by Ron Guidry
Before game three of the World Series, though, he didn’t need any help. He told me he felt great. And his play saved my ass and our team. I didn’t have the same overpowering stuff that I had most of the season. No reason in particular, but some days I just couldn’t throw as good as others. But because Graig was feeling limber, and told me so, I could play to that advantage. When the guys behind you are able to make great plays, as a pitcher you don’t care as much if you have great stuff, as long as you have good enough control. I kept throwing sliders in; they weren’t as sharp as they had been most of that season, but Graig and the other fielders kept gobbling them up.
The box score in game three—nine innings, one run allowed—doesn’t tell the full story of the game. I only struck out four guys. I gave up eight hits and seven—seven!—walks. I have never walked so many batters before or since in my entire major-league career. What made the difference was our defense. They just kept hitting the ball to Graig, and he kept picking them off. He started a double play in the second. He nabbed ground ball after ground ball, and I was happy to let the hitters keep hitting them.
We won that day 5–1. We won game four in the tenth on a walk-off single from Lou. Another game, another big moment when Lou stepped up. Beattie threw a complete game behind an offensive barrage to give us game five by a score of 12–2. As quick as that, we were up 3–2 in the series, with damn near everybody chipping in and doing their job, just like Thurman said. After we’d rattled off three straight, game six in Los Angeles felt like a foregone conclusion. We won, and for the second straight year, the season ended in champagne.
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I would argue that the New York Yankees, as long as they have existed, have held a special place in American baseball lore that goes beyond our ability to win. The Yankees pinstripes are recognizable internationally. The navy blue, the NY, it’s not just a uniform and logo, it’s a brand, one that’s as well known on the other side of the world as it is in the Bronx. The seasons, players, owners, and managers come and go, but the Yankees culture perseveres. That can make it difficult, and confusing, for people to pin the root of what sustains that culture.
One popular idea, especially in my era, is that it came from the top down. George was instrumental in reestablishing Yankees culture. He didn’t just want us to play like champions. He wanted us to act like champions; he wanted us to look like champions. The rules he established after buying the team in 1973 are both famous and infamous: no long hair, no beards. To play for the New York Yankees, you’re expected to look the part. We weren’t part of a tree house, with a bunch of guys grabbing gloves and bats and messing around. We played for a world-class organization and had to act accordingly.
But to be truthful, I always saw it a bit differently. The Yankees culture wasn’t invented in some owner’s box and applied like sunscreen to the players. In fact, it was the other way around. The players themselves changed over the years, but their steadfast commitment to winning never did. It’s an organization that has been blessed with uncanny leadership. Which is why I like telling that story about Thurman before game three of the ’78 World Series. Our clubhouse culture wasn’t what you read about on the back pages of the sports sections or heard about on the radio. It was about our day-to-day focus on accepting nothing but excellence.
Think of the players people recall when they think of the Yankees: Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Phil Rizzuto, Billy Martin, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, Thurman Munson, Willie Randolph, Reggie Jackson, Mariano Rivera, Paul O’Neill, Joe Torre, Jorge Posada, Andy Pettitte, Derek Jeter…I could name fifty more in a heartbeat. In that group alone, though, you have ballplayers of every stripe. Some were charismatic and charming. Others would’ve been happiest if they never once saw their name in the papers.
But there are a few qualities that I have observed over the years that have defined the best Yankees leaders, icons, and stars—and as a result, our culture. The first is what Thurman showed us in the clubhouse: an unrelenting refusal to accept anything but winning. As a young player called up to the team in ’75, I found having someone like Thurman as your catcher and captain completely changes your perspective. You demand the best from yourself because if it’s not your best, or if you’re not playing up to your standards, you’re going to get an earful. That’s a great thing for a team in any walk of life. To reach the top, to win back-to-back World Series titles, you need teammates who are willing to get angry when the team gets complacent.
That’s something I saw a lot of on the great Yankees teams over history. Thurman Munson was tough—he’d get in our faces when he needed to be. But I’d describe Thurman as ornery. The Yankees of earlier eras, like the 1950s teams with Yogi, were mean. Beyond being a tremendous group of baseball players, that’s what made those teams so good.
I got to know many of those players on Old Timers’ Day, or when they’d visit the stadium. But I was especially lucky to see that on a day-to-day basis with Billy, and Yogi Berra, who was our bench coach (and later our manager). I had a close friendship with Yogi. But what I’ll say here is what an incredible leader and competitor he was—even if he didn’t have movie-star looks, or the easy eloquence you might expect from a New York star. Same with Billy. Neither was especially tall or good-looking. But they demanded nothing less than the best from their teammates, and later, as coaches and managers, from their players.
They wouldn’t abide players not playing the game right. It is not a coincidence that the only baseball team ever to win five straight World Series had Yogi Berra on it. And Billy, too, for most of the run. I’m not sure there have ever been two smarter, more stubborn people to step onto a baseball field. Reporters and even teammates would make insulting jokes about Yogi’s intelligence, and how he stumbled over his words. But Yogi was absolutely brilliant. As a hitter, he had a combination of power and contact that simply doesn’t exist anymore. Some people ridiculed him for swinging at too many pitches out of the zone. But consider this: He never struck out more than 38 times in a season. He struck out just 414 times in his career and hit 358 home runs. This five-foot-seven catcher wouldn’t let any pitcher beat him. Only one player in baseball history with at least 300 homers has fewer strikeouts, and that’s Joe DiMaggio, Yogi’s teammate.
