by Doug Harvey
There was a hearing. Sutton took his lawyer, his manager, and his general manager, and they all went and hammered Chub Feeney, the president of the National League, and Feeney decided they must have been scuffed by the ground or maybe before they left the ball bag. They gave all kinds of excuses. Feeney let Sutton off with a slap on the wrist.
My next game was in Montreal, and as I stood there at third base I was so upset that Sutton wasn’t suspended or fined that I couldn’t keep the tears from coming to my eyes. I was talking to myself, telling myself that I ought to quit and go home. That’s how upset I was.
In the tenth inning, the Expos had a runner on third and two outs. I was still crying when the Philadelphia pitcher balked. It should have won the game for Montreal. Gary Carter, who was on third base, screamed at me, “Harvey, he balked.”
But I had tears in my eyes, and I was so choked up I never saw it. When he balked, I was at the point where I was going to break out crying, because the decision had been so disrespectful to the game of baseball.
After the game, I told Joy that I was going to quit, but she talked me out of it.
“Stay with it a couple of days and see if you still feel that way,” she said.
I held a meeting with my umpiring crew and told them what Feeney had decided. They were almost as despondent as I was.
“Let me tell you something,” I said. “I don’t want you looking at any ball. If anyone shows you, throw it out, because we tried—we did our job—and they didn’t back us up, so screw it. We’re not going to throw any balls out.”
And that’s what we did the rest of the year.
I went back to umpiring, but, man, that hurt me. To think I had done it properly, and because Sutton had a lawyer and a manager and his general manager, he got off. Nah, that was no good. I mean, it hurt me clear to my heart. I knew the guy was cheating and they refused to back me.
— 9 —
Then there was Gaylord Perry, a Hall of Famer and the cleverest motherfucker I ever saw. He threw a spitter, which is illegal. He could load that thing up. We knew he was putting some kind of shit on the ball. We just couldn’t catch him. We were in San Francisco and Gaylord was pitching. Shag Crawford said to me, “All right, keep your eye on me. When I see him turn his back to me to rub up a new ball, you come running, and we’re going to catch that son of a bitch.”
I ran in and he still had his head down, rubbing up the ball, and I took the ball. I rubbed my hands on his shirt and we found—absolutely nothing. I don’t know what he did.
A few years ago, I saw him at the Hall of Fame ceremonies. I had to find out.
“Gaylord,” I said. “Tell me, how did you do it? Where did you hide that shit?”
“What shit, Harv?”
“C’mon. I have to know before I die.”
“Magic, Harv, magic.”
“Gaylord.”
“Well, maybe we’ll sit down one day and have a talk.”
I’m still waiting.
Chub Feeney, who had been the Giants’ general manager and was Giant owner Horace Stoneham’s nephew, became the president of the National League in 1970. When he took over, he announced, “We’re going to chase all the spitballers out of our league.”
He told the umpires, “If a ball acts like a spitball, if it’s a strike, I want you to call it a ball. If the batter hits it for an out, you bring the batter back.”
And that’s what we did in spring training, and all of them who were using the spitter jumped over to the American League. And then within two years the American League did the same thing. They were chased right out of baseball.
Gaylord Perry came out with his own solution to the problem. He was pitching for the San Diego Padres, and the son of a bitch invented the puffball. He had the grounds crew put a huge resin bag on the mound in San Diego. It was dry resin, and he would take it and bounce it in his hand, and then he’d take the ball and put it in his hand, and when he pitched it, the ball would come out of a puff of white smoke so the batter couldn’t pick it up right away. It was distracting to the batter, but what was funny about it was that the batters never said a word about it. They figured he was just using resin.
I always said, “Gaylord Perry is the cleverest son of a bitch I ever saw.”
— 10 —
I saw some wonderful hitters as well. As far as I’m concerned, Willie Mays was the best player I ever saw. I came up when he was still in his prime. What an amazing athlete. It’s just a shame that he had to play so many games in Candlestick Park. Anywhere else, he would’ve broken Babe Ruth’s home-run record.
