by Jim Bouton
The game depressed me, and coming back to the Astroworld Hotel with Bobbie gone depressed me even further. (Tommy Davis, by the way, has decided against having a roommate. I’m sure it’s not because I’m white.) Besides, my stomach has been bothering me and Jim Owens didn’t win any fights, so Jimmy Ray, who is called “Ultraviolent Ray” since his scuffle with Blasingame, will be starting against Cincinnati and not me.
Another thing that’s depressing. I finally got the traveling-expense check from Seattle and $88.68 was deducted from the $900. That’s what Marvin Milkes says is what it cost to repair a clubhouse door I, little old Jim Bouton, pulled off its hinges in a fit of anger. Now, wait a minute. It’s true enough that I kicked a door. It was such a minor matter I never even mentioned it in this little diary. All I did was kick it a little bit after one of my frustrating appearances and broke loose a bit of molding. Johnny McNamara said not to worry about it, it was a small deal. And now this stupid bill.
As soon as I think up something awful enough to do about it I will.
A group of terrorized pitchers stood around the batting cage watching Willie McCovey belt some tremendous line drives over the right-field fence. Every time a ball bounced into the seats we’d all make little whimpering animal sounds. “Hey, Willie,” I said. “Can you do that whenever you want to?”
He didn’t crack a smile.
“Just about,” he said, and he hit another one.
More animal sounds.
One of the Houston radio announcers, Loel Passe, interviewed me and a few of the guys were on the earie, so I thought I’d entertain them. “Congratulations are certainly in order for the job you did last night,” Loel said.
And I said, “Loel, I couldn’t agree with you more. I was absolutely fabulous out there.”
Broke the lads up.
I learned that from Mickey Mantle. He’d be interviewed by some announcer about a home run he hit, with the wind blowing from left to right and the ball had been curving into the wind and thus was saved from going foul. “That’s right,” Mickey said. “When I noticed the wind blowing like that—I always check, you know—I put the proper English on the ball, left or right, up or down, depending upon which way the wind is blowing.”
And the poor guy just said, “Uhuh, uhuh, uhuh.”
Most interviewers don’t listen to the answers; they’re too busy thinking of the next question. I’ve often been tempted, when I notice a guy’s eyes all glazed over, when I’m answering a question to say something like, “I believe you know that there were over 20,000 tons of iron ore shipped from Yugoslavia in 1948.” And I’m sure he’d say, “Uhuh, uhuh.”
Bob Watson’s name was on the lineup card but he couldn’t play. Seems he was catching some weirdo knuckleball pitcher the other day and the ball took a strange hop in the air and hit him on the finger. He’s been taking whirlpool treatments, but the finger is still fat and he can’t grip a bat. Sorry about that. I wish it had been Eddie O’Brien instead.
SEPTEMBER
19
Houston
Larry Dierker and I much prefer the Beatles to country-western music. As a protest against the amount of country-western we have to listen to, we have composed what we consider a typical song of the genre. It took us about two innings.
“I want my baby back again,
She done left town with my best friend,
And now I lie here all alone,
I’m just awaitin’ by the phone.
Her lips were sweet as summer wine,
And when I held her hand in mine,
I thought she’d never be untrue,
But now she’s broke my heart in two.
The mailman let me down today,
And so I made that mother pay,
And now I’m locked in this old jail,
And my dog died and there’s no bail.
My teardrops fall like pouring rain,
The bottle doesn’t ease my pain,
And no one gives a hoot for me,
Since Billy Joe took my Marie,
And ran away to Tennessee.
I wish I had someone to tell,
’Bout how I’m locked up in this cell,
And all my kinfolk dead and gone,
But with the Lord I’ll carry on.
Major difference between the National and American Leagues. In the American League part of the scouting report on a player is, “Watch out, he takes a big turn at first base and may go to second on you if you’re not careful.” Maybe one or two players on a team do that. In the National League everybody does it. It’s a hustling league.
