Gator

by Ron Guidry

  And that’s how my early success started to build on itself throughout the game. Each strikeout made the fans louder. And the hitters were more and more overwhelmed at the plate. They started swinging at fastballs up in the zone or sliders at their feet that they had no hope of connecting with. They’d stand like statues, watching pitches they should’ve been swinging at. I got Ike Hampton swinging for strikeout number ten in the fifth, then Bobby Grich looking for my eleventh. “Louisiana Lightning just struck,” Phil Rizzuto, the former Yankee and our color commentator, said right around then. I believe a fan had come to the game with a LOUISIANA LIGHTNING sign, and he picked up on it. From there the nickname stuck.

  The sixth inning was just like the fourth. Three down on strikeouts, all swinging. And they were against some quality hitters. Joe Rudi, their first baseman, had finished second in the MVP voting twice. Don Baylor, their left fielder and my future teammate, would go on to win the MVP in 1979. I had already struck out every batter in their lineup. My thirteenth strikeout was a new career high for me. The fourteenth put me one shy of Whitey Ford’s Yankees record. I got that fifteenth strikeout to end the seventh, which sent the crowd into hysteria.

  The thing was, even though I can count ’em looking back on it now, I had no idea exactly how many I had at that point. I knew I had a lot. And while I loved how much the fans were getting into it, I wasn’t quite sure why they were going so crazy the entire game. There were probably only two people in the stadium who didn’t know. The guys in the dugout mostly knew. The exceptions were me and Thurman. He and I were so focused on the game, attacking the batters and deciding the pitch selection, all we knew was that we had a 4–0 lead. When we were in the dugout, somebody told us to look at the scoreboard. It flashed that number: 15 strikeouts.

  “Wait,” Thurman said, pointing to me. “You? You have fifteen?”

  I was just as surprised. But from that point on, I knew the stakes. I fanned Hampton again to start the eighth, setting the franchise record. That was my only one of the inning, though. Which meant to tie the MLB record, I had to strike out the side one last time in the ninth. That was the only inning where I went in with the mind-set of trying to strike batters out. Usually, that was just a product of me making good pitches. But for the ninth inning, even though I was tiring a bit after having thrown so many pitches, I couldn’t help but try. For myself, but even more for all the fans. They were the ones who had given this June baseball game a playoff atmosphere. I had to give it my all for them.

  And as quick as that, I got strikeout number seventeen to start the inning. The fans didn’t sit down for the rest of the game. I didn’t think the cheering could get louder, but sure as heck it did. Then I got number eighteen. Two outs, one batter left to tie the record. The tension ratcheted even higher when Baylor singled to center. But I ultimately fell one short. Ron Jackson grounded to third, ending the game. But I wasn’t disappointed. I had broken the Yankees record, and the fans applauded me like they did in October.

  “What an exhibition by the Louisiana Lightning man,” Rizzuto declared on air.

  The most gratifying thing about the game was its impact on baseball culture. Now if you go to a game, it’s tradition, and routine, for fans to get on their feet when a pitcher has two strikes on a batter. That became a thing in baseball on that day. It’s quite the feeling to be at spring training or watching a game and see that, knowing I had been a part of it. And that’s not a credit to me but to the fans of the New York Yankees. I didn’t start it. Yankees fans did. Their passion that day changed the atmosphere at baseball games forever. Which is to say, Yankees fans are the greatest fans in baseball for a reason.

  My performance was also hugely important for the team. We were 37-25 after that win, fighting to stay within striking distance of Boston. And even though I had been bothered by the flu and a minor injury in those early months, I had yet to miss a start. I think all of our other starters, rattled by injuries, had missed a start or two by then. Those guys had been there to carry the team so many times, and pick me up, that it was important I do the same for them while they fought to get healthy again.

  The start itself, in many ways, was a microcosm of my season up to this point. I started off slow and built my way into peak form. The game, to be sure, took a lot out of me. My arm was more tired after that start than it had ever been. But as it turned out, the best days for me and the Yankees this season were still ahead. The ironic thing is how my relatively light workload at the end of the previous season may have been the biggest blessing. I’m not a doctor or a trainer, but I believe I was stronger in September and October because I hadn’t thrown as many innings in April. And to pull off a historic comeback against the Red Sox to win the AL East, we’d need to be as fresh as possible in those final days.

