Ball Four (RosettaBooks Sports Classics) (68 page)

I couldn’t believe it. What a Father’s Day gift! What a beautiful letter.

“Did you know about this, David?” I asked.

“No.”

Amazing.

Not just Michael’s writing, or that he kept it a secret, but that he had those feelings in the first place. I never knew he cared that much about my not being invited to Old-Timers’ Day. The kids were little when I wrote
Ball Four
, and they grew up just accepting that their dad was some kind of pariah. The only one who ever said anything was Laurie, who would get personally offended at the Yankees for a few days every summer, and then she’d let it go.

I always tried to joke about it, saying they didn’t want me back because fans don’t like to see the old-timers strike out. They’re going to wait till I’m the oldest living Yankee; by the time I go back I won’t even know I’m there.

I never knew the kids’ private thoughts on the matter, never guessed how it might have affected their view of me all these years.

Until now. Evidently it had bothered Michael.

We spoke with David a while longer, I thanked him for his Father’s Day wishes, and then we hung up to call Michael. I had this flash thought of him in his Brooklyn apartment with
The New York Times
opened up on the table, examining the layout, checking to see if anything was cut at the last minute, as writers do.

He was waiting by the phone. I could hear the smile in his voice.

“What can I say, Michael?” I stammered. “It was just beautiful. Powerful. A great surprise. Thank you.”

“I’ve wanted to write that letter for a long time,” he said, “but I could never finish it. This time I did.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s not something you just knock off in a few hours.”

“I had a little help from Laurie, too,” said Michael.

“I use her for inspiration myself,” I said.

“So, do you think the Yankees are going to invite you back?”

“I don’t know, Michael,” I said. “But whether they do or not, your letter stands by itself as a wonderful gift. It doesn’t have to produce a result to be meaningful.”

Then I called
my
dad to tell him what one of his grandsons had done.

For the next few days, Mike and I were on the phone, still buzzing about his letter. I told him about strangers stopping me on the street, mostly men, telling me how they had cried when they read it and how lucky I was to have a son like him. Michael said the Yankees would
have
to invite me back. They had no choice.

I said don’t count on it.

A week went by, then two weeks, then three. We went on with our lives. There would be no invitation to Old-Timers’ Day. The game was only two weeks away; the Yankees would have had to invite me by now.

“It was a great letter, Mike,” I said. “But the pen is not always mightier than the sword.”

On the morning of July 15, the phone rang.

“Hi, my name is Joe Schillan. I’m the director of Promotions and Special Events for the Yankees. And we’d like to invite you to Old-Timers’ Day.”

There was a short pause. Was this it? Or was this a joke? I’d gotten similar calls over the years from friends.

“Excuse me for hesitating,” I said. “This could be any number of guys.”

“I understand,” said Schillan. “It’s not a joke. You can call me back if you want; I’ll give you my direct line.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“To be honest with you,” said Joe, “we read your son’s letter in
The New York Times
and we were moved by it. We presented the idea to George and he said, ‘Sure, why not? I don’t know why we didn’t invite him before this.’”

“Well, that’s nice,” I said. I didn’t have the heart for skepticism.

“Old-Timers’ Day is only ten days away,” said Joe. “And the teams are set, with their uniforms and everything, so you’ll be introduced in your street clothes.”

“That’s fine, I don’t have to be in uniform,” I said. “I think I’m free that day. I’ll call back and let you know.”

I hung up the phone and tried to absorb what had just happened. I stood up and felt slightly dizzy. Twenty-eight years of exile for writing a book, fewer than ten pages of which mention the Yankees, end with a simple phone call.

I walked into the next room where Paula was sitting.

“Well,” I said. “Guess what? That was the Yankees. They invited me back.”

“You’re going, of course,” said Paula. This is a woman who knows how to chaperon a decision.

Over the years, I had toyed with the idea of saying I had a previous engagement if I ever got invited. After Michael’s letter, that no longer seemed possible.

“Sure, I’m going,” I said. “Let them sweat for an hour.”

Then I picked up the phone to make a more important call.

“I knew they would do it,” said Michael. “I
knew
it!”

Maybe I was wrong about the pen.