I can recall a game in which Willie slid into third base trying to beat the throw, and Jocko Conlan called him out. After Willie slid in, he leaped up and put both his hands on Jocko’s chest. Very slowly, Jocko looked down at his chest, and let me tell you, I never saw a player run so fast in all his life. Willie took off for the bench—which was on the first-base line—and didn’t stop until he reached the dugout. He did that because he knew if he had waited around any longer, Jocko would have run him. Jocko didn’t give a shit who he ran.
People think umpires have favorites. I’ll tell you who our favorites are: The ones who can keep their mouths shut and play the game. And Willie played the game. I’m telling you, if Willie had stood there another second, he’d have been gone.
— 11 —
Stan Musial was the best hitter I ever saw. And Hank Aaron and Billy Williams were the only two hitters I saw who could make that bat sing. Roberto Clemente was very quiet. He never said much, but when he was at bat—if he didn’t like a call—he could turn and give you a look, and everybody in the crowd immediately knew that Roberto was accusing you of kicking the call. Though he was the quietest of ballplayers, Roberto could get you in the outhouse just by looking at you.
I was there the day he got his three thousandth hit. The Pirates were playing the New York Mets at Three Rivers Stadium on September 30, 1972. Jon Matlack was pitching for the Mets, and I was the second-base umpire. After Clemente hit the ball, it went toward center field.
I was standing near second when the throw came in to the shortstop.
“Let’s see it, son,” I said.
He gave me the ball.
“Roberto, congratulations,” I said. And I handed him the ball and shook his hand.
- - -
If I had to take a hustler, it’d be Pete Rose.
One of the joys of umpiring is getting to watch the new kids come up from the minor leagues. Sometimes a kid will come along who just impresses the hell out of you, and in spring training in 1963, Pete Rose was one of those kids.
Before a game I walked up to him and said, “Hi, pardner, how are you doing?”
“I’m Pete Rose,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Doug Harvey,” I said, “and you can call me umpire or you can call me sir.”
“Okay,” he said. “I understand you.”
The kid was happy-go-lucky, and he knocked our socks off the first time he walked, because on ball four he sprinted to first base. I knew then that Pete was different. Later, toward the end of spring training, I was umpiring his game and suddenly this kid, who had been talking his head off every minute, was standing at second base not saying a word.
“Pete, what’s bothering you?” I asked him.
“Well, I don’t think I’m going to make this ball club,” he said. “They have so many good players.”
“Shit, Pete, let me tell you something,” I said. “You’re not only going to make this ball club, you’re going to be around for a long time.”
Little did I know. I was just trying to pump the kid up, to let him know he had a chance.
“You think so?” he asked.
“I really do,” I said.
Boy, he came alive, and when he hit the league he was like a breath of fresh air. He played the game the way children play the game. He played it with everything he had and put his heart into it. Pete was good for baseball, and he was good
for baseball for many years.
Late in his career, Pete was playing with Montreal. My umpire crew flew there and I was bringing our bags from the airport to the ballpark, because when we went to Canada, we had to haul them ourselves. It was an off day and the other guys went home, and here it was the middle of August, hotter than hell, and I was bringing the bags in. I got the equipment man to get me a hand cart, and as I was hauling the bags out of the car I could hear this crack, crack, crack, crack. I couldn’t understand what I was hearing. It sounded like someone was taking batting practice, even though it was an off day.
I walked into the ballpark, and on the field one of the batboys was feeding Rose pitches, and he was taking batting practice all by himself. No one worked harder at his game than Pete.
That pretty much tells you what you need to know about Pete Rose. At the time he was leading the league in hitting. He was intense, perhaps the most intense player I ever saw.
As a batter, Pete wasn’t above questioning a call. And I wasn’t above using my years of experience to shut him up.