  7

  AND YOU THOUGHT 1977 WAS CRAZY?

  By July 17, most of us had gotten used to how much of a circus the team had become. Heck, it was a year and a half old by then, and in that first year we proved we could persevere through it and win the World Series. And it was reasonable to think the situation would have improved over time. With more time, Reggie fit in more with the clubhouse. Even if we hadn’t all become best friends with him, his most inflammatory comments were largely a thing of the past. He and Thurman had said their piece the year before. They’d high-five after one of them hit a homer; each was committed to bringing another World Series trophy to the Bronx. And beyond all of that, in sports, winning tends to solve a cartful of problems. And we had won it all.

  But instead, our three-ring-circus act was only getting worse. Because despite our being the reigning World Series champions, and most of our struggles winning ball games having to do with injuries plaguing our team since the beginning of the season, we weren’t winning enough for Billy and George. For a brief moment in the middle of July, we trailed Boston by fourteen and a half games in the American League East. As a result, the tension between manager and management was as bad as it had ever been. Oddly enough, though, it never once dawned on us that we couldn’t catch the Red Sox. Yeah, we knew they were good. But we knew we were good too. Just as good as them. Still, we knew something had to change. The situation had to get worse for us to get better.

  The wheels spun into motion during the tenth inning of a series finale against the Royals. Kansas City remained a measuring stick for us as one of the top teams in the AL, and we were coming up short. They took the first two games of the series by a combined score of 11–3. We had lost six of our last seven, and seven of our last nine, straddling the All-Star break.

  Throughout all of this, Billy and George fought over who to play and where to bat ’em. There was a logjam in the outfield, and a lot of guys were unhappy one way or another. Either they were left out of the lineup, or there was unease because they were in the lineup at the expense of Reggie or somebody else. All the while, rumors swirled that Billy might get fired—as ridiculous as that might sound, considering he had just managed us to the world championship.

  In this one game, all of our problems seemed to reach a boiling point. Sparky, unhappy all season about his role being usurped by Goose, expressed displeasure when Billy tried to use him as a long reliever. Goose, as a result, had to pitch the final three innings and gave up a couple of runs that tied the game in the ninth. That might’ve been enough problems for the day. But they got overshadowed by a dustup that infuriated Billy to his very core and brought our hellish situation to a point of no return.

  Reggie stepped to the plate in the bottom of the tenth inning with nobody out and Thurman on first. Billy thought he could catch the Royals napping, so he called for a bunt. We didn’t need a homer, we just needed one run to win the game, and nobody would expect a power hitter like Reggie to lay down a bunt. In fact, hitters like Reggie sometimes get insulted if they’re asked to bunt. Regardless, he obliged. He fouled off the first attempt, after which Billy signaled to call the bun
t off. But Reggie ignored the change. He squared up to bunt again—another foul ball for strike two. Billy seethed. To clear up any chance of a miscommunication, our third-base coach met with Reggie before the third pitch to reiterate that the bunt had been called off. Especially with two strikes, bunting made no sense because a foul bunt is strike three. Nonetheless Reggie bunted again, popping it into foul territory for strike three. We lost the game 9–7 in the eleventh.

  Like the play against Boston last year when Billy pulled Reggie for dogging the ball in right field, this cut to the core of what offended Billy Martin’s sensibilities. One of his players wasn’t playing baseball the right way. The chain of command was being disrespected. Which was the whole problem in all the squabbles between Billy and George. Billy hated George’s meddling in the day-to-day affairs, because Billy was the field manager. Now Billy’s orders were being directly ignored by the one player who had already been the source of so much consternation.