As a catcher, Yogi made his pitchers’ worlds better than they were without him, as Thurman did with me. And the numbers back me up. The ERA of the Yankees pitchers was better with Yogi behind the plate. He might be remembered for some funny quotations, but beneath that Yogi was a fierce competitor with an uncanny baseball mind, whose passion for the game fueled those Yankees teams. Here is just one example. When the Yankees were fighting for the pennant in August of 1951, Yogi had to be held back by his teammates, who were afraid he was going to sock the home-plate umpire after a ball-four call against the team. The entire team was stunned by his outburst. But it sent a clear message about just how much Yogi cared. Nothing got in his way.
To win day after day in the dog days of summer, year in and year out, you need somebody like that on the team to light a fire under your ass. A manager can only do so much, because he’s not playing. It’s best when that motivation comes from a teammate. When you flip through the generations of Yankees teams, the best teams had guys like Yogi and Billy and Thurman. The game has evolved over the years, and players who have that mean streak like Billy or Thurman are a rarer thing. They don’t really make ’em like that anymore. But the Yankees championship team in the late nineties didn’t just have the poetry and purpose in Derek Jeter. They had Paul O’Neill, who had that kind of fire. When I’d go to spring training as a coach, he really stood out. He would have fit right in with those older teams. I’d see him get red-faced and ride teammates, urging them on. Players like that, when they apply their passion the right way, are part of the glue that holds Yankees teams together.
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br /> Another defining aspect of Yankees culture, to me, is the unselfishness of the players who taught everything they knew to the younger players, the next generation. It’s something I think about often, because I’m so grateful guys like Dick Tidrow and Sparky Lyle took me under their wing and helped to transform me into the person and pitcher I became. The thing is, they didn’t have to do that. And they didn’t do it begrudgingly. They actively sought me out. Which says a great deal about their character, because in some ways I was a threat to their jobs. While they were teaching me, I was a reliever. The better I became, the more dispensable they would be. But they didn’t think like that. They saw a young player in need of guidance and stopped short of nothing to give me that.
The first time Sparky saw me throw, I was experimenting with a curveball and a slider. He was baffled. There’s nothing good about having two mediocre breaking balls. It’s much better to have one really good pitch. What he discovered was that I was getting bad advice from some of my coaches in the minors.
“Who’s trying to help you down there?” he said.
“Well, nobody?” I replied.
When I was sent back to the minors, he and Dick would talk about how they just couldn’t wait until I came back up so they could help me out. See, to Sparky it was paying it forward. As a young player with the Red Sox, he threw five innings and got dragged back out onto the field by Ted Williams, who wanted to talk to him about one of his pitches. He learned how to throw the slider to fool batters from one of the best hitters of all time. Then Sparky taught it to me.
They didn’t just teach me the physical stuff, though. There were some strategic things that they passed on as well. Like how Dick would break down batters with me, and explain how to set them up, where to throw pitches, and when to throw which ones. On a day-to-day basis, veterans like Thurman, Tidrow, and Sparky showed you how to carry yourself as a professional baseball player. Which was never more important on a team that, at least in the public eye, didn’t always act like professionals. In 1977–78 people sometimes thought we were a bunch of squabbling children. But contrary to perception, the way most of the players went about their business was as professional as it gets. They taught me to not get rattled. People could act like screwballs before games and after games. That’s one thing. There were plenty of bad days in the Yankees clubhouse. They showed me you can fight one another all you want, but once that national anthem plays, you’re fighting with one another. You’re fighting to win, together.
Having veterans who lead like that creates a cohesive team culture. As players and competitors, we shared a belief in playing the game the right way.
It’s one of the things that make Old Timers’ Day at the stadium such a treat for me. Obviously, it was cool to see legends like Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris and shake their hands. But you also got to hear their stories and learn from them. They didn’t just ride off into the sunset when they were done playing. It’s something George understood, the importance of having the former stars and players around, whether for Old Timers’ Day or down in Florida for spring training. Think about the resources I had around me as a player. Not just Thurman, Sparky, and Billy Martin. Yogi Berra, our bench coach, had the locker next to me. Next to Yogi was all-time great Elston Howard.
These guys weren’t just great baseball players, they were world-class teachers of the game. As a player, I routinely walked into the clubhouse, sat down at my locker, and faced Yogi. “I’m pitching today,” I’d say. “Tell me something.” He always had something. As great as he was as a player—ten-time World Series champion, three-time MVP, Hall of Famer—you had to drag stuff about him out. He was humble that way. But ask him for pointers or advice on the game of baseball? He was a walking encyclopedia. He’d always have something to offer about one of my pitches, or approaching batters, or the mental aspects of the game.