Pete was playing with Philadelphia, and the Phils were playing the Mets in Philadelphia. Doc Gooden was pitching for New York. Pete came up to bat and Gooden threw a pitch, and I called a strike. Pete stepped out of the box and made a face, and suddenly sixty thousand of Philadelphia’s finest were giving me the razz.
“Harv,” Pete said to me, “he doesn’t need any help.”
I just looked at him and crossed my arms. I didn’t even take my mask off.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re better than that. Don’t let him fool you.”
As Pete stepped into the box, I said to him in a low voice, “I know it missed home plate.”
Pete leaped out of the box, and again the Philly throng made their feelings known.
“How come you called it a strike?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, “I’m not as young as I used to be, Pete. I have a little trouble seeing now. And I guess from now on I’m going to have to call anything that’s close a strike. So why don’t you get back in there, and we’ll see what we can do.”
I wasn’t above having a little fun on my own.
Doc threw another pitch, and Pete liked to have taken Gooden’s head off. He ripped a single right over his right shoulder. Pete got to first base, and I took a glance over there. He had both his hands out with his palms up, explaining to the first-base coach that the pitch was this high.
My feeling was that Pete was good for baseball because the man loved the game. There’s no doubt in my mind. He was one of the few players I can really say had fun in the game. He had as much fun playing as I had umpiring.
When Pete was chasing the National League consecutive-game hit streak record, our umpiring crew lived with him. He was hitting shots. The night the streak ended, he hit two shots, one of them at the third baseman and the other back to the pitcher. And then the other team brought in a reliever who refused to throw anything close to a strike. Pete had to chase pitches he normally wouldn’t swing at, which I thought was really unfair to him. What was that pitcher going to be able to say? I stopped Pete Rose’s streak? Who cares? Pete Rose was who the fans cared about.
I was there for both Hank Aaron’s chase to beat Babe Ruth’s career home-run record of 714 and for Pete Rose’s chase to break Ty Cobb’s record of 4,191 hits. It seemed that more importance was placed on Pete Rose chasing his record than Hank Aaron chasing the Babe.
Hank had finished the 1973 season one home run short of the record. The Dodgers came into Atlanta early the next season to play the Braves. The ball was jumping out of the ballpark, and on April 8, 1974, Hank hit a home run off Dodger pitcher Al Downing to break Ruth’s record. He finished his career with 755 home runs.
Hank was like Clemente. They were both sullen. I understood it. Both had to fight the racism of the time. If Hank didn’t agree with a call, he would have a say, but it would be under his breath and not loud. He wouldn’t put on a big show. He’d just let me know that he disagreed, and that’s exactly the way Clemente was.
As I said, the American public seemed more excited about Pete breaking his record than Hank breaking his. Was it racism? I don’t know. I hate to think that. The game is much too big for that. To think it could be sullied because of something like that—even to kick it around, to wonder—turns my stomach a little bit.
- - -
It makes me ache me to see Pete Rose on the outside. From his play, he certainly belongs in the Hall of Fame, but he definitely broke the rules of baseball by betting on his own team. If you walk into any dressing room, you can see in red lettering the things you are forbidden from doing, and one of them is betting on baseball. Pete said he never bet against his team, but I don’t give a damn. You can’t bet.
Pete had a problem with gambling. He had an addiction to it. I was revulsed by the idea of it.
— 12 —
One of the great dangers of being a major league umpire is the possibility of putting yourself in a position where you can help someone win a bet on baseball. I was always very aware of that, and I made it a practice to avoid anyone who bet, who talked about betting, who wanted inside information, or anyone whom I felt might compromise my integrity. I only lost my focus one time.
In 1969 the New York Mets were scheduled to play the Atlanta Braves in the first play-off games. Everyone figured Atlanta was going to win it, because the Braves had sluggers Hank Aaron, Orlando Cepeda, and Rico Carty.
I was at home, having coffee with my folks, and my dad said to me, “I look for Atlanta to sweep the Mets.”
“What do you mean, Dad?”
