Gator

by Ron Guidry

  In actuality, though, there were more ass-chewings from George throughout the eighties than we experienced in the late seventies. Between Thurman, Reggie, and Billy, George had plenty of people to fight with in those years. Plus, we were really good. He didn’t need to do as much motivating. In the eighties we weren’t as good. George, though, expected a championship every year. Or at least he acted like he did.

  The thing about those earlier teams was we were blessed with so many players who would go on to be remembered as Yankees legends. For whatever reason, there were fewer of those guys in the eighties. But that shouldn’t be confused with saying we didn’t have some good players—we certainly did in some certain spots.

  Take our outfield starting in 1985, which added Rickey Henderson to join Dave Winfield. Those two guys were such incredible defenders we probably could’ve played with just two outfielders. Rickey didn’t have much of an arm, but that was no matter—he caught near every damn ball. He made the hard plays look easy. And if a play looked hard for him, it meant nobody else in baseball would’ve caught it.

  Those guys were already stars before they came to New York, but when you actually get to see them for 162 games, you get to fully appreciate just how talented they are. Rickey for so long was a thorn in our butt when he played for Oakland—he stole at least 100 bases three times for them—and you got to see just how fast the son of a gun was when you saw him every day.

  Some people have said over the years that Rickey was quirky or difficult to deal with, and in the broadest strokes that might’ve been true. He had to be coddled a little bit. Some guys you could yell at and tell them to get their shit together. He was more the type that needed to be patted on the butt. But do you think that was a problem? No. As our teams in ’77 and ’78 showed, if you played the game the right way, that’s what mattered. And he sure did.

  As for Winfield, wow, was he special. The guy was probably a Hall of Famer before he got to New York. Then he got to New York and had a second Hall of Fame career with us. People like to talk about five-tool players all the time. Those are the guys who can do everything. But as much as people use the term, it’s rarely actually true. Winfield was one of those rare players. He was one of those guys who were simply fun to watch play. He did everything right. He did it with ease. And he was a damn good ballplayer.

  But as a veteran, I really paid closest attention to the guys who I could tell would wear the uniform for a long time. If you can have an impact on somebody like that, you can sit back and take pride in what they’re doing long after you’re done playing.

  Take Don Mattingly. He first came up in ’82 as a twenty-one-year-old. He would watch how I interacted with George and with other teammates, much the same way I observed Thurman and Lou and Graig. The way someone goes about his work tells you a lot about the individual. Donny worked so damn hard, he may have given himself the bad back that ended his career. The guy took five thousand swings per day. I wanted to shake him and say, “Donny, the good Lord gave you the ability to hit .300 or .350. You don’t need to kill yourself to hit .301 or .351.”

  But he just kept working. He wanted to get that one more hit. That’s how he was. If you watched Willie, Reggie, Thurman, or Lou take batting practice, they’d go out and take their cuts. If they stepped in, thwack, line drive, thwack, line drive, five times in a row. They knew they were good. They’d drop their bat on the ground and walk off.

  With guys like Donny and even today, if you tell a batter he can hit for ten minutes, he’ll hit for ten minutes. If you tell him he can take fifty swings, he’ll take his fifty and ask for twenty-five more. If Willie hit five balls on the nose, he was good. I think not overpracticing extended the careers of some of those guys. It’s not that they didn’t work hard, it’s that they worked smart. They’d take more cuts if they needed to, but they wouldn’t do it just for the sake of doing so.

  * * *

  —

  Because I was a pitcher, it was naturally easier for me to have an impact on other pitchers. The irony of the Sparky trade is that we traded away my mentor for somebody who I’d eventually get to look after. Connecting with Dave Righetti was no accident. When we traded for him, the team told me they were going to put his locker next to mine so I could give him pointers. They said he was a left-hander with great stuff but could get a little wild.

  Around the same time, I met Dave’s father, Leo Righetti. Mr. Leo was a longtime minor leaguer in the Yankees organization. He never made the big leagues, but he was a fine ballplayer by all accounts and understood the game. He approached me and told me the same thing. “I’d like for you to do me a favor. I want you to keep an eye on Dave. He’s got talent; he’s just got to harness it.”

  Now, this didn’t require me telling him to sit down and listen. I mostly observed how he acted and pitched, and gave him advice, much the way guys had done for me. He first had a cup of coffee in the bigs as a twenty-year-old in ’79, then pitched incredibly well in the strike-shortened ’81 season, when he won Rookie of the Year. The thing about Dave was that while he had a tremendous arm, he could lose his control. In ’82 he led the league with 108 walks. To start the ’82 season he had a couple of rough outings. And after each one, he bravely faced the reporters, who were all over him. He never shied away. But I could see that he was down and needed some counseling.

  “Dave, do you think you can pitch here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, how did you get here, anyway?”

  “What?”

  “Did you get here because you were a finesse pitcher?”

  “No, I’m a power pitcher,” he said.

  “Why don’t you pitch that way? That’s not what you’ve been doing. At least if they hit you, they’re hitting your best stuff.”

