Ball Four (RosettaBooks Sports Classics) (28 page)

Baltimore

Arrived in Baltimore today, which is always depressing. The town puts you down, and the hotel is dingy, and they don’t have bedboards, which means my back will ache tomorrow, and my roomie is supposed to pitch tomorrow and he’s got a worse back than I have. It’s dreary. Besides, I’m still suffering from having given up two earned runs in an inning-and-a-third the other night and losing the ballgame besides.

Even the newspaper depressed me tonight. I read where they’re discussing the possibility of an integrated Davis Cup team in South Africa and a fellow named Alf Chambers, president of the South African Lawn Tennis Association said that the discussions had nothing to do with protests of other countries. And the increase in the number of swimming pools in Harlem has nothing to do with the riots and the troop withdrawals having nothing to do with the protest movement and the baseball owners broadened our pension coverage not because of any strike but out of an innate sense of fair play. Yeah, surrre.

And why is it, I ask myself, that baseball players are allowed to smoke during a game and that it’s all right to sneak a smoke in the runway or even to go back into the clubhouse for a goddam cigarette, but if you take a candy bar out to the bullpen you get all kinds of static.

The bed in this hotel in Baltimore makes me think these bad thoughts. I think I’ll go wash out my brain with soap.

D.C. Stadium is being renamed Robert F. Kennedy Stadium and there are dedication ceremonies and those clinics that Marshall, Pattin and I signed up for. The Baseball Commissioner’s office called Bell to ask if he could get guys like Sal Maglie, Joe Schultz, Tommy Davis, Tommy Harper and Don Mincher to attend. Sal said he had plans for tomorrow. Harper said he didn’t want to go. Mincher said he would go, and Schultz sort of agreed. Tommy Davis said he would make the clinic if he could.

In the bullpen during the game the conversation turned to many things (Fred Talbot on the American destroyer that was cut in half by the Australian aircraft carrier: “The bastards must have been playing chicken out there.”). But especially the talk was about the strike in the spring and the players who signed their contracts despite it—like Pete Richert of Baltimore. He said he had to sign his contract because he was just buying a house and the story was that he’d borrowed the money from the club and if he’d borrowed it from the bank he’d have had to pay a high interest rate. O’Donoghue thought this was justification enough. I said I didn’t think so. I said that
everybody
could use the money, and that those who didn’t sign were risking the owner’s getting angry at them besides. And what about the marginal players? And the rookies? A lot more was at stake for them than some high interest rate on a loan.

There
was
agreement about the large number of Atlanta Braves who had signed. And we agreed
that
was all Paul Richards’ fault. He put a tremendous amount of pressure on his players and I guess I blame them a helluva lot less than I do Richert.

And then Carl Yastrzemski’s name came up because he’d just ignored the strike and Gary Bell said, “Didn’t surprise me. Carl Yastrzemski is for himself first and second and the hell with everybody else.”

Gee, Gary, Carl Yastrzemski?

Yes. Besides, during the strike Yastrzemski called several superstars in an attempt to form a separate committee and settle things without the Players’ Association. Fortunately they told him to take a hike, son.

I don’t think the only bad guys in this thing were the few players who caved in. Richards was particularly beautiful, calling Marvin Miller “a mustachioed four flusher.” And many others were willing to take a strike and use Triple-A players and flush the game right down the drain if necessary. These are the same guys who want us to think they’re sportsmen who run the game out of civic pride. They’re not in this thing for money. They’re not. We know because that’s what they tell us. And we believe. Like Clete Boyer once told me that Dan Topping, former Yankee owner, was all for the players and a wonderful man. I asked him how he knew. And he said, “Ralph Houk told me.”

Mike Marshall was sitting against the fence in the bullpen watching the ballgame. In order to get close to the fence he turned his cap around backward and used the leather band to protect his head from the cold steel. Without saying a word, Eddie O’Brien lifted the hat off his head and put it on him peak-front. “I don’t want Joe getting on me because you guys are wearing your hats backward,” he said.

With that, Marshall took his hat off, slammed it on the ground and said, “How’s that? I don’t have it on wrong now, do I?”

