Ball Four (RosettaBooks Sports Classics) (26 page)

We’ll know better after this next series. The Baltimore Orioles are in town. Which reminds me of a cartoon I once saw. It showed a little boy forlornly carrying a glove and a bat over his shoulder. “How’d you do, son?” his father asks. “I had a no-hitter going until the big kids got out of school,” the kid says.

Another round of musical lockers today. John Gelnar was called up from Vancouver and Darrell Brandon was outrighted to Tucson. Brandon didn’t take it very well. I was sitting next to him when Eddie O’Brien said, “Joe wants to see you.”

“Oh, oh,” Brandon said.

“Can’t be that, Bucky,” I said. “It’s the wrong time.”

When he came out of Joe’s office he said, “Tucson. They outrighted me to Tucson. Boy, this just kills me. What am I going to tell Liz? She just got up here and we just got settled in and now we’ve got to move again.”

At that moment I happened to look across the room—and there was Steve Barber getting his road uniform refitted. I guess he wants to look good while sitting in the diathermy machine. “You son of a bitch,” I said to myself. “You’re the guy who won’t go down in order to help the club. Instead you hang around here, can’t pitch and now other guys are sent down because of you.” I got tremendously pissed off just thinking about it.

Talbot and I got to talking about Houk in the bullpen and we agreed that sometimes the man is 99 percent pure bullshit. “I was 0 and 8 last year,” Talbot said, “and he came around to tell me he was taking me out of the rotation, not because I was pitching bad but because he thought the club was pressing too much behind me.” That’s called having smoke blown up your ass.

I tried to let Joe know that I haven’t been pitching much lately. “I sure could use a workout,” I said.

And Joe Schultz said, “If you need a workout go down to a whorehouse.”

Second best suggestion of the day. Going over the hitters it was decided that we should pitch Frank Robinson underground.

Ray Oyler (dubbed Oil Can Harry because he always looks as though he had just changed a set of rings) hit a home run into the left-field corner that must have traveled all of 305 1/4 feet. “As soon as I hit it, I knew it was out,” he said. They have named the spot after Greenberg Gardens. They’re calling it Oil Can’s Corner.

Sitting in the bullpen it suddenly occurred to me that no one had said anything about Brandon being sent down. Not a word. It didn’t seem right to me. A guy shouldn’t be forgotten that quickly. At the very least we should have burned a candle.

Bobbie and I were talking about our plans for this fall and discussed the possibility of buying a trailer and taking a slow trip cross-country. On the other hand, we might ship the car, fly home and spend some time up at Cape Cod. Or we might wait until December and go sit on a warm island someplace. And why shouldn’t we go to Europe?

What it all boils down to is money. If I get a raise next season we could afford to do any of these things. But if I have a bad season and they don’t like this book, I may not even get a contract. So we decided that what I probably should do is get them to give me a contract at the end of this season, before they know about the book. Of course, the kind of contract I get will depend on what kind of season I have, and so all of it—plans, trips, contract—boils down to my knuckleball.

I had another Crosetti pulled on me tonight. When I was with Vancouver, the baseball coach at the University of Oregon called me and asked if I would talk to one of his kids about the knuckleball. I said sure and arranged to see the kid in Tacoma. As it happened I got called back by the Pilots and he had to come down to Seattle. Now this is a rainy night, the tarpaulin is on the field, there’s nobody in the stands and it’s an hour-and-a-half before game time. I’ve got this kid standing behind me while I’m throwing on the sidelines and here comes an usher to tell me I can’t have an unauthorized person on the field. I explained what I was doing, but the usher said that Mr. Crosetti had sent him out and that the kid would have to leave. I gritted my teeth and told him that the kid was staying and if Cro didn’t like it he could come over and tell me himself. He never did.

Jim Pagliaroni joined the club tonight and is going to be a welcome addition. He was describing a girl that one of the ballplayers had been out with and said, “It’s hard to say exactly what she looked like. She was kind of a Joe Torre with tits.” This joke can only be explained with a picture of Joe Torre. But I’m not sure any exist. He dissolves camera lenses.