  All I was telling him was to be himself. He for some reason had gotten the impression that because he was in the majors, he had to start developing more pitches, throwing more changeups and curveballs. He had a great fastball and a mean slider. But he wasn’t using them as much as he should have been. He wasn’t going to reach his potential by throwing junk. And all I had to do was remind him why he got to the big leagues in the first place.

  When Dave really became special, though, was as a closer. Goose left us to sign with San Diego after ’83, leaving us a gaping hole at the back of the bullpen. For so long, that was something we’d never had to worry about. My entire career we’d had two of the best ever in Sparky and Goose. Now, for the first time in a long while, the team didn’t have an obvious answer for who to put back there. It came down to two options: me or Dave.

  At first they wanted me to do it. I had experience relieving sporadically in the past and had done it successfully in the minors, so there wasn’t much doubt I could thrive in the role. But I felt like it was a little too late for me. Was it worth turning me into a closer when nobody was sure how many years I had left? It’s possible at one time that might have been best for my career. I may have lasted longer if I became a full-time closer. But I was ultimately concerned with what was best for the Yankees. And I looked at Dave, who was just twenty-five, and saw somebody who might be able to close for the next decade.

  So when George called me that off-season, that’s what I told him. I suggested that it should come from me, because Dave might be more open to the idea. It also might help Dave because he tended to tire late in the season and needed to be protected either by leaving games early or by skipping a start here and there. His arm might be best suited for the closer role, I thought. Dave embraced the idea completely and set a major-league record at the time with forty-six saves in 1986.

  The way George handled that—calling me, involving me in the decision—says a lot about him. Not long before, he was screaming and hollering that he wanted me out. We had gone from one end of the spectrum to the other. It was the same way with Billy; it’s something they had in common. In fact, it wouldn�
��t be a stretch to say they feuded so much not because they were so different but because they were so similar. They treated and trusted people similarly. Once you earned their respect, you had it. You don’t have to worry about that again. They might pick on you here and there, but that’s good-natured and really just letting you know they haven’t forgotten about you. Once you’ve earned their respect, these guys would do anything for you. And it made us a better team.

  Later I would have a similar relationship with pitcher Al Leiter. He would go on to have his best seasons elsewhere, with the Marlins and then across town with the Mets, but it was especially rewarding for me to watch Al and Dave because they reminded me a lot of myself as a pitcher. As people, they were both riots. Left-handers have the reputation of being kind of quirky oddballs. They were like that, young guys in New York City. Single, drinking, carousing. And all of a sudden I was the old guy marveling at their ability, the way Sparky would turn to Tidrow and say, “I created a monster out of Gator.” I’d get that same feeling looking at them. Even if I had the same ability, you can’t watch yourself pitch. So I would work with them and watch them snap off a breaking ball and think to myself, Does the ball look like that coming out of my hand? Wow.

  * * *

  —

  After I retired, I gave something special to Dave: my locker. But it wasn’t really mine. It was a locker in the corner of the clubhouse—corner lockers were the biggest—and it was passed down to and from a number of people I was close to. To give you a picture of our clubhouse, this was on the opposite side of the bathrooms, about ten feet from the entrance.

  By the time I became a big leaguer, Sparky had that corner locker. In order down the wall, the adjacent lockers belonged to Tidrow, me, Yogi, then Elston Howard. I was pretty lucky, right? The two guys who mentored me right there, and Yogi Berra on the other side.

  When Sparky was traded, that locker went to Graig Nettles. And since we acquired Dave and they wanted me to work with him, they had put him next to me. So it was Graig in the corner, then Dave, then me. Nettles left after ’83, and I flipped over to the corner spot, but Dave was still next to me but on the other side. I stayed there until I left, after which I gave it to Dave. Then he gave it to Mattingly.

  It’s a small thing, but it always stood out to me as a symbol of something we passed on. These were all guys who are remembered as Yankees, and to us it was a spot of honor. And lockers obviously have a famous place in Yankees lore, the way Thurman’s locker always stayed around in memory of him.

  * * *

  —

  During the mid-eighties we had plenty of strong players and fairly good teams. But the teams were never complete. We were always lacking one thing or another. When we could score, we lacked pitching depth. When we had a deep rotation, we couldn’t hit. When we moved Dave Righetti to the bullpen, we had another great closer, but then all of a sudden we didn’t have a strong starter to take his spot. All in all, it produced a different atmosphere from that of our best teams. Even when we had all the pieces, not everybody would produce on a given day. But we all compensated for one another—different days, different heroes—to win ball games. Without a complete ball club, it doesn’t go as smoothly.

  And the years we didn’t have Billy as manager—Billy was back with us in ’83 and ’85—the games didn’t have the same type of fireworks. For all the issues between Billy, George, and some of the players, Billy was a world-class manager who could squeeze every single win out of a team, because the guys played so damn hard for him. That was the story of his managerial career in Minnesota, Detroit, Texas, and Oakland too. He often took over rosters that didn’t have much talent or previous success and turned them into winners.

