Ball Four (RosettaBooks Sports Classics) (49 page)

Davis is now being called Wally Pipp. That’s the fellow who had a minor injury and was replaced by Lou Gehrig. It was ten years before Gehrig missed a game.

I’m in normal weird shape. In the middle of the night I got up, rummaged around until I found that ball I work with and made throwing motions for a half-hour or so, just to get the feel of it. Considering I never released the ball, I did great. My wife never even noticed.

Fantasy time. The Houston Astros are playing the New York Mets for the league championship. I come in to relieve in Shea Stadium with a one-run lead and the bases loaded in the last of the ninth. I get behind 2 and 0 on the first hitter and it looks like we’re dead. Of course, I come back and strike him out. I strike out the next guy too, but the ball gets away from Edwards, who goes back to the screen, picks it up and fires it to me at the plate. The throw’s a bit late, but I’ve blocked the plate and I tag him out for the final out. How fabulous are my dreams?

Conversation with Tommy Davis while he’s got a hot pad on his leg in the trainer’s room:

“Tell me about the attitude toward me on the Pilots,” I said. “Don’t worry about my feelings. Lay it on the line.”

“If you promise not to tell anybody…”

“Not a soul. Not a single soul.”

“Well, my feeling was that the manager contributed to the guys thinking you were a weirdo. For instance, Joe would watch things that you did out on the field and he’d start laughing and making fun and naturally all the players took the lead from Joe. They laughed at you.

“I didn’t see anything funny. I thought, ‘Well, here’s a guy who’s got his own ideas. Some of them are certainly different, but hell, I respect him.’ That’s what Joe should have said. Joe could have said, ‘He’s always thinking, anyway. And boy, look at how hard he works.’ Instead he sort of smirked and laughed, and you know how players are. They smirked and laughed too.”

I suspected as much. Hovley. Marshall. Bouton. And another guy, real early on, Lou Piniella. Joe Schultz would have been a better manager if he understood more. Of course, if he understood more, he might not have been a manager.

I don’t want to be that harsh on Joe Schultz. I rather liked him and still do. And I thought he had the most character of anyone on the staff—and in the front office.

Don Wilson was sitting on the other side of Tommy Davis, so Tommy got to saying that it would be great to be young like Wilson, and I said, “Don, did you ever think that someday you’d be sitting on the bench with Tommy Davis? I mean
the
Tommy Davis, just talking to him as though, well as though he were some regular person? Did you ever think that?”

“I thought about it,” Wilson said. “I didn’t ever think it would be a big deal, though, and I was right.”

Turned out Wilson was from Los Angeles too, and he’d once tried to get Tommy Davis’ autograph. “He was too good to sign it,” Wilson said. “Ever since I never looked forward to sitting with him on a bench.”

“You really resent him, huh?” I said, adding eggbeater to troubled waters.

“Well, yeah,” Wilson said. “It’s been kind of a thing with me. In fact, right now it’s no big deal sitting here with him. If he’s too good to sign autographs, the hell with him.”

“You see how smart these young guys are?” Davis said. “Boy, if I ever said that when I was a kid, that would have been something. Imagine me saying that to Roy Campanella. Boy, for young guys these kids really talk a lot.”

And I said, “That’s good, too, isn’t it Tom? They should be allowed to say whatever they feel, don’t you think?”

“Well, that’s
your
idea,” Davis said. “I know that’s what
you
think.”

Generation gap revisited. I loved it.

There was a happy, funny clubhouse after the game, which we won 9–2. Nate Colbert was no threat.

Whitey Diskin, the clubhouse man who prepares all that great food every night, an elderly stooped-over gentleman with glasses who looks something like Henry the Chicken Hawk, had this great big pot of chicken á la king. It was fine chicken á la king. It was
great
chicken á la king. But we hadn’t been having chicken á la king, so the guys got on it.

“Jesus Christ, Whitey, what the hell is this stuff?”

“What have you done here, Whitey?”

And each guy comes over, takes a taste, spits into garbage. Well, not everybody. Me, I had two big plates of it.

“Look at that stuff. Whitey, this is fifth-place food.”

“Christ, here we are fighting for a pennant and you serve us this shit.”