“They have these boys hitting home runs,” he said.
“Dad,” I said, “let me give you a little hint: Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, Gary Gentry, and Nolan Ryan. These guys are outstanding pitchers, and outstanding pitchers will always beat outstanding hitters.”
It’s the reason you often have low scores in the World Series. The teams in the series most often are the ones with good pitching.
“You really think those young guys have a chance?” he asked.
“Dad,” I said, “they have a real good chance.”
I finished my coffee and went on my way.
After the series was over—a series the Mets won in five games—my dad came up to me and said, “I can’t thank you enough.”
“What for?”
“I had bet a hundred dollars on Atlanta to win. And when you told me about the Mets pitchers, I went and bet five hundred on the Mets.”
I was horrified.
“Jesus Christ, Dad,” I said. “This is the way I make my living. Don’t ever ask me who’s going to win.”
And he never did again.
I made it clear: My job was not to tout people.
I have to tell myself that I understand what baseball did to Pete, because baseball had warned him what it was going to do if the betting rule was violated.
And so Pete Rose, in my opinion, was the best thing that ever happened to baseball—and the worst. He deserves what he got. But I thought the world of him. Pete may get elected to the Hall of Fame when he’s dead, because he has the numbers. He beat Ty Cobb’s hit record. He was one of the greats.
CHAPTER 12
JOCKO AND SHAG
— 1 —
Toward the end of my second year in the big leagues, Sports Illustrated wrote an article in which it voted me the outstanding umpire in the National League. Al Barlick was spitting nickels, believe me. It was tough for him to take. And tough for a lot of the other veteran umpires as well.
Oh, did Barlick try to bury me. I went to the guy who wrote the article and pleaded with him, “Please, whatever you do, don’t ever do this again. You’ve gotten me buried.”
Fortunately for me, after two years of being tortured by Al Barlick, I was transferred to Jocko Conlan’s crew for the 1964 season. Jocko was a little guy, feisty, and he’d fight at the drop of a hat. He was a presence, which is a central theme when y
ou talk about the great ones.
Jocko Conlan was an ex-ballplayer. He had played outfield for the Chicago White Sox, and after his playing days were over, he used to work the high steel in Chicago.
One day he was up on a tall skyscraper, and he said it was colder than shit. He just couldn’t believe how cold it was, and he was having trouble hanging on to the steel.
“Fuck this,” he said, and as he rode down he told himself, I’m going someplace where the sun shines.
He headed for Arizona, and when he arrived, the Cubs were playing the St. Louis Browns. When umpire Red Ormsby fell ill because of the heat, Jocko was asked if he would fill in.
“Jocko,” they said, “we won’t give you any shit.”
He went out, fell in love with it, and asked if he could get a job umpiring in the minor leagues. The next year he was umpiring in the minors. His major league umpiring career began in 1941, and I was part of his crew when he retired in 1965.
His most famous argument was with Leo Durocher. Leo was kicking dirt and accidentally kicked Jocko in the shins. Jocko, angered, kicked Leo in the shins. Jocko, the plate umpire, was wearing shin guards. Leo wasn’t.
Afterward Leo was heard to say, “You guys are wearing shin guards. What the fuck was I doing?”
Jocko was a sweetheart. I loved working with him. Jocko could charm anyone. He always had the writers around him, and that just pissed off Al Barlick. Jocko and Al hated each other. Jocko could make friends with anybody and Al couldn’t. Al always said Jocko made it to the Hall of Fame because of all the sportswriters he befriended. That’s not fair. Jocko was an excellent umpire, and of course he was behind the plate when Don Larsen pitched his perfect game. That didn’t hurt.
Jocko was the funniest guy I ever umpired with. One time we were in Milwaukee when a beach ball went bouncing out past second base. Jocko was umpiring at second. Jocko ran over and grabbed the ball, which he stuck under his arm like it was a football. He went running off the field, putting out his left arm like he was going to straight-arm someone.