9
THE LOSS OF A LEADER
Thursday, August 2, 1979, we had the day off. I was at our New Jersey home with Bonnie and her folks when the telephone rang. It was Mr. Steinbrenner; there was no mistaking his voice. He seemed to gather himself. “This is George. In case you have not heard, Thurman was killed in a plane crash.” Simple. Straightforward. Heartbroken. I later learned he was flying his Cessna Citation with flight instructor David Hall and a friend, and had crashed short of the runway. Thurman was all of thirty-two.
“Just try to make your way to the ballpark around three thirty. We’re going to have a meeting, make arrangements. We’ll talk about it when you get there.”
He only called a handful of us. Me, Cat, Graig Nettles, Lou Piniella, a couple of others. I called Goose and Bucky. At first there was nothing to say. We hadn’t just lost a great baseball player. We hadn’t just lost our captain. We hadn’t just lost the man who led us in two back-to-back World Series wins. We had lost a friend. A family had lost their father. You think about what it would be like if it happened to your own family. You know all your teammates are thinking the same thing. It affected everybody in ways that went far beyond baseball.
It made you feel the game isn’t as important anymore. That’s human nature. It made the entire 1979 season a blur, gray, hazy. It’s all clouded by that one memory. We finished with a fine record, 89-71, but fell short of the playoffs. I went 18-8 with a 2.78 ERA. But who really cared about the numbers when Thurman had died so tragically?
Thurman was buried the following Monday in Ohio, with most of the Yankees in attendance. After the funeral we flew back to play the Orioles on national television. I was on the mound that day; our catcher was Brad Gulden, a young guy without much experience. He stayed in the dugout until after the national anthem was played, out of respect. All four umpires stood on either side of home plate. Normally, during the anthem, Thurman would be at home plate, and I’d be looking at the flag with my hat off. As the anthem finished, it hit me. I looked to home plate and saw it was empty. Thurman would never be there again.
It’s probably the only game I ever started in which I just didn’t care whether we won. I went through the motions. But I just didn’t feel connected to the game. I pitched a complete game, but it wasn’t anything special. I gave up four runs and struck out nine.
But it was a special day for Bobby Murcer. Bobby had first come up with the Yankees in 1965 as a nineteen-year-old. Like Mickey Mantle, Murcer was from Oklahoma, and a lot of people hoped he would be the next Mantle. He’d had some great years with the team in the early seventies, before I got there, then bounced around from San Francisco to the Cubs in ’75. We traded back for him in June of ’79. Going as far back as he did, he was one of the players who knew Thurman best. Earlier that day he had delivered the eulogy at Thurman’s funeral.
When we were down 4–0 in the bottom of the seventh, Murcer came up and hit a three-run homer off Dennis Martínez. Okay, shit, I thought, we’re back in this. Our emotions were all over the place. Then Murcer came up again in the bottom of the ninth. Bucky had walked to start the inning. Willie got on, and they both advanced off an error. Second and third, nobody out. Bobby knocked a walk-off single to left field, scoring both of them. It seemed fitting. Thurman had been at the center of so many of our comebacks. It wasn’t a happy moment, to be sure, but it was fun to win it. That’s what he would’ve wanted.
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I call 1979 our “I Don’t Care Year.” I couldn’t tell you where we were in the standings on any given day. I try not to think about that season because it brings up so many memories. Looking back on it, it makes me think about how much one person can mean to a team. What he can mean to the twenty-four other guys in the clubhouse.
The clubhouse without Thurman was not a fun place for a long time. It just didn’t have the same vibe it had when he was alive. His locker was at the end when you walked into the locker room; from where I was, he was catty-corner. To get to the training room, either you went through the bathroom area
or you passed right in front of his locker. Every time you’d pass, he’d always have something to say. As gruff as he could be, he was funny as hell. He’d pick on the young kids. He was serious but good-natured.
And he’d let you get away with a lot, within reason. But he was pretty much a stickler in one thing: What goes down in the clubhouse is one thing, but on the field it’s another. If things in the locker room weren’t going good, he voiced his opinion. And we needed that. At the same time, go look back at pictures or video from ’78. If Reggie hit a homer, Thurman was the first to congratulate him. If Thurman hit a homer, Reggie would be the first to congratulate him. If you asked them if they disliked each other, they had the perfect response: “Yeah, but not on the field.”
Thurman’s skills and knowledge of the game were exceptional. But what really separated him was that he understood everybody’s psychology. As a catcher, he had the unique ability of knowing what it took for each pitcher to get through the inning or the game. There were some guys he had to coddle. Some guys got better if you poked them or pissed them off. He knew exactly what he had to do to get each of us to perform. I was one of the guys he tried to piss off. I got better when he made me angry. I was all right without being pissed off. But if he got me worked up, I got better. I’d throw the ball so damn hard I actually tried to hurt him. He knew exactly what buttons to push.
One day I gave up a home run and he trotted up to the mound. “Goddamn,” he said. “He hit the dogshit out of the ball. Anything that flies that far oughtta have an airplane ticket attached to it.”
Another time he walked out to me, pointed to the sky, and said, “You ever notice how clouds make all these strange formations and shit?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”