  Now, it wasn’t always as crazy when Billy was managing us again in ’83, but there was one time that became like nothing anybody had ever seen before. It’s so famous it only needs three words for any baseball fan to know what I’m talking about: Pine Tar Game. This was one game played on two days over the course of nearly a month and involved two controversial decisions that drove pretty much everyone completely mad.

  Most of the wildest stuff during these years happened against Boston or Kansas City. This time, it was the Royals. We led 4–3 in the top of the ninth. There were two outs and they had a runner on first. Goose Gossage was on the mound, George Brett was at the plate. Brett got a hold of one, a deep towering shot over the right-field wall in Yankee Stadium, 5–4 Royals…until Billy came out of the dugout. There wasn’t any hesitation: He knew beforehand what he was doing because Billy and some of the savvy guys in our dugout had an eye for things like this. The pine tar on Brett’s bat, Billy argued—and Billy was never one to be polite or reserved in his disputes—exceeded what was allowed in the rules. The ump measured it and deemed Billy correct. He pointed to the Royals dugout: You’re out. Brett was livid. I saw a lot of angry guys on the diamond. Brett stormed out of the dugout. His face looked like it was turning purple. I’m surprised he didn’t deck someone. But that was the third out, and the ball game was over.

  We won 4–3…until we didn’t. The Royals protested the game to the league offices, and they won the protest. That’s not all: Brett was also ejected for arguing with the umps, as was Dick Howser from our side. And the game wasn’t over. We still had a chance to tie it or win it in the bottom of the ninth. A game that began on July 24 had to be finished on August 18, without the guy at the center of what became one of baseball’s all-time fiascos.

  So the game resumed in August. That in part had to do with Billy, who protested the league’s decision about the protest. He wanted to rub everyone’s noses in how ridiculous this had become. So he made the conclusion of the game even more ridiculous. I was at the center of his shenanigans: He put me in the outfield. It was actually a thrill for me—I always said I thought I could play the outfield well because I was pretty fast and good at tracking down balls. And now I was going to get the chance to play in centerfield at Yankee Stadium. He also put Don Mattingly in at second base. Me in the outfield and Don Mattingly, a lefty, at second. Unfortunately, we had just one out to get against the Royals, and it was a strikeout. Neither Don nor I got the ball.

  We went down 1-2-3 in the bottom of the ninth and lost the game 5–4. But it’s a story that lives on in baseball history because of how absurd it became. It was also quintessential Billy Martin: His smarts, craziness, and stubbornness all wrapped up into one bizarre game.

  Managers like Gene Michael, Bob Lemon, and Clyde King were great for morale, but we didn’t have as much fun. Watching the skirmishes between Billy and George was entertaining. It was a reason to wake up in the morning and get to the ballpark early. Without that, the New York Yankees were just another ball club. Without Billy, George didn’t have anybody to ride. In some years that was a plus—as I said, I do not believe we would have won the World Series in ’78 without Lemon’s steady hand and cool demeanor. These guys were very good managers. They were just different from Billy. As the years passed and I became one of the few guys left from the championship teams, that Billy energy was something I missed.

  The toughest thing for me personally was what happened during Yogi’s tenure as manager. He was hired to replace Billy in ’84, and we had quite a decent season, with eighty-seven wins. But it was a difficult situation. On the one hand, George loved having a Hall of Famer and a World Series winner managing the team. On the other hand, it was hell being a manager for George. He’d get the players he wanted, insist on the players he wanted to play or sit on the bench, and want the lineup filled out a certain way. And he tortured Yogi over many of his decisions, the same way he tortured Billy.

  Yogi, of course, had been one of our coaches before that. He was a baseball rat who had an unending knowledge of the game. As a coach, he was chummy with me and the guys. You’d find him lounging around, often in his underwear or less, having a drink, a smoke, or a chew. Ask him anything about baseba
ll, and he always had an answer. But as a coach, he didn’t have to deal with any pressure from George. Once he was a manager, it was another story.

  For me, seeing him as a manager was naturally rewarding. Our lockers had been next to each other, and we had grown close. He was beloved by everyone, not just me, because he was such a complete human being—tough, goofy, passionate, silly, and caring too. He wasn’t just good to me as a ballplayer. As we grew closer he took the time and interest to get to know my family. It’s one of the great marks of Yogi, and the same was true of George. They both cared enough to develop a genuine relationship with my family as well as with me.

  Yogi was smart enough to know that if you sign up to manage for George Steinbrenner, there’s a good chance it’s not going to last for long. The same is true for any sports team really, but managing under George was an extreme example. Heck, Billy had to leave midway through the season, after winning the World Series! So Yogi didn’t have any delusions about being the manager forever.

  But the way he was fired was hard for me to stomach. We were sixteen games into the ’85 season, in Chicago, when George made the decision. First of all, that’s way too early in the season to make a change. But the worst thing was that George didn’t call Yogi to tell him the news, or deliver it face-to-face. Someone else in the front office informed Yogi. The veteran guys like me and Willie, who knew Yogi well, we were pissed.