  After the game, Billy was understandably livid. He demanded that Reggie be suspended for the rest of the season. That was probably an overreaction, but he had reached the point where he just couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s him or me, he essentially told George. But not only did George have a particular affinity for Reggie, but like any owner, he felt he had to side with his high-paid slugger. Reggie was ultimately suspended for just five games. A week later Billy delivered his famous last line: “One’s a born liar,” he said, referring to Reggie, and “the other’s convicted,” turning to George.

  The next day Billy resigned. But his “resignation” was a technicality. George was about to fire his ass. I had grown close with Billy, so it’s difficult to admit, but it was necessary for the good of the team. I’d pitch the same no matter who was managing. But we needed to escape the craziness. We needed to put everything else aside and just play ball. And that’s what we did. We needed for the next few months to right the ship. I’m not sure we would’ve been able to do that if Billy had stayed on.

  * * *

  —

  At the start of the season, the personnel issues seemed small. Reggie wasn’t Billy’s favorite player, but he had become a better soldier. And there was no way to imagine things could get worse than the previous year. Billy pushing Sparky aside when Goose came on wasn’t so much a teamwide issue—it had nothing to do with Goose as a person, or his abilities, or his effort. It just made me feel bad for Sparky, as a friend. The other was a short-lived rumbling that Thurman wanted to be traded to the Cleveland Indians, close to his home in Ohio. But nobody wanted to see Thurman go—not George, who had named him captain; not Billy, who respected his abilities and the way he played the game; not anybody in the clubhouse, who looked up to Thurman and valued his leadership. And Thurman was a class act who cared deeply about winning. He wasn’t a problem.

  Our struggles in the early months of the season had nothing to do with this. And it’s not like we were playing terribly. We had a mediocre April (10-9), a very good May (19-8), and a poor June (14-15). That adds up to a 43-32 record to start the season. But there were two factors that combined to make our record feel worse. First, since we had won it all the year before, the expectations for this season were sky-high. And second, Boston scorched its way through the early months. They were 52-23, or nine games up on us, by the end of June.

  In ’77 the Red Sox were already a good team. They won ninety-seven games, which is no surprise given a lineup that included Carlton Fisk, Butch Hobson, Fred Lynn, George Scott, Jim Rice, and Carl Yastrzemski. That lineup could stand toe-to-toe with any lineup in the majors. Their 5.3 runs per game that season trailed only the Minnesota Twins. The problem for them, though, was they lacked the pitching. We had a 3.61 ERA in ’77, while theirs was a half run per game higher, at 4.11. That really was the difference in us winning one hundred games and taking the division.

  So before the start of the 1978 season, Boston went out to address that. They signed one of our key starters, Mike Torrez, to a big deal to become one of the anchors of their rotation. Then, right before the season, they traded for Dennis Eckersley, a twenty-three-year-old All-Star from Cleveland. He was already making a name for himself and would go on to be not just an incredible starting pitcher but later one of the best closers in baseball history, which is how fans mostly remember him today.

  Add Torrez and Eckersley to that already formidable lineup and they had quite a ball club. And all was going according to design for the Red Sox early on. They were hitting. They were pitching. They had depth. Their success was easily understandable.

  We had the potential to be just as good, but there was a key difference. From the start of the season, we just weren’t healthy. Even coming back from the flu and fighting through some minor arm troubles, I was the healthiest member of our pitching staff. Andy Messersmith, who we bought from the Braves and was meant to replace Torrez, separated his shoulder. Don Gullett had shoulder issues too. They made a combined thirteen starts all season.

  The other issue was Catfish Hunter. He had hurt his back and shoulder, pretty much from the start of the season. But Catfish was a pro. I had learned a great deal from him—he was somebody I could relate to in a lot of ways. While he had become famous as one of the first of the high-priced free agents in Major League Baseball history—George signed him away from Oakland before the ’75 season—he was at heart a good-natured country boy, who transformed himself into a menace on the mound. Like me, he liked to hunt. He didn’t fancy himself at the center of a drama, nor did I. And he was a tremendous teammate.