I couldn’t resist calling Jim Ewell, the trainer, in on it. “Doc, you better come in here and examine this stuff,” I said. “Maybe you better take its temperature.”

So the trainer comes marching in, ceremoniously, with a tongue depressor in one hand, thermometer in the other. He sticks the thermometer into the chicken á la king, reads it, sticks the tongue depressor in, tastes it, shakes his head sadly, says, “No chance,” and walks out.

“Holy Budweiser,” I yelled, “get the names of the guys who’ve been pounding that shit into them.”

After a while, nobody could think of anything more to say, so Blasingame looked at Whitey with contempt and said, “And that’s a horseshit shirt you’re wearing, too, Whitey.”

When I got back to the hotel, I found the kids had been eating potato chips on my bed. So Bobbie and I took the spread outside to shake it out. And there we were in full view of a patio full of people having a cocktail party. The Beverly Hillbillies eating in their room at a swank hotel.

In the last few weeks, little Mike has become more aware that his father has a special occupation. That’s because other kids come up to him and say, “Hey, does your dad pitch for the Astros?”

We’ve tried to get it across to him that what I do is just another job, that it’s not special. But it gets a little difficult here, and as his awareness grows, the braggadocio emerges. So now he walks up to people, strangers, and says, “You know something? My dad plays for the Houston Astros.” The other day I heard him tell a kid at the swimming pool. “My dad’s Jim Bouton of the Houston Astros. I’m not kidding you.” And sometimes we’ll just be sitting around and he’ll say, “Hey, Dad, go over and tell those people who you are.”

Pardon me, sir. My name is Jim Bouton. I used to be with the Seattle Pilots. No, not a ferry captain. That’s a baseball team. You know, baseball. B-a-s-e-b-a-l-l.

Little David is making a good adjustment. His English is fine, and I think he feels like a part of the family. I believe he’s starting to think about the future now and where he fits into the scheme of things. The other day he asked, “Dad, are you going to die?”

“Yes, David. Everybody dies sooner or later.”

And he said, “I don’t want you to die.”

The Mets are beautiful.

Here they are virtually tied with the Cubs and the panic is on in Chicago. Leo Durocher is not talking to the press, and I don’t have to be there to know that their clubhouse is like a morgue. And here’s the funny thing. The Mets have virtually the same record and they’re going crazy with joy. The players are happy, the manager is happy, the fans are happy. Now what’s the difference? It’s that the Mets won their games at a different stage of the season. The point is that right now they both have an equal chance to win the pennant, yet the Mets are up and the Cubs are down. And the Cubs are down because they think they should be down. Why? If they were as happy as the Mets they’d win more games.

Up the golden stairs. I’d been itching about it for days. “Spec, I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had the other day and I really feel I deserve an increase in salary. Not only do I deserve it, I need it, because of the traveling expenses. What I want you to do is tear up my contract and give me a new one calling for $3,000 more. I wouldn’t be asking for this if I didn’t think I’d earned it.”

“No, Jim. We can’t do that.”

“I know ballclubs have torn up contracts and given guys more money in the middle of the season when they’ve done a lot better than expected. So I know it can be done.”

“You haven’t done anything for me yet.”

“I realize that. But you traded for me because you thought I was more valuable than Dooley Womack, and you gave up another player for me besides. So why don’t you pay me what Womack was getting?”

“I don’t know what Womack was getting.”

“He told me he was getting $25,000.”

“He was kidding you. He’s not getting that much.”

“Maybe not. But how many major-leaguers do you know who’ve been up seven years and have had the kind of year I’ve had who are getting only $22,000?”

“You signed a contract. If you didn’t want to sign it, you shouldn’t have.”

“I signed as a minor-leaguer. There was a good possibility I’d spend the season in the minors working on my knuckleball. I figured I’d stay in one place and travel wouldn’t cost me all that much. Hell, I’ve had to make three moves.”

“Well, I told you I’d help with your hotel bill if you wanted me to.”

“I’ve already made arrangements to send my family to Michigan. Most of our expenses are behind us. And I don’t feel it’s asking too much if I ask you to give me a $3,000 increase.”

“If you want a loan, we can work that out. But we can’t give you an increase.”