Joe Schultz was put away by Earl Weaver of the Orioles tonight. We had a two-run rally going when Weaver came out of the dugout and pointed out that we were hitting out of order. Seems that Joe had made out two lineup cards and given the umpires the wrong one. Weaver, who spotted it right away, let us hit until we got something going and then we had to call it all back. Since we lost the game 9–5, and since there was no telling how many runs we might have scored that inning, Joe’s face was very red indeed. I don’t think he’ll be telling us to keep our heads in the game again very soon.

Pitched one inning tonight and the greatest hitters in the American League were at my mercy. I struck Frank Robinson out on four absolutely hellacious knuckleballs; Boog Powell swung at two and missed for another strikeout, and Brooks Robinson popped up. The way that ball was moving, it’s almost impossible for anyone to hit it solidly. They’re at my mercy, I tell you.

Of course, since we were behind I was taken out for a pinch hitter after my inning. Which means I’m still just a mop-up man. Maybe when the doubleheaders start piling up they’ll give me a start. I can’t wait.

I almost missed a ballgame today. It was Friday and I assumed we were playing our usual night game. I planned to spend the afternoon with the family at an art museum and I was lying around in my pajamas reading stories to the kids at one-thirty when the phone rang. It was Gary Bell.

“Where the hell are you?” he said.

“Where the hell are
you
?” I countered cleverly.

He told me. I flew in eight different directions, and the kids were scurrying around looking for my shoes and socks, and my wife was running after a shirt, and I felt like Dagwood Bumstead going to the office in the morning. I arrived at the ballpark at one-forty-five, fifteen minutes before game time, only two hours and forty-five minutes late, having missed running, batting practice and infield practice.

Almost to a man the guys were nice about it. I had a big grin on my face when I walked into the clubhouse and got a round of applause, and a lot of the guys told me they were glad I could make it today. Except Fred Talbot, who waved a little Yankee at me. “Jesus Christ, eleven years in baseball and you don’t know whether it’s a day game or night game.”

I was absolutely not prepared to say I gave the umpire the wrong schedule card if Joe Schultz said anything to me, but he never said a word. Nobody was mad, including Maglie, who said it was a good thing I’d run the day before in my backyard. He was kidding about the fact that it rained yesterday and I called and asked whether I should come in or whether I could just run in my backyard. All the whole thing cost me was $10 to the pitchers kitty for being late and $1 for missing infield.

I once came late to a game when I was with the Yankees—a World Series game. I wasn’t pitching or anything, and it had rained all morning and I assumed, correctly, that there would be no batting practice, so I came in time for infield. But they’d called a pregame meeting and I missed it, so when I walked into that clubhouse there wasn’t a single smile. Everyone was highly offended that I should take the Yankees and baseball and the World Series so lightly as to show up forty-five minutes before game time. I could have stayed out all night and come to the game with a hangover and I would have been forgiven. But I couldn’t come late.

We split two games with the Orioles and lost our first today to the Tigers. So we’ve lost two out of three to the big kids and who knows where it will all end.

Fred Talbot had a marvelous story about Mel McGaha, who had a short run as manager of the Kansas City A’s. McGaha called a meeting during spring training for eight o’clock on a Friday night, an unforgiveable sin. Guys had to leave their families and dinner parties and come in from all over the place. When they got there, McGaha said, “Boys, I’m glad you all got here tonight. We’re not really having a meeting. I just wanted to see how quick we could all group up if we had to.”

With the Tigers in town I’ve tried to call Johnny Sain and talk with him about my knuckleball and tell him how well I’ve been doing since I came back from Vancouver. I’ve missed him at the hotel a couple of times, but I’ll keep trying.

I know Detroit needs relief help and they could get me cheap. If he looks in the newspaper he’ll see a 4.2 ERA, although since I’ve returned from the minors it’s only a bit over 3.0. In my last ten appearances I’ve given up one earned run, walked three and struck out eight. I’ve given up only five hits in eight innings. Of course, my own club doesn’t seem very impressed, but that’s another story.

I get the feeling that Sal and Joe just don’t trust me. I think they’re convinced that I need more than just the knuckleball to get by for more than an inning or two. One of these days they’re going to need me for five or six innings and I’ll show them. I’ll show them. I’ll show them. I think I’ll show them.

