidry
More than the financial aspect, though, knowing that I had a secure role on the team allowed me to prepare for the season. It put my mind at ease when, as usual, I struggled in spring training. When I was fighting for a roster spot in ’77, that was a problem. A bad spring gave Billy a reason not to use me, or for the team to send me down to the minors. But in ’78, for the first time, that didn’t matter. Nobody doubted my role on the pitching staff. There were no more trade rumors, no more barbs from Billy or rants from George. I didn’t have to worry about impressing anybody. When you’re a rookie struggling during spring trainings, they doubt you. When you’re established and you struggle during these exhibition games, the response is completely different. They say, he’s a veteran—he knows what he needs to do to get ready. And as I’ve said before, for me spring training was process oriented, not results oriented.
I mainly threw fastballs at first, because my slider wasn’t effective until my fastball was in peak form. I didn’t care if batters hit ’em—the games were meaningless. So it wasn’t a big deal to me when I had a late start to the spring because of the flu, and then got smacked for five runs in two innings during my first outing. My role was solid, and for the first time during spring training, my mind was at ease.
The other difference for me, this spring, was that for the first time I was preparing to be a starting pitcher. Although I wound up starting for most of the ’77 season, I had begun the year out of the bullpen. That involves a different type of preparation, getting ready to pitch more frequently, although only for one, two, or three innings at a time. For a starter, the spring is important as a time to build up a different type of stamina. As the ace of the rotation, I was expected to go out there and throw nine innings. Certainly, that wouldn’t happen every game, but it’s the standard I expected of myself. That endurance isn’t built overnight. It builds slowly, throughout the spring and into the early part of the season.
But because I got sick, my entire body calendar was pushed back. It made me arrive several days late to camp after I recuperated at home. Then, in those first exhibition outings, I still wasn’t 100 percent healthwise. And so even though I had enough time to get my mechanics in order—I was throwing my fastball hard and my slider with bite—I hadn’t ramped up to my typical endurance level by the time the season started. These things usually follow a progression: You might throw just a few innings in your first spring outing, then four the next time and five the time after that. By the time the regular season gets under way, your arm is strong enough to throw a full nine. Or at least close to it.
Instead, when Billy tapped me as the opening day starter, that timeline was delayed. I wasn’t in full-throttle, regular-season form yet. I wouldn’t be for a while. All of which made it difficult for me to predict, or expect, that the best season of my career awaited. As fate would have it, my 1978 season stands statistically as one of the best starting pitching seasons in baseball history.
* * *
—
The previous season, Billy and I had developed a strong sense of trust in each other. During any given game, when he’d ask me if I could keep pitching, the only reason he took my word for it was because I was always truthful. When I’d answer yes, that response only carried weight because he believed I’d say no when I thought I didn’t have any gas left in the tank, or that I just didn’t have my best stuff that day. If I wasn’t straightforward with Billy about that, that trust would fall apart. Plus, I’d be hurting the team if I insisted that I stay out there even when I shouldn’t. It’s no good for anybody.
Because of where my arm and body were early in ’78, I had to be frank with Billy often. Although throwing complete games, or close to it, had become fairly regular for me by the end of ’77, I just wasn’t physically there yet in April. Getting picked as the opening day starter despite not being full-strength was quite a statement of belief from Billy, and I had to reward that with not just pitching well but by not hurting the team by pretending to do something I couldn’t. That was my mind-set in the early part of the season: gutting out solid, if unspectacular, performances that would give us a chance to win. To understand the 1978 season in its entirety, it’s important to know that it began entirely unspectacularly.