I pitched two scoreless innings against the Reds, striking out the side in the eighth—Alex Johnson, Tony Perez and Johnny Bench, .300 hitters all. On the second strikeout, the game was stopped to announce that the Astros had broken the league record for strikeouts in a season, 1,123. And there were pictures of me with the ball and me with the manager, and I felt foolish. I mean, here are Dierker, Wilson and Griffin with about 200 strikeouts each, and me with 23, and I happen to be pitching when the record is broken. I feel as awkward about that as I feel about moving in as No. 1 relief man ahead of Fred Gladding. That’s why I was pleased that Gladding wound up getting credit for the win tonight, even though if I’d been left in the game I might have picked it up. Gladding has had a helluva year, no matter what’s happening right now. Me, all I had was a year with Sal Maglie and Joe Schultz.
Harry Walker was absolutely right. In the ninth inning we were down 2–0 and had a man on base.
So he reached down to his bag of tricks and pinch-hit Keith Lampard, a rookie outfielder, for Curt Blefary.
A natural move. They’re both left-handed hitters. Lampard won the game for Gladding with a big two-run homer and all the writers crowded around him after the game. And I said to Tommy Davis, “Do you remember the first time you did something big like that in the big leagues?”
He said he did. He said he also remembered when he was a rookie with the Dodgers and made his first trip back to New York to play in front of his home-town fans and friends. “I get a single my first time at bat and I’m going crazy,” Tommy said. “The first thing you know, I steal second and I’m out there with a big grin on my face, really having fun. I look up in the stands where my friends are and I shoot them a little bit of a wave and a big smile and I get picked off second base. Boy, did I feel terrible.”
He said another big thrill was the 1963 World Series. “Drysdale was the pitcher for us, Willie Davis was on second base, the score was nothing to nothing and I hit a hard smash off Bobby Richardson’s knee and we won 1–0. I forget who was pitching for them. Somebody named Button or Bontown or something.”
By this time I’d walked away and was in the shower room. I don’t have to listen to that stuff. And I yelled back from the shower, “Hard smash, my left clavicle. It was a goddam ground ball that bounced twenty-five times and took a bad hop off a pebble.”
I was happy for Lampard and could see he was having a lot of fun talking to the reporters. And I remembered when that would happen to me with the Yankees, the reporters would be all around me and several of the players would walk by making mouth-moving motions with their hands, meaning I was talking too much. I just don’t understand what goes through a man’s mind to make him behave that way. Hell, you got to live it up a little when you have a good day.
SEPTEMBER
20
I’m pitching with a runner on third base, and Bob Tolan, a left-handed hitter with a good average, is up. Ted Savage, a right-handed hitter with a batting average of around .220, is the next hitter. Harry Walker motions to Johnny Edwards to see if we want to walk Tolan and pitch to Savage. And I, big thinker that I am, indicate that I want to pitch to Tolan. So Harry gives me an okay wave.
Tolan promptly swats my second pitch into right-center for a triple. Savage I strike out on three pitches. In the dugout, Harry says, “Look, you’ve got a guy hitting .220 as opposed to a guy hitting .320.”
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��I was afraid if we walked Tolan he’d steal second base,” Edwards said.
“Okay, so Tolan gets on and steals second,” Harry said. “Savage gets a hit and drives both of them in. The score is 5–0 instead of 4–0, the way it is now. But as far as I’m concerned I want to hold them at three. Once they get over three that extra run doesn’t mean much because we’re in the eighth inning. Besides, Tolan’s very fast. Even if he tops the bat he can beat it out and you’ve got a man on third who’s going to score. Me, I walk him and pitch to Savage.”
Harry was absolutely right. Harry always is. It’s why he’s considered such a pain.
We were taking physical exams today, and I was glad. I think I need some help. I’ve lost about seven pounds in the last few weeks and my stomach has been telling me sad stories. Acid indigestion is my constant companion; heartburn keeps me awake. I don’t know if it’s because of missing my family or pitching every day of this damn pennant race, but I’m suffering.