Now they’re talking about using Talbot as a starter, and this reduces
my
chances, except that the seer my wife went to this winter told her that our fortunes wouldn’t rise until June. So I guess I won’t get a start until then.

Do I really believe all of that? No, I don’t.

Before we left the park today we were told that tomorrow’s game would start at twelve-fifteen because of national television and that we’d have to take batting practice at ten-thirty. “Ten-thirty?” said Pagliaroni. “I’m not even done throwing up at that hour.”

Tony Kubek and Mickey Mantle were here to do the TV broadcast and before the game Mickey was down in the clubhouse. With me standing right there, Joe Schultz says, “Mickey, what do you think of a guy who comes to the ballpark fifteen minutes before the game starts?”

Mickey shook his head sadly. “I know he’s got some strange ideas,” he said.

Don Mincher was worried about appearing on national television. “My mother’s going to watch this ballgame in Alabama,” he said, “and she’s going to notice first thing that I’m not using the batting helmet with the earflap on it. And tonight she’s going to be on the telephone, guaranteed, asking me why I’m not wearing my earflap.”

Between innings of the game I got up in the bullpen and worked with the iron ball Mike Marshall keeps out there. Talbot was certain I was only doing it so I would get on television, and maybe I was, partly. After the third time up Talbot said, “Jesus Christ, Bouton, why don’t you just run across the field and slide into second base and get it over with?”

The people who watched this game on television saw some of the dumbest baseball ever played this side of a sandlot. I hope Kubek and Mantle pointed it out to all the Little League, high school and college players who were watching, but somehow I doubt it. So I’ll do it here. It started in the first inning when Joe Sparma walked Tommy Harper, leading off, on four straight pitches. Hegan was the next batter. Ball one. On ball two, way over Hegans head, Harper tries to steal second and is thrown out. Sparma
still
hasn’t thrown a strike. Two more balls and Hegans is on first base. Sparma has thrown eight balls in a row and he’s got one out.

Tommy Davis up. First pitch, ball one. Second pitch is shoulder high, a ball, but he swings at it and tops it down the third-base line. He had no business swinging, of course. By now he should have been wondering if Sparma would
ever
throw a strike. Instead of wondering, he’s thrown out at first. In the meantime, with two out and second base all his very own, Hegan decides to try for third. It’s very important that he go to third base because he can score from there on a base hit. He can also score from second on a base hit. So he needs to go to third base like Frank Howard needs more muscles. Of course, he’s out from here to there, and Sparma is out of an inning in which all he threw was ten pitches—all balls.

A couple of innings later Al Kaline, of all people, steals third with two out. Can’t imagine what he was thinking of.

To cap it all off, we lost the game 3–2, and I didn’t get into it. Diego Segui did. Since my win in Boston two weeks ago I’ve made just four appearances and pitched a total of four-and-a-third innings. We got starters around here who get knocked out in the second and third inning and this relief ace can’t get any pitching in. I’m getting psycho about it, starting to feel the way I did in New York: that there’s some kind of conspiracy to keep me out of ballgames just when I’m starting to throw good. I even have this morbid fear that someone in the front office has discovered I’m writing a book and is trying to work me out of the system. Then there’s this weird one. It occurs to me that the Yankees may have prevailed upon Milkes, or the Pilot organization, to soft-pedal me so that I won’t embarrass them. These two clubs have made quite a few trades and I know it embarrasses the Yankees to have Hegan doing so well here. So maybe they said, “Do us a favor, don’t let Bouton look good.” My wife says that soon the voices will be after me.

Maybe my problem is that I’m not merchandising my product properly. Knuckleball. It’s got no pizzazz. How about Super Knuck? Or maybe I can borrow one of Satchel Paige’s names for a pitch: Bat Dodger. Why not Super-Knuckling Bat Dodger? Or High-Velocity Super-Knuckling Bat Dodger? Nah. It’s got to be short and snappy. Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask Sal to think of a name for my pitch. He’ll probably say how about working on that pitch they call The Curve?

Got a letter congratulating me on my great victory in Boston from Fritz Peterson today. It’s an indication of how far down I’ve fallen when one miserable win calls for congratulations. Fritz said a lot of guys on the Yankees agreed that I had a real good knuckleball. Then he wrote: “It’s a good thing Jim Turner taught you that pitch before you left New York.”