Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126) (43 page)

I didn’t have as dramatic a postseason in 1978 as I did in 1977. But overall, I had a better one. I was told I broke nine World Series slugging records in 1977 and tied five more. You put the Series games I played that year together with the championship series games against the Royals, I hit .306 with five homers and nine ribbies, in eleven postseason games.

In 1978, you throw in the one-game playoff in Boston, and I played in eleven games, too. And that year, I hit .400 in October, with five
homers and fifteen RBIs. In twenty-two playoff games in the two seasons combined, I had ten home runs and twenty-four ribbies, with a .355 batting average. I also had eleven walks and was hit by a pitch three times, meaning my on-base percentage was .451.

That was a streak.

But I was only able to get there, only able to do that, because of the team I was on. When you include the postseason in 1978, we went 37–12 in our last forty-nine games. We were 17–5 against the Red Sox, the Dodgers, the Royals, the Brewers, and the Orioles—in other words, five of the best next six teams in the major leagues. After us, that is.

You don’t do that alone. Nobody does that alone in baseball, and I was truly blessed to be with guys who could do it.

You just want to consider yourself lucky, you want to consider yourself fortunate being involved in it all, to be one of the players on one of the great teams of all time. Or in my case, counting those Oakland teams,
two
of the great teams. To be in that run from fourteen games out in 1978, to have played in the playoff game in Boston—to be part of all that is just immense good fortune.

Of course, it also took a great organization and an owner who understood the brand, the city, and how to build a champion at whatever the cost.

After we ended the season in Los Angeles, we flew back to New York for the parade. I didn’t get to make my cross-country drive again, but I enjoyed the ticker-tape parade. How can you not enjoy it? New York City, in the Canyon of Heroes! It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience … and I got to do it twice!

It was a great time. I had adjusted to the city, and I think it adjusted to me.

New York has become a place I can call home on the East Coast because of my time with the Yankees in the Bronx. The people of Manhattan and all the boroughs have forever since treated me like one of their own. It’s easy to see I’m one of them. It’s a blessing I’m truly grateful for … I
love
being part of that city. If you can make it there you can make it anywhere … Oh, yes! I love New York.

W
HEN
I
THINK
back on it now, it was such an amazing time to have lived through. It was such an incredible thing to have experienced: both the great journey that the country made and the much smaller trip that I made, growing, learning, and changing.

It bears repeating. In the America that I was born into in 1946—the Jim Crow America that persisted through my high school years, 1960 to 1964, and beyond. We could not use the same drinking fountains, the same bathrooms, or eat in the same restaurants or sleep in the same hotels as whites. In some areas, the laws did not permit us to live in the same neighborhoods, or go to the same schools, or sit next to white people on trains or buses or streetcars—or even to remain sitting at all if a white person needed the seat. The laws did not allow us to marry a white person if we so desired. We were not even allowed to play ball with white people until Jackie Robinson, Branch Rickey, and Walter O’Malley had the courage to make a stand.

The laws were changed by the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965, but prejudice and de facto segregation persisted in many of the places I passed through—Georgia and Alabama and Kentucky and the Carolinas and Idaho and even Tempe, Arizona.

Even in the supposedly enlightened North, if you were a person of color, you could not eat in some of the best restaurants or stay in the top hotels. You were banned by written covenant—by “CC&Rs,” covenants, conditions, and restrictions—from living in many of the nicest towns and neighborhoods. (Even today, in some places!) And as I found, even growing up in a nice Pennsylvania suburb, full of what were truly some of the nicest people I’ve ever met, you were still
liable to be subjected to all sorts of humiliations by white people who did not want you dating their daughter, or riding their kid’s bike, or swimming in the same pool.

The laws changed. Black people, along with many courageous whites, made them change, often at tremendous cost to themselves. Those efforts opened all sorts of new opportunities.

Yet as it is written in Scripture, men must change before kingdoms change. The laws and the court decisions that secured our rights to vote, or to go to the same schools as whites, or to live anywhere we wanted were great achievements. But they did not change the hearts, or the attitudes, or the social prejudices of all too many people.

I have been a fortunate son. Starting with my dad, everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve encountered wonderful mentors, men who have helped guide me along the way. My time at Arizona State, with Frank Kush and Bobby Winkles. The minor-league managers who looked out for me, Bill Posedel, and Gus Niarhos, and especially John McNamara. The major-league managers I had the privilege to play for, people like Dick Williams and Earl Weaver, Al Dark and Bob Lemon, Gene Michael and Dick Howser, Gene Mauch and Tony LaRussa. The owners I had the good fortune to play for, Charlie Finley, George Steinbrenner, Gene Autry, and the Haas family, and so many others.

Even when I was down in Waycross, Georgia, having to live in an army barracks with the other black players on the A’s because it was too dangerous to be out at night, I was grateful. Even when I was the only black player on my team in Birmingham for a while, trying to find someplace that would serve me a meal in the Southern League, I was glad for the opportunity.

Coming to New York turned out to be a great opportunity also. It happened at a time when the city and the country were still having to make vast social adjustments. Martin Luther King was just nine years gone when I first came to the Yankees. Jackie Robinson had been retired a little over twenty years.