All the Orioles are wearing their socks with high cuts, like Frank Robinson, and no one seems to object. I watched very closely and saw no lack of spirit on the club as a result of these high cuts. Of course, the club is winning, but I don’t know whether they’re winning because of their socks or because a lot of them aren’t wearing hats during batting practice.

If you ever see a baseball player stick his tongue out at someone in the stands it’s not because he’s mad at anybody. It happens to be a form of beaver shooting. The player scouts the stands for good-looking girls, and if he catches a doll’s eye he sticks out his tongue. If she looks away, it means she’s not interested. If she smiles, something might come of it. It’s called shooting stingers.

Roomie got shelled out of the game in four innings. The Orioles are so hot right now it could happen to anybody. But poor Gary took it pretty hard. After I pitched my third of an inning I went into the clubhouse. “Rooms, I’m diving off the hotel tonight,” he said. “Something’s happening to my body. I’m going to be dead in six months.”

Jim Gosger came over to cheer him up. “Hey, Gary, who’s going to drive to Vancouver, you or I?”

Just then Marty Pattin walked by. “Hey, Pattin,” Gary said. “Your shoes are terrible. Try and get some new shoes before I’m traded, will you?”

“You better get them before tomorrow morning,” I said, trying to be helpful.

I felt bad for Gary. I also felt hungry. “Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s go out and get something to eat. Then we’ll go out and tie one on.”

“Rooms, I’m not hungry,” Gary said. “Just thirsty.”

“You’re on an empty stomach,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere nice. We’ll have cocktails and wine with dinner, then we’ll do the town up right. But you got to get something to eat.”

“Don’t worry about me, Rooms,” he said. “You’re a great roomie and I love you. You’ve been teaching me new things. You’ve told me about the stars and the planets and I don’t believe in Noah’s Ark anymore, and you’re making a non-believer out of me. I appreciate that, Rooms, but I got to go drinking tonight.”

So Gary Bell went drinking, without his roommate. I didn’t hear him come in.

There was another somewhat revolting development tonight. Actually it’s a continually revolting development that I haven’t wanted to admit is happening. The catchers are getting tired of catching me—and scared because the little darling dances so much it not only can strike out a batter but break the catcher’s finger. So they’ve been beefing. The other day Haney went to Sal Maglie and said he believed I was throwing too much. He said he thought it was bad for my arm.

I don’t blame Haney. Or Pagliaroni, who doesn’t want to catch me either. And I’ve told them that. I’m liable to take their living away from them. It’s like Ranew told me once. “What if I’ve got to go up there and hit and I’ve got a bone bruise from your goddam knuckleball? Like you hit me on the knee tonight. It could have been my hand. Then I can’t do my job.”

I agreed with him, so I went over to Eddie O’Brien and said, “Eddie, old pal, how about you putting on a mask and catching me?”

“It’s not my job to warm up pitchers,” Eddie said.

“Why not? The bullpen coaches on the other teams warm up the pitchers.”

“What if I get hurt?”

“That’s a tough thing, Eddie,” I said. “If you get hurt it’s not as bad as if some other guy gets hurt and can’t play when he’s needed.”

“Oh hell, there’s not that much chance of getting hurt,” he said. “I’ve seen guys get hurt on sliders. But if you think I ought to be catching your knuckleball, take it to the manager.”

“I don’t want to bother him with something so unimportant. It’s so small I think it’s a decision
you
can make.”

“It’s not my job.”

And that’s the way it went.

“As soon as the game is over I’ll tell Joe our exact discussion,” he said finally.

“Not after a loss,” I said.

“If the point has to be brought up, it has to be brought up.”

As it happened, I pitched to one hitter, Frank Robinson. He belted a line drive to the centerfielder. So I got out of that.

Then they pinch-hit for me and I felt empty, like a hungry man cut off after his shrimp cocktail. I told Sal I needed a pitching fix and that I was going out to the bullpen to throw. “That’s your whole trouble,” Sal said. “You’re throwing too damn much.”

Some trouble