That’s how I pitched on opening day, April 8, in Texas against the Rangers. Starting the season down there wasn’t ideal, considering my progress, because the last thing I needed when I was grasping for every bit of energy was having to battle the Texas heat. It’s brutal, even in the early days of spring. And there were no domed stadiums in 1978. I fought my way through seven innings while allowing only one run, but it was tough sledding. All six hits I allowed came in the first three innings. When I left the game in a 1–1 tie, Billy had to make a decision that would come to define much of the rest of the season for us: Would he turn to Goose or to Sparky? He went with Goose, and that kicked off a rough start to the season for a player who would prove to be so instrumental to our success later in the year. Because as good as Goose was down the stretch, his first days in a Yankees uniform weren’t pretty. He gave up a homer in the bottom of the ninth to Richie Zisk, a walk-off shot to send us to 0-1 on the season.
As it turned out, that would be the only time we’d lose with me on the mound for nearly three months. But during the early part of that stretch, it’s not because I was dominant. Whatever my form, though, I fought my ass off to put us in a position to win every one of those games. Some days I might give up two runs, and at my peak, I could do way better than that. But our bats were more than good enough to score more than two runs and give us the win. But if I gave up four, or five, or six, then I’d be hurting the team. I refused to let that happen. I had to grind. We had to grind. We weren’t as good as we could be during that first part of the season. But we all picked one another up—that’s the hallmark of a great team. When I wasn’t at my best, the offense could pick up the slack and seal the deal. Later I’d return the favor by throwing shutouts.
That’s how it played out for the rest of April. In my next start against the White Sox, our home opener, I slogged through nine innings for a 4–2 win. But again it wasn’t pretty. It may have been a complete game, but I allowed ten hits and struck out only four. That game was classic Reggie Jackson, or should I say, Reggie Jackson in a candy wrapper. Reggie hit a three-run bomb in the first. Because the last game we had played at Yankee Stadium was in the previous year’s World Series, that made four homers in as many at-bats at Yankee Stadium for Reggie. And before the game, fans were given free Reggie bars. Yeah, he got the candy bar named after him after all. And when he hit that shot, all of the fans decided to throw ’em on the field in some sort of bizarre tribute or celebration that took the stadium staff forever to clean up. Thousands of orange wrappers covered the field. White Sox manager Bob Lemon called the whole display “horse manure.” Nobody could have foreseen that Lem would be managing our team in a few months.
We won again my next time out, against Baltimore, and it was the same story. I was good enough but not overpowering. I gave up three runs in six and two-thirds innings. The final run was credited to me but came when Sparky allowed a bases-loaded walk to tie the game 3–3. Again, though, the bats picked me up. And again, credit to Reggie. He hit a walk-off shot off Tippy Martinez, our former teammate, in the ninth.
Then came what was probably the most uncomfortable moment of my career. In hindsight, it’s a funny story. At the time there wasn’t much funny about it. Beforehand, I looked at the calendar and saw that the game was scheduled for Monday night, against the Orioles. It was the game of the week, on ABC, and nationally televised. Howard Cosell was in the booth, the whole works. The nice thing about that meant my parents could watch the game from Louisiana. So I gave ’em a call to tell them they’d be able to catch it.
Look, parents are always parents. They still give you the same speeches they do when you’re a kid. “Okay, Ronald Ames, this is national TV. Don’t be p
icking your nose. Don’t pick your ass, don’t scratch your balls. Don’t embarrass yourself and our family in front of the whole country!”
So that’s what I was thinking about on the mound. And for most of the game, it wasn’t a problem. The game was going along swimmingly. We raced out with eight early runs, and I kept the Baltimore bats scoreless, even though I wasn’t striking many guys out. Up to this point in my career, I always pitched with a mouthful of chaw in my cheek. Levi Garrett was my chewing tobacco, and it produced big, juicy gobs of spit. Late in the game I let a runner on base and felt the need to spit. Usually that’s no problem, but this time I started thinking about the camera on my face as I got the sign and looked down the runner. So I decided I’d wait until after the pitch, when the camera probably wouldn’t be zoomed in on me, to let loose.
