The Mouth That Roared

by Dallas Green

  For one day, at least, the game looked easy. If only it had stayed that way.

  * * *

  I battled with my players the whole year. You’ve heard about player revolts that cause managers to lose the clubhouse? Well, in 1980, I lost the clubhouse almost every day. Luzinski, Mike Schmidt, Larry Bowa, Garry Maddox, and Bob Boone viewed me with suspicion or outright hostility. They scoffed at the “We, not I” signs I hung in the clubhouse in Clearwater. Who was Dallas Green to tell a team that went to the playoffs three out of the past four years how to conduct its business? They viewed my job as easy. Put the team on auto-pilot and watch the wins pile up. At the end of the day, they believed they ran the team.

  They were missing one key point, however. As much as I liked winning games in April, it didn’t amount to a hill of beans if we couldn’t win them in October. I set out to develop a culture that valued that way of thinking. As a manager who had the complete backing of his general manager and owner, I felt confident I could accomplish that. It might take time, but I believed it would happen. Thankfully, the baseball season is long.

  It helped that I had some of the big boys on my side from the beginning. Steve Carlton was happy as hell. Going into his 16th major league season, all he wanted was his first championship. And he didn’t think Danny Ozark was capable of delivering one.

  Pete Rose needed no motivation or babysitting to go out and compete with total pride and dedication; that was the only way he knew to play. He was the only Phillie to appear in all 162 regular season games in 1980.

  Bake McBride and Manny Trillo didn’t get too mixed up in the cliques, probably because they hadn’t been on the team as long as some of the others. And I sensed Tug McGraw also had warmed up to me. On a rainy day in Clearwater, Tugger and I shared a light moment after a workout. I saw him sliding headfirst across the muddy infield and decided to join him. It was instinct on my part, but I think it showed I knew how to enjoy myself.

  That made five veterans who weren’t going to bitch and moan every time Dallas Green looked at them the wrong way or made a critical comment.

  I knew baseball was fun when you’re winning. And I saw no reason not to have a lot of fun in 1980.

  * * *

  Our offense carried us to a lot of wins in the first months of the season. Through May, we led the league in runs scored, mainly because Schmidt and Luzinski were first and second in the National League in home runs, respectively.

  Starting pitching had emerged as a weakness, however. Dick Ruthven was returning from an injury. Nino Espinosa was sidelined by a shoulder problem. Larry Christenson underwent elbow surgery at the end of May. And Randy Lerch, though healthy, started the season 0–6. After his poor start, Lerch and I got crossways with each other. I sat him for 10 days to see if a little rest might reignite his competitive spirit. Though he won his next start, the time off didn’t have a lasting effect.

  That left us with Carlton—en route to 24 wins and his third Cy Young Award—and a lot of question marks.

  Few things irritated me more than squandering a quality start by Carlton. Early in the season, Lefty pitched seven strong innings against the Mets, but despite having runners on base most every inning, we couldn’t get on the scoreboard. After the 3–0 loss, I read the team the riot act: “You sons of bitches can’t even play for a future Hall of Famer! You forget where you are! You forget what you’re doing! We’re supposed to have pride and character, but you don’t show it! Well, if you can’t show it for the best pitcher in the game, who the hell else are you going to show it for?”

  Injuries and ineffectiveness prompted us to promote 23-year- old Bob Walk from Triple-A Oklahoma City at the end of May. He went out and won 11 games for us in ’80, the third-most of any pitcher on the team.

  Somehow, despite our pitching woes, we managed to go 17–9 in May. But we played only average baseball in June and July. With the Pirates and the Expos showing they were every bit as strong as we were, we couldn’t afford to get stuck in a rut. The 1979 season had gotten off to a promising start, too. Then it fell apart.