I was waiting my turn, sitting next to Johnny Edwards, and somehow Jim Turner was mentioned. Maybe it was the talk of heartburn. At any rate, Turner was pitching coach in Cincinnati when Edwards was there. “Boy, that son of a bitch,” said Edwards. “I remember when Sammy Ellis won twenty games, Turner was with him every day. He knows how to take a winner and ride him to his next job. But when Ellis started going bad, Turner wouldn’t even talk to him. He got a sore arm and Turner didn’t say three words to him all season. The funny part was that the guys would kid Turner about being such a front-runner, but he couldn’t stop.” Front-running was in his blood.
Curt Blefary is a big, rough, physical man. He likes to slap people on the back too hard, jab you in the ribs, squeeze your arm black and blue. He also likes to charge Robert, our twenty-five-year-old clubhouse assistant, throw him to the floor and choke him until he starts to turn blue. Robert laughs about it and pretends he loves every minute of it. But when he sees Blefary, he runs the other way.
On the hospital elevator, Blefary said to Larry Dierker, “C’mon, Rock Pile, get on.”
“Curtis, what are you calling him ‘Rock Pile’ for?” I said. “He’s one of the more intelligent guys on this club.”
And Blefary said, “When I was in to see that eye doctor today he told me that with my eyes I should be hitting .450.”
It’s easier to ignore a question, sometimes, than try to answer it.
Johnny Edwards drove some of the players to the hospital, and when we got there he pulled his car into a spot marked “Doctors Only.” That’s baseball player all the way. We get used to special privileges and come to expect them. In the minor leagues a baseball player can tear up a bar or impregnate the mayor’s daughter and he’ll be asked please not to let it happen again. I’m certain that if they’d towed Edwards’ car away he wouldn’t have had to pay a fine. He’d have said we were with the Houston Astros and somebody would have said, “Oh, the Houston Astros. Okay. Sorry we had to tow you away. Please try to be more careful next time.”
I’ve seen guys get into bar fights and when the cops come the ballplayers are sneaked out the back way. Even if you get stopped for speeding you can usually get away with it if you let the cop know you’re a ballplayer. “Jim Bouton of the Astros? Hiya Jim, glad to see you. Suppose you can get me a couple of passes to the ballgame?”
SEPTEMBER
21
We have a day off between Cincinnati and our trip to Los Angeles. I’m going to see if I can get permission to stop off and see my family. I need some emotional refueling. So does the family. My wife tells me that when I’m not around for a long time the kids get restless and hard to handle.
I told Tommy Davis about being charged for a broken door and he said that the only man on the club who had strength enough to rip that door off its hinges was Brabender. “I hope you will call the man and get your money back,” Davis said.
I said I had, but somehow couldn’t get through to him. I also left word for him to call me, but somehow he hasn’t. I get the strange feeling he’s trying to avoid me. Just for that, it’s going to cost him. He’s responsible for the expenses of my moving to Vancouver, which I hadn’t planned to bill him for. It’s a small deal, but if he can take $88 from me, I can bill him for $97. Does he think he’s playing with kids?
SEPTEMBER
22
Harry Walker called the pitchers and catchers in for a meeting and made several good points. He thinks that the pitchers should practice their pick-off moves during games. Just keep trying to pick guys off, even if it’s not necessary. Then, when you really need it in a close game, maybe you’ll have it.
He also suggested we take an Exergenie home over the winter. He says it makes sense to keep your arm stretched. He also thinks we should work on some aspect of our pitching over the winter. We don’t have to do any actual pitching, he said; just practice our motion or pick-off move. You can do that in your bedroom, he said. (Our wives will love it.)
Finally he reminded us that you’re just as strong at thirty-five as you are at twenty-five. He said doctors have proven it. And he said the strongest time of your life is when you’re thirty. I hope Harry Walker’s right again.