Well, I threw the damn ball, and it was a chopper right back at me. Gulp. As I reacted to the ball, the chaw, with all the juice, shot right into my throat and lodged there. Swallowing chewing tobacco is not a pleasant feeling. It’s disgusting. I got the guy out, but afterward I stood behind the mound, hunched over. Everybody thought I was hurt. I was at an impasse: Do I try swallowing it, or throw it up for the whole world to see?
Fortunately, Catfish had once given me some sage advice on just this. I wasn’t the first person this had happened to. “I’m gonna tell you this, and this is the truth,” he explained. “If you ever get it down your throat, just go ahead and swallow it. Don’t try to get it back up. If you try to get it back up, you’re gonna gag. Swallow it and you’re gonna get sick, but it’s better than the alternative. Trust me, I know.”
So I swallowed it. And nothing happened, right away. I didn’t throw up, dry heave, nothing. Meanwhile, our trainer, Geno, is running out because he thought I pulled a muscle. “Gene, I’m not hurt…I just swallowed my tobacco.” The whole scene concerned Billy, too, because it looked to him like I was hurt.
“What’s the problem?” he asked. Geno explained the situation. “Oh shit.”
I made my way back to the dugout after the inning. When I sat down, it all hit me. I was dizzy, my stomach felt queasy, and I let out an enormous “Ughhhhhhh.”
Billy came up to me. “You think you can keep going?”
“As soon as I figure who to throw the ball to, yeah.”
“Okay, you’re outta here.”
Thank you, Billy. We went on to win anyway. Afterward I was sick for three days. I couldn’t eat, drink, or get anything into my stomach. Every time I’d smell something, I’d want to gag. But at least I didn’t throw up on national television.
* * *
—
The results of my first four starts were pretty decent—I had a 1.82 ERA and we won three of them. But they didn’t match the standards I’d set for myself. In three of the games, I had lasted only seven innings. I had just twelve strikeouts. Still, I knew I would get better. Slowly but surely, I showed signs of getting into my regular-season form.
We won my next two starts, against Minnesota and Texas, and both times I went six and a third innings. Not especially deep for me, but the encouraging sign was that I struck out seven batters in each of them. I had struck out more guys total in those two games than I had in my first four combined. I was fine with getting batters to make weak contact and letting our guys in the field make plays behind me. But when I was at my best, I was striking guys out, and that was starting to happen.
The other good thing that happened in those two games didn’t have to do with me. Goose had had a dreadful start to the season. And when you’re a high-priced off-season acquisition for the Yankees, getting the big bucks from George, it puts a lot of pressure on you from the media and the fans. For that first month, Goose was catching the brunt of that.
At one point during Goose’s struggles early in the season, we had a minor run-in. It was a great example of how we interacted and were completely honest with each other. During a game, Goose had gotten up in the bullpen, and it looked like he might be coming in to relieve me in the ninth. At least he certainly thought so. But when Billy came out to the mound, I talked him out of it. I said that wasn’t happening because Goose hadn’t been looking good. I finished the game, but Goose was hot under the collar. Now, he and I were great friends—and we’re even closer today—but that didn’t stop either of us from speaking our minds.
Right after the game, Goose stormed into the clubhouse. He was steaming, still carrying all of his stuff from the bullpen. He took one look at me, and I knew exactly what he was going to say. I put my finger up before he could get a word in.
“Hold it,” I told him. “I don’t want to hear it. Until you start pitching better, you’re not coming into any of my games.”
He knew that, and I knew that. He just had a lot of pressure on his shoulders after being such a high-profile acquisition. Goose, of course, went on to pitch much better for us. So after that, all either of us could do was smile.
That season, through his first six outings he had an 0-3 record and hadn’t recorded a save. But in my last two starts, he came in for me in the seventh inning and took care of business. He got his first win of the season against the Twins, then a save against the Rangers. It was huge for him to get over that hump, because in New York, the longer a funk lasts, the more it gets magnified. He snatched that monkey off his back. It was also tremendously important for us as a team, because we needed Goose to be the dominating, intimidating force he had been in the past.