  Catfish was thirty-two years old by 1978, so on the field he didn’t have the velocity or stuff he once did. There was a time nobody could match his pitching arsenal. He won twenty-five games for Oakland in 1974, earning him the Cy Young. In ’75 he won twenty-three games for us with a 2.58 ERA. He won at least twenty games for five straight seasons. Even in his later years, with diminishing stuff, he could get guys out because he was so dang smart on the mound and knew how to work hitters. Pitchers like me could learn a lot just by watching him pitch.

  But no amount of guts, heart, and smarts can overcome fairly serious physical ailments. And that’s what he was dealing with. He tried to pitch through it at first, but it was hard to watch. His first start of the season he gave up six runs, including two homers, in just two innings. He went on and off the disabled list that season, making just nine appearances in the first four months, with an ERA of 6.51.

  When you add in Goose’s early-season struggles and Sparky’s banishment to middle relief, you’re left with very little stability on the mound. It was really just me and Ed Figueroa. And while my performances started to command attention because of my winning streak and strikeouts, Figueroa’s success, too, deserves a lot of praise. He was just so consistent, it was easy for some folks to miss. When I say the core of our team was built not on the backs of superstars but on steady performers who didn’t need glamor, I’m thinking of guys like him. He came to us in ’76 from the Angels and won nineteen games with a 3.02 ERA that year. He won another sixteen games in ’77 and had a Cy Young–caliber campaign for us in ’78 with twenty wins and a 2.99 ERA. He was a rock for the team, taking the ball every fifth day and pitching well, throwing around 250 innings a year. He and I both made thirty-five starts in ’78. Nobody else made more than twenty-five.

  The first time we went to Boston that season was in the middle of June. Our starters were Ken Clay, Don Gullett, and Jim Beattie. We lost the first and third games when Clay and Beattie went a combined five innings and got shelled. Beattie would step up and come through in some big starts that year, but he was a rookie. Nobody expected him to be starting those types of games when the season began. Clay mostly came out of the bullpen. Meanwhile, the Red Sox started Luis Tiant, Torrez, and Eckersley. At this point in the season, the tables were reversed from a year earlier. They had the health and the pitching depth. We didn’t.

  But our inju
ries weren’t confined to the pitching staff. Willie Randolph, our second baseman, had a cartilage tear in his knee. He came to us in ’76 after a cup of coffee in the bigs with Pittsburgh in ’75; he and I were two of the young guys together. Willie was quiet, levelheaded, and unlike me found success immediately. He was an All-Star in both ’76, his first full season in the majors, and ’77. Although he didn’t hit for power, he did all the little things exceptionally well. He played strong defense, could hit to all fields, and advanced runners. He also drew some of the most walks in the league in those years, which was so impressive because he wasn’t a power hitter, so it’s not like pitchers were deliberately pitching around him. He just had a great eye, taking walks when he could, long before on-base percentage was a statistic people looked at closely. And he turned those walks and singles into extra bases because he had a fair bit of speed, stealing more than thirty bases for us most of those years.

  Thurman’s knees had been deteriorating over the years. Not that he bitched and moaned about it. You had to fight Thurman to take him out of the lineup. He played 154 games, which would be a lot for any catcher—not to mention one who was constantly ailing. Sure more than any catcher plays these days. Naturally it was Thurman behind the plate during my eighteen-strikeout game—I wouldn’t have had half as many with someone else calling the game, setting up the hitters. He made some of his starts as designated hitter to give his knees a break. And we started to play him in the outfield some.

  All of these injuries added up to a very different team from the one we thought we had leaving spring training camp. And even though we were above .500, we were behind Boston by quite a bit. One of the biggest issues was in the outfield, where we started to have quite a logjam, as I mentioned earlier. We already had Lou Piniella, Mickey Rivers, Roy White, and Reggie. Plus Thurman was getting some games out there. Then on June 15 we traded for Gary Thomasson. Gary hit well for us, but with so many outfielders for only three spots, it created tension. When the lineup was posted, guys were uneasy, not knowing whether they were playing or not. Reggie, our best hitter and one of the best in all of baseball, all of a sudden found himself not playing every day. And he’d be pissed. Which made whoever was playing in his spot uncomfortable.