The Houston Astros do not give paychecks to their players. The money is deposited in Judge Roy Hofheinz’ bank and the players write personal checks for the money. This does two things. It gives the bank an opportunity to hold onto your money for a while. And it gets you into the habit of banking with the Judge’s bank. The Judge never misses a trick.
SEPTEMBER
23
Called Gary Bell just to chat and find out how he was doing. He said he’d just been clipped for $100 by the White Sox for not meeting a curfew and it was the night before an off day. He said about ten guys got caught. But he personally was getting even “In the last eight days I’ve taken twenty-five baseballs home and I’m not going to stop until I have $100 worth.”
Then this: “What time is it there, Jim?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Don’t you have a game today?”
“Yes, but it’s a night game.”
“Are you sure?”
The rat.
Bell also said that things are going so bad he’s working on the knuckleball. He throws it in the outfield and gets pretty good movement on the ball about half the time.
Lots of luck.
I also called Steve Hovley, partly to see if he knew where I could find Marvin Milkes. In this modern time it’s impossible not to be able to reach a man by telephone, yet with Marvin Milkes, that seems to be the case. A lesser man than I would become suspicious.
Hovley said the pitchers had their party with the pitchers’ fund money (a good deal of it mine) and it was a good one. They had $500, spent it all and did it up brown: posh hotel suite, whiskey, champagne, caviar, the works. He said everybody said to tell me thanks.
Steve asked me how things were over here with Houston. I told him how closely they checked us into our rooms, and he said, “Right now baseball is about twenty years behind the most puritanical of freshman girl dormitories.”
Which reminded me of something Tommy Harper once said: “In the winter I have a beard, a mustache and wear my hair long and natural. But before I come to spring training I have to shave off my beard and mustache and cut my hair. I feel like I’m going to boot camp.”
With Jimmy Ray pitching, the Braves had runners on first and second and Clete Boyer was the hitter. Ray threw a curve ball and Boyer, attempting to bunt, fouled it back and there was a loud moan in the dugout. “What’s it all about, Don?” I said to Don Wilson. “We had our bastard play on,” he said. “And you’re not supposed to throw a curve ball on the bastard play.”
“What’s the bastard play?” I said.
“It’s where, in a bunt situation, the third baseman and the first baseman charge in for the bunt. The shortstop sneaks over and covers third and the second baseman sneaks over and covers first. Then, whomever fields the ball, fires it to third base. The guy on th
ird fires to first and maybe we get a double play. If we don’t, we at least get the lead runner.”
“But why is it called the bastard play?”
“Well, if the play works, it’s a real bastard for the other team,” Don said. “And if the hitter decides to swing away instead of bunt he’s got three big targets to hit, pitcher, first baseman and third baseman. All of them are charging in. If he swings it can be a real bastard for them.”
And the reason Ray should not have thrown the curve is that when the play is on you want the guy to bunt, and it’s harder to bunt a curve ball than a fastball. The idea, Harry said, is to just lay it in there and let him bunt. Once again, Harry was right.
My super knuck is gone. And I got racked. No innings pitched; four earned runs on three hits and a walk. Actually the knuckler was fair, but I had no control over it. In fact a couple of balls got away from Marty Martinez and Harry took him out with a count of 2 and 0 and the poor fellow was embarrassed, angry at himself, and angry at Harry for taking him out.
I was embarrassed myself. With the count 3 and 1 on Rico Carty I threw him a fastball that had nothing on it, just trying to get it over for a strike, and he hit a line drive that almost tore my head off. With first base open, I should have thrown him a low knuckler and taken my chances of walking him. Harry was pretty good about taking me out of that shambles. He just waved for the new pitcher and said, “Hang in there. Once in a while you have days like that.” So I trudged off the mound to a smattering of applause, tipped my cap to show my class and, well, now Jim Owens knows what I mean when I say there are days when I just don’t have it. He’s been telling me that he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
After the game Marty Martinez came over and apologized for missing so many and I told him to forget it. I’m hell on catchers. Found out tonight that Watson’s finger is broken. All those whirlpool treatments and it only got worse. I feel bad about that.