“A loan won’t help me any. It would just cut down on my credit possibilities. No, I need the increase.”

“You haven’t done anything for me yet. As soon as you do something I’ll take care of you.”

“But Spec, I can’t go back to Seattle and ask
them
for money. And if everybody took your attitude, all you’d have to do is trade a guy toward the end of every season and no one would feel obligated to give him a raise.”

“How bad do you need this money?”

“I wanted to get this straightened out before I go on the road trip.”

“Well, you’re not going to. And if you don’t want to go on the road trip, that’s your business. If you don’t want to suit up for the game tonight, you can pack your stuff and go on home.”

“Now wait a minute. I didn’t mean I wasn’t going to play. I just wanted to get things squared away before my wife left so we’d be able to pay some of our expenses.”

“You’re not going to get it, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Well, why not?” They don’t call me Bulldog for nothing.

“I don’t have to tell you why. I’m the general manager. I’m in charge here. I don’t have to give you a reason for anything I do.”

“Tell you what. Why can’t you give me $3,000 now and we’ll just take it out of next year’s salary?”

“I can’t do that. That would give you a $3,000 head start in the bargaining.”

“Well, look. What are we talking about in terms of contract next year? What do you think the kind of season I had is worth? By the time the season is over I’ll have been in more than seventy games and say I continue pitching the way I have, which is pretty good, and we finish where we are now, fifth. What would I be worth to you?”

“A lot of general managers would tell you $2,000 more, hoping that they could get you at around $5- or $6,000. But I’m going to tell you the truth right out. I think your salary should be increased about $7,000 or $7,500.”

“Well, hell, Spec. We’re not going to have any problem at all. All we do now is add $7,500 to $22,000. Call it $30,000. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll sign a contract right now for $27,000 if you give me the other $3,000.”

“All right. All right. That’s what we’ll do. You come in tomorrow and the papers will be ready.”

Now that’s what I call a fair and reasonable general manager.

Putting my baseball cap on today, I remembered an odd conversation with Mike Marshall. He watched me put on my cap and noticed that I put it on back first, then smoothed the front of it over my forehead. He said that in the minors he had a manager who told him that only colored players put their hats on that way; that white players put their caps on front first and smoothed them in the back. Marshall said that from then on he put his cap on back first and was glad to see I did it that way too.

As I dictated this, my wife said, “How does Joe Pepitone put on
his
cap?”

And I said, “Very carefully.”

What a lovely pennant race. Today the Mets beat the Cubs twice, the Pirates lost two to St. Louis, San Diego beat Cincinnati, Atlanta beat San Francisco and we beat Los Angeles. So now we’re only two games on the loss side out of first place. It’s closer than the Astros have ever been to first place since they were expanded into existence. It is now almost possible to go from first place to fifth in a single afternoon. And vice versa.

Claude Osteen, who looks like a white rat, beat us 1–0 tonight. He pitched a great game. Wilson pitched an even better game because his control was off and he had to keep battling out of jams.

In the ninth Tommy Davis came up with two out and two on and Osteen struck him out on three pitches—two fastballs on the outside corner and a curve ball that broke about two feet and bounced on the plate. No one was mad at Tommy. Don Wilson came over and said, “Hang in there. He threw you three bastard pitches.”

Road trip starts tomorrow. The family goes to Michigan and I’ll have to tell David that I won’t be seeing him for four weeks. The other kids don’t seem to mind much, but David gets upset. I guess it goes back to when he first arrived from Korea, forlorn and scared, and we developed a special closeness that he still feels. I’ll say to him, “Now, David, I won’t be seeing you for four weeks. That’s this many days.” I hold up ten fingers and flash them three times.

Invariably, he says, “I don’t like that many days.”

Atlanta

Blefary was giving me the business tonight. The first time he played in the big leagues he hit against me. It was after my arm trouble had started, and I must say I wasn’t throwing very well. Anyway, it was great for Blefary. “Bulldog,” he said, “you made my big-league debut a success. There I was in Yankee Stadium, on national television, with all my friends and relatives looking on, and I hit that blooper pitch of yours into the upper deck with two dudes on base. Thank you, Bulldog.”