Some still thought blacks being able to play major-league ball was a privilege we had been given. They thought of it as a favor we had to “live up to”—usually by staying quiet and subservient. It wasn’t as though we’d earned it.

I would not go along with that. When I saw certain attitudes and certain prejudices emerging, I spoke up about it. When I saw double standards being applied—to myself or others—I spoke up about it. You don’t have to agree with all of it. I might have been wrong about some things. But you have to respect my right to say it—and the fact that I always put my name to what I said.

I have never curbed what I have to say. Speaking my mind even got me banned from the Yankees’ locker room for a little while in 2012. But I will never start tailoring my opinions to what other people think I should say.

The fact is, as far as we’ve come as a nation, there is still a ways to go. There is still a double standard applied to some black athletes, such as LeBron—there is still resentment that never seems to be directed at white athletes, no matter what they do. There was a poll a couple years ago that listed “the most hated athletes in America.” The top five were all black! And they were usually “hated” for doing the same things that white athletes do, that all of us do, like accepting a big new contract.

We have to recognize these double standards within ourselves. We have to recognize how much we pile on players simply for having a different skin color.

We have to do better. We can do better, and do better everywhere in society, not just at the ballpark.

For me, when I came to New York, I was still growing—more than I realized at the time. I was a young man, and I got blindsided by a lot of things I didn’t expect. Things I had never encountered before.

I got through them, with the help of God, of my friends and family. It’s the sort of thing you might call a learning experience, except the learning and the growing never stop.

I think I’ve learned to work my way through life, to keep the Man Upstairs top of mind every day. I think I’ve come to appreciate people more as I grow older, and I can’t tell you how much I enjoy being with my family, my daughter, and friends all the time now.

It was a great opportunity to make the sort of money I made in the free-agent era, even though I had larger offers in other places. My agent, Gary Walker, gave me the direction to New York. I was afraid. But he wanted me to go to the Yankees to both compete against their great history
and
to be a part of that history. In the end, it was not about the money. I know that sounds hard to believe, but it’s really not. It’s pretty cool being known throughout the country as Mr. October. It’s cool to stand in a sold-out major-league stadium and hammer a ball into the bleachers and hear fifty-six thousand people going wild, chanting your name. But you know, the chants end, the game ends, your career ends. And the same people might be booing you tomorrow.

What it is in the end is what my dad always drilled into us. It’s being glad to have the chance to provide for myself and my loved ones. It’s being grateful to have had the chance to compete at the highest level and show what I was capable of—not to be judged by the color of my skin or anything else but what I was able to accomplish. That to me is what we were all looking for.

I am grateful to have had my chance. I am so grateful for my time in New York, my time in the game. I need to remember to give thanks every day. I am eager to continue the journey. I can’t wait to see what’s around the corner.

I want to give thanks to those who helped me through this journey.

My dad, Martinez Jackson, and my mom, Clara Jackson, who were both there when it counted. My brother (Sarge) Joe Jackson, who helped with all his big-brother guidance. My sister Dolores Burton, a mom to me when I was in need. Beverly, Tina, loving sisters. Sluggo, a brother with all his support, of course, and Elissa, my lieutenant and a best friend. Ahhh, family.

I’d like to thank my friend and agent, Gary Walker, for his weekly word of prayer in 1977 to 1978. Bill Bertucio, for his friendship and loyalty.

Frank Kush was about toughness, he started me on my way at Arizona State University. Bobby Winkles, who taught me discipline and countenanced no back talk. Johnny McNamara, who was like a father. Charlie O’Finley, so tough, but he taught me the ways of the world to come.

My attorney and friend, Steven Kay, who worked so well with the Boss. And my
other
attorney and friend, Ed Blum, the “Sheriff,” still helping me to stay between the lines.

The Boss, George Steinbrenner, was tough on me at times but always treated me as family. Fran Healy, a friend, on the inside, he told me things he heard people say that I couldn’t believe, and kept things from me he felt would hurt too much. Fran was there every day, and stayed with me in the city. I now know Who put him in my space.

Dick Howser and Stick Michael, who always had an encouraging word. Kenny Holtzman, Catfish Hunter, from the days of the three world championships we won in Oakland and two more in New
York. We were still “we.” Gator, Willie Randolph, and Mike Torrez, a thank-you to you all.

Tony Rolfe, a New Yorker, for helping me cross some bridges. Ralph Destino, my friend from Cartier. Jim and Trudy Woolner, friends who listened (RIP). Matt Merola, my New York agent and like family, always. Mike Lupica, a friend to talk to on rides home from the ballpark.

Jenny, for good memories; Betsy, a special person; and thanks to my friend Gara.

These were some of the people in my life during these periods of growth. And I’ll tell you all the really neat part of what you just read, they’re all still close to me.

At Arizona State, I loved playing for Frank Kush, who taught me so much. Could I have excelled in the pros? Take a look at the film of me getting off the field at Yankee Stadium after the last out of the 1977 World Series. Now that’s some broken-field running! Collegiate Images/Getty Images