  As it turned out, the team’s biggest headlines in July weren’t generated by our play, but rather by a police investigation of the team doctor for the Double-A Reading Phillies. It was alleged he illegally supplied amphetamines to several members of the major league team. The players implicated in the media reports varied from story to story, so it’s not worth mentioning any names here. But the scandal, if you want to call it that, prompted the Philadelphia Daily News to call us “The Pillies.” Players’ use of energy-boosting drugs was an open secret at the time. A year earlier, Pete Rose had admitted in Playboy that he popped “greenies” before games. Nobody wants to see the integrity of his team questioned like that, but I left it to the players to answer questions about the whole deal. It was their responsibility, not mine.

  * * *

  In early August, a few days after my 46th birthday, we went to Pittsburgh for a four-game series hoping to make a statement. Entering the series, we were 55–48 and in third place, three games behind the Expos. The Pirates were wedged between us and Montreal. If we could pull off a sweep at Three Rivers Stadium, we’d travel to Chicago to play a woeful Cubs team in no worse than second place. If we took three out of four, we’d be neck and neck with the defending champs and still nipping at the Expos’ heels.

  But two days and two losses later, the game plan had changed. Having lost precious ground in the standings, a Sunday doubleheader against Pittsburgh felt like a battle for survival.

  Before the first game of the twin bill, Schmitty took it upon himself to call a players-only meeting. I had no problem with that. I felt our so-called team leaders weren’t vocal enough in the clubhouse. If Schmitty felt he was finally ready to show some emotion that might motivate his teammates, I wasn’t going to stand in his way.

  Mr. Cool didn’t have any magic words, however. We went out and committed three errors in a 7–1 loss to Jim Bibby and the Pirates.

  As we drifted toward defeat, I decided it would be my turn to have a word or two with the team. Between games of the doubleheader, I kicked all the reporters out of the clubhouse and unleashed the angriest diatribe of my career. Even though the scribes had been banished to the hallway, they could still hear my words through the cinder blocks that separated them from the clubhouse.

  “Get off your fucking rear ends and beat somebody!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “You have to stop being so fucking cool! Can you get that through your fucking heads?! If you don’t, you’ll get so fucking buried, it ain’t gonna be funny. Get the fuck off your asses!”

  I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I proceeded with my R-rated screaming session.

  In the short term, my appeal to the club was just as fruitless as Schmitty’s. In the second game of the doubleheader, we committed two more errors and Pittsburgh beat us 4–1 to finish off the sweep. During the game, the raw emotions of the day bubbled to the surface again. With one run home for the Pirates in the bottom of the seventh inning, I ordered relief pitcher Ron Reed to intentionally walk Willie Stargell with first base open and Bill Madlock coming to the plate. After getting the signal, Ronnie stepped off the mound. Boone went out there to check on him. I could tell by the defiant look on Ronnie’s face that he didn’t want to follow my instructions. He ended up issuing the pass to Stargell, and the inning ended when Madlock grounded into a double play.

  When Ronnie got back to the dugout, I got right in his face. I’m a tall man, but Ronnie, who had played in the NBA, had at least an inch on me. He was the strong, silent type who preferred a quiet chat in private. In other words, he was the opposite of me.

  “What’s your fucking problem?” I screamed at him.

  We went toe to toe, each of us waiting for the other to throw the first punch. Fortunately for me, a couple of guys pulled us apart.

  The disastrous series in Pittsburgh put u
s six games behind the Pirates and the Expos with less than two months left to play.

  On our way out of town, I delivered a much calmer message for the press: “I’m just not going to let them quit on themselves. I won’t quit on them. I’m sure the fans in Philadelphia won’t quit.”

  That night, my coaches and I went out to dinner and, as we were wont to do, we tore the hell out of the place. We ate, we drank, and we were merry. It was a much-needed release from all the tension.

  * * *

  In 1980, our core group of players gave us a chance to win every night. Over the course of their careers, Schmidt had hit a lot of game- winning home runs, Rose had banged out a lot of three-hit nights, and Carlton had pitched a lot of shutouts. I hoped they and our other veterans would continue to perform at a high level.