I received my invitation to Old-Timers’ Day with mixed emotions. I was thrilled for Michael, that he got the result he wanted. Sad for Laurie, because she never got to see it. And for myself, a strange kind of numbness. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful, just that I seemed incapable of joy.

Still, everybody else seemed juiced up about it. Within hours of calling the Yankees with my acceptance, the phone started ringing. It must have been a slow news day because every media outlet in New York, plus a few from around the country, was calling for interviews and comments.

The rocket ship had taken off. That’s what it’s like when you’re involved in an event that’s bigger than you are. All you can do is hang on for the ride. And it was some ride. The same people who had welled up over Michael’s letter were now shaking my hand and clapping me on the back, as if I had just achieved something.

It was going to be another one of those life-altering events—a happier one this time.

The day after the stories began appearing, I got another call from the Yankees informing me that it had been decided I would now be
in uniform
for the game, and not just introduced in my street clothes. They requested my uniform size. I wanted to say size 34 pants, same as always, but I had to add an inch.

Paula did her part to help the old right-hander.

“You’d better start throwing in the basement,” she said. “You’ve only got about a week.”

“All I can do in a week, Babe,” I said, “is get a sore arm. I’m better off just cranking my arm over my head a few times so it doesn’t fly off on my first pitch.”

Saturday, July 25, 1998. Old-Timers’ Day at Yankee Stadium.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. And my heart was beating a little faster than usual as I boarded the players-only bus in front of the hotel. Wives and family would make the trip to Yankee Stadium on a later bus. How would my old teammates treat me, I wondered? I had run into a few the previous night at a cocktail party, and they were very welcoming. Tommy Tresh gave me a hug. Joe Pepitone had a big smile. “Hey, Jim, what’s happenin’?” Like nothing happened.

Walking down the aisle of the bus, I realized that most of these Yankees were from other eras. I recognized a few from newspapers and television. Some I had run into at charity golf outings. They all seemed to know each other from previous Old-Timers’ Days. I was like a guy who had just crawled out of a cave. Then I spotted my old friend and fellow pitcher, Ralph Terry, who had flown in from his home in Kansas.

“Hey, welcome back,” he said, sticking out his hand.

It was great to see Ralph again. I took a seat across the aisle.

“You belong here,” said Ralph. “Hell, man, you earned it! And the game belongs to the fans, Baby.”

I started to think this might turn out to be more fun than I had imagined. Then I noticed Clete Boyer, sitting on the other side of Ralph, working hard to ignore me. You can’t win ’em all.

When the bus pulled up to the stadium several hundred fans were already waiting behind wooden barriers flanking the players’ entrance. I let most of the others file off first so I could watch the response. With outstretched arms, hands clutching baseballs and autograph books, kids and adults of all ages welcomed the players.

“Goose, Goose,” they screamed, when Gossage ambled onto the pavement. “Over here, Goose.”

“There’s Ron Guidry,” someone said. The crowd started hollering “Gator! Just one, pleeease.”

“Who’s that?” a kid asked.

“Ralph Terry,” said an older man.

“Sixty-two World Series!” shouted a guy who remembered Ralph’s Game 7 shutout against the Giants.

Most of the players signed a few autographs on their way in. And I was looking forward to it myself. Actually, I was pretty excited, but still a little nervous. I wondered how these genuine Yankee fans, Mickey Mantle fans, would greet me. I took a deep breath and got off.

“Bulldog!” a lot of people hollered. “Welcome back.”

Inside, the familiar smell of the stadium washed over me—a distinctive mix of industrial-strength New York air, popcorn, and freshly-hosed cement. I looked for familiar faces—anyone with wrinkles—among the stadium personnel. I recognized a few people, but I couldn’t recall any names. Most of them smiled, some shook my hand. The real reception, good or bad, would be down in the clubhouse.

The players’ entrance had been moved from the first-base to the third-base side, so the route to the clubhouse was new. I had to follow a blue painted line on the floor through a series of turns, down a narrow concrete hallway. In an open area around a corner, I saw some older men lingering near a door and knew I had found the clubhouse. There are always some older men lingering near clubhouse doors.