Over the following month, everything started falling into place for me. My May 13 start against the Royals came after I got a full week of rest between starts—a rare occurrence but a fortunate one that came due to a rainout and an off day. It allowed my body to recuperate from some nagging injuries I had been pushing myself through during the early days of the season. I went eight innings, fanning six, and allowed two runs in the win against a team that always loomed large on the schedule. The Royals were just as good as they had always been. That start kicked off a run of nine starts in a row where I went at least eight innings.
I knew I was in A+ form beginning with my May 23 start against Cleveland. It wasn’t just that I threw a complete game, but I struck out eleven and gave up just five hits. My next start, against Toronto, was another complete game, and I didn’t walk a single batter for the first time all season. Then I rattled off three straight starts with a combined thirty-one strikeouts and just two runs against Oakland, Seattle, then Oakland again. That put me at 10-0 on the season in eleven starts. And we needed every single win. Our start was solid, but Boston’s start was spectacular. Following that June 12 outing against Oakland, we were 33-24. Boston sat at 40-19, six games ahead in the AL East.
As satisfying as the run had been for me on a personal level, I knew it meant a lot to the guys who helped me get to this point too. Sparky made a running joke of it. He or Tidrow would turn to each other and say, “Oh no, we created a monster.”
Or Sparky would say, “Gator’s pitching, I can take the day off.”
* * *
—
But I wanted to prepare Sparky on June 17 that this wouldn’t be the case. And the start to the game against the Angels only confirmed my suspicions. Angels second baseman Bobby Grich roped a double to left field. The next batter gifted me a strikeout when he screwed up a bunt. Then Dave Chalk came within a foot of taking my head off with a screaming line drive right back up the middle. Fortunately, I was able to bat it down to get out number two. A strikeout ended the inning. No runs, but it took me a lot of pitches to get out of the inning because my ball was up in the zone. The second inning wasn’t pretty either—I walked Don Baylor before getting a couple of fly balls and a strikeout to end the inning. Again, no damage done. Three strikeouts in two innings is a fine start, but that wasn’t uncommon for me. And even though I struck out the side in the third, they were split by two singles. It hardly struck me as remarkable. Or the maki
ngs of a record-setting outing.
The tenor of the game began to change in the fourth inning. I could feel the command I lacked in the early innings settling into place. My fastball was zipping along the back of home plate. My slider bit hard and in the right spots against lefties and righties. But more than feeling it, I could hear it. I could see it. Because even before I realized my performance could be something special, the fans at Yankee Stadium knew it. I got two strikes on Baylor to begin the fourth, and some spectators got to their feet cheering in anticipation. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap…swing and a miss, strike three. The next batter, Ron Jackson—same thing. Except even more fans were standing, creating an electricity around the field. Swing and a miss, strike three. Once I did the same thing to Merv Rettenmund to strike out the side, all of Yankee Stadium seemed to be on its feet. Nine strikeouts in four innings.
The single-game major-league strikeout record at the time was nineteen, set by three all-time greats: Steve Carlton, Nolan Ryan, and Tom Seaver. Ryan, by coincidence, was on the Angels and in the opposing dugout that day. No matter how well you’re pitching, you never envision chasing the likes of those three guys. But what was even better than the thrill of chasing history was the energy and atmosphere and camaraderie in Yankee Stadium. I wasn’t facing the California Angels alone. There were 33,162 hollering fans taking on history along with me. I can’t overstate the importance of that. I had thrown a lot of pitches in those early innings, and in the prior few games, so I needed every ounce of energy I had. They gave that to me. Even more, their cheering intimidated the opposing batters. They had to contend with my fastball, my slider, and 33,162 pairs of clapping hands urging them on to their demise. Every time they got two strikes, I could see the surging anticipation in the crowd affecting the batter’s body language.