  But unlike Ozark, I planned to rely on young players to give us a positive jolt. If we didn’t meet my expectations, I didn’t want it to be because I had been afraid to shake up the status quo.

  When Pope hired me as manager, it was with the understanding I wouldn’t necessarily award playing time simply based on years of service. I helped build our farm system and knew we had several players in the minors who were ready to make an impact with the Phillies. The guys who were coming up through our minor league system were willing to run off a cliff for me. In a clubhouse where a lot of players wanted to throw me off a cliff, the loyalty and enthusiasm of those guys provided an essential balance.

  One of those guys was Keith Moreland. I first encountered Keith in 1975 when he was a junior at the University of Texas, getting ready for a game between the Longhorns and SMU. On my recommendation, the Phillies took him in the seventh round of that year’s draft. He later told me his brief interaction with me in Austin helped convince him to sign with the Phillies rather than return for his senior year of college. “You reminded me of my father,” he said. “I had a feeling you were someone I should follow.”

  From the get-go, Keith showed he had a bright future in the game. In addition to natural talent, he hustled, played smart, and accepted new challenges without grumbling. A third baseman in college, he needed to switch positions if he wanted to play regularly for the Phillies in the near future. So, he learned to be a catcher.

  Keith performed well in the low minor leagues, but he hit a bump in the road when he got to Double-A in 1976. One of my responsibilities at the time was negotiating contracts with our minor leaguers. Following his subpar months at Reading, I sent Keith what I considered a fair contract offer. He didn’t see it that way. “I really worked my tail off last season, and I think I deserve a little more money,” he told me. I didn’t blink. “If you had worked your tail off, you’d be getting a little more money,” I said. The conversation made me feel a little like John Quinn, who as Phillies general manager in the late 1960s gave me a similar, if less pointed denial, of a pay raise.

  Keith went out the next season and worked his tail off. The following year he was promoted to Triple-A, where he continued to blossom.

  With Boone struggling to find his hitting stroke in 1980, I decided to give Keith a shot to show what he could do. In July, he started getting a lot of playing time. And over the final months of the 1980 season, he hit well over .300.

  Keith and Booney developed a harmonious relationship. Though he wasn’t swinging the bat well, Booney remained a stellar defensive catcher. During games that Keith started behind the plate, Booney would sit next to him in the dugout and fill his head with knowledge about opposing hitters.

  Lonnie Smith, a first-round pick in 1974, also gave us a boost by hitting .339 and stealing a team-leading 33 bases. Lonnie’s play earned him a starting spot in left field on a lot of nights. That caused some friction between Luzinski and me. But Lonnie was hitting a hundred points higher than Bull, so what was I supposed to do?

  The emergence of Moreland and Smith gave me additional options when filling out the lineup card. When it came to using young pitchers, however, I was acting out of necessity, not by choice.

  In all, we got 24 wins from pitchers 23 or younger, including five in as many September starts from late season call-up Marty Bystrom. Originally, Marty was going to break camp with us, but a hamstring injury at the end of spring training forced him back to the minors. After Larry Christenson went down, Marty, only 22 years old, got thrown into the middle of a major league pennant race.

  He didn’t blink.

  On September 10, we trailed the Expos by half a game going into a two-game series at Shea Stadium. Marty pitched a complete game, shutting out the Mets and limiting them to just five hits. The next time out he pitched seven scoreless innings against the Cardinals. Over 21 days in September, Marty made five crucial starts and won every one of them, a level of success he never attained again in his career.

  Marty kept his composure under sometimes difficult circumstances. In a September game against the Cubs, home-plate umpire Terry Tata squeezed him on several pitches. But the kid kept his cool, working around a season-high four walks to pick up a key victory.

  Marty and the other young guys on the team had to pinch themselves when they looked around the clubhouse and realized Schmidt, Rose, and Carlton were their teammates. But while they had enormous respect for those guys, they weren’t going to blindly follow them. The kids were Dallas Green guys, even if some of the veterans weren’t.

  * * *

  We faced two possible scenarios after our August sweep at the hands of the Pirates. Either pent-up tension would continue to rise to the surface, causing us to stumble, or we would use the Pittsburgh series as a wake-up call and pull ourselves together.

  The day after the sweep, we boarded a charter flight to Chicago, where we started a nearly two-month period that featured both of those scenarios.

  Before the first game of the Cubs series, I had a one-on-one meeting with Ron Reed. I told him that my directives needed to be followed without protest. End of story. We didn’t discuss our near-fight in the dugout. Nothing needed to be said about that. It was a case of two competitors letting their frustration get the better of them. No harm, no foul.

  That afternoon in Chicago, I went back to Ronnie out of the bullpen and gave him a chance to help us break a 10-game road losing streak. We led 5–3 going into the bottom of the ninth inning, but he coughed up a couple of runs, sending the game into extra innings. The Cubs scored the tying run after I ordered Ronnie to issue an intentional walk. He did so without protest this time.

  The game was stopped because of darkness in the 14th inning, but we came back the next day and won the suspended game, as well as the regularly scheduled game. Schmitty hit two home runs and knocked in five RBIs in the two contests.

  After a loss to the Cubs in the series finale, we went to New York and swept five games from the Mets.

  But the road was still bumpy. I had a helluva time getting some of my players to buy into my program.

  Luzinski played with hunger early in the season, but by the time he went on the disabled list in early July, he was hitting just .245. As he slumped, I started turning more to Lonnie Smith. And that’s when Bull went to the newspapers and compared me to the Gestapo.

  Bull wasn’t the only disenchanted Phillie, of course. Bowa and Maddox were among those who disdained my tactics. I was too critical, in their opinion. Translation: they didn’t like when I talked about obvious mistakes that everybody watching the game noticed. They thought I should have pretended that nothing happened, or at least kept my criticism out of the papers.

  At the end of August in San Diego, Maddox lost two fly balls in the sun after choosing not to remove a pair of sunglasses from his back pocket. In that same series, Bowa also played shaky defense. We couldn’t afford mental mistakes from two guys who were supposed to be team leaders.

  Maddox didn’t like his defensive prowess being questioned. By winning Gold Gloves every year from 1975 to 1979, he had earned his nic
kname, the Secretary of Defense. But he knew many Philadelphia fans still remembered his dropped fly ball against the Dodgers in the 1978 playoffs that may have cost the Phillies the series. I wasn’t trying to pick at an old wound, nor did I want to hurt Garry’s pride by bringing up haunting memories of ’78. I just wanted him to wear his damn sunglasses! It was as simple as that.

  * * *

  Losing two straight to the last-place San Diego Padres was unacceptable. In a winner-take-all race, a team rarely backed into a division title. If we couldn’t beat the likes of San Diego, either the Pirates or the Expos were going to leave us in the dust.

  It didn’t surprise me that Pope shared my concerns. San Francisco was our next stop after San Diego. On the short flight up the California coast, my mentor pounded a couple of drinks and stewed over the losses at Jack Murphy Stadium.

  “Goddamnit, Dallas, we’re playing like horseshit,” Pope moaned. “I think I need to give these sons of bitches a kick in the ass.”

  At the hotel in San Francisco, his frustration mounted. We sat in his suite, had another drink, and discussed how to save the season from unraveling. Pope left the door to the room wide open, which gave us a clear view of the hallway. Well after midnight, pitchers Dickie Noles and Kevin Saucier walked by. They froze in place when they got to the open door. Big mistake. Pope let loose on them, not because they had missed curfew, but because they were Phillies players, and goddamn it, he wasn’t enamored with Phillies players at that moment!

  Before we called it a night, Pope said, “I’m going to talk to the club.”

  After the way he upbraided Noles and Saucier, it didn’t surprise me that he wanted a crack at the entire team.