And there was Louis Requena, my favorite Yankee photographer! We were practically rookies together back in 1962. Louie, one of the sweetest men you’d ever want to meet, had made a composite picture of me in my Yankee uniform surrounded by the box scores of my first seven wins. I still have it somewhere. I came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Jimmy Boy!” he said, as we bear-hugged, “Good to see you back.” Fortified by Louie’s reception, I entered the clubhouse.

Whoa!

Instead of players, sitting at their lockers talking and laughing about old times, a mob of sportswriters and photographers and television crews was filling the room. They were all over the place. I was confused. What were they doing here?

Waiting for
me
, I was embarrassed to discover. As I walked to my assigned locker across the room, they followed like minnows darting after a bread crumb. I felt uncomfortable. I wondered what the other players were thinking: “‘Big-Mouth’ gets invited back and screws up Old-Timers’ Day.” I just wanted to slip in quietly, be one of the guys, see what that felt like.

Moose Skowron was sitting on a stool at the locker next to mine. He was wearing his baseball underwear and having coffee, just like he always did. I took a chance and reached out my hand.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are you?” he said, smiling and shaking my hand. Moose was chatting with Hank Bauer, who was before my time, but who I’d seen at a couple of sports dinners.

“Hello there, Mr. Bouton,” said Hank in his gravelly Marine voice.

So far, so good, I thought. Then I saw John Blanchard with the same look on his face that Clete Boyer had had on the bus, and I got a twinge of bad feeling. Part of me wanted to talk with them but I knew that wouldn’t work. These were not talking guys, at least not with me. Maybe when we’re ninety or so, we’ll shake hands on a foul line somewhere.

Once at my locker, the clubhouse disappeared from view behind a wall of sportswriters and photographers. The questions tumbled over one another. When did the Yankees contact you? Have you had any response from your teammates yet? Did you ever make peace with Mickey Mantle? What did you think of Michael’s letter? And the most frequently asked, “How does it feel to be back?”

“So far, it feels like a press conference,” I said nervously. They laughed.

Meanwhile, I kept looking around to see if I could spot any other players. I wanted to be bullshitting with teammates, not answering questions. I appreciated the attention but it’s not what I was hoping for. I wanted to
experience
Old-Timers’ Day, and the questions were getting in the way. I still felt isolated, not really a part of things. This was not what I had in mind.

The barrage of questions continued—a respectful barrage but a barrage nonetheless. When one member of the group had had enough, he was replaced by another who hadn’t heard the answers to the previous questions. All the while, I was trying to change into my uniform. The other players were already dressed and on the field. Batting practice would be over before I got out there. I felt panicky. It was like one of those bad dreams where you can’t quite get to something. Old-Timers’ Day was happening without me!

“So how does it feel to be back?” asked the newest arrival.

“Well, if I’m ever going to know that,” I said, “I’ll have to actually
be
back, so let me get out there and I’ll tell you later.”

And I headed down the tunnel to the dugout.

Waiting on the steps was another convention of photographers and video crews. I couldn’t believe it.

But Joe Pepitone could. Wading into the throng, he put his arm around my shoulder and pointed at me, shouting, “Jim’s back! Jim’s back! Do I know how to get my picture in the newspapers, or what? Jim’s back! Jim’s back!”

Everybody laughed. Same old Pepi. Fortunately, pictures are quicker than questions and I was
finally
able to run out onto the field.

This is it, I thought to myself. It’s actually happening. I’m running out onto the field on Old-Timers’ Day at Yankee Stadium. It was not something I had ever missed; at least not consciously. But now, here I was.

I felt quietly pleased.

And a little bit giddy. What should I do? Throw a ball? Run across the outfield? What do you
do
on Old-Timers’ Day? I was like a kid at an amusement park. I needed something to hang on to. A life preserver.

Tommy Davis was at first base, taking throws from the infielders. I jogged over. Tommy was invited to play for the opposing Los Angeles Dodgers. I love Tommy Davis. Whenever we see each other he says things like “Don’t be gettin’ too close to me, Bouton. People already think I had something to do with your book.” This time he greeted me with a big smile and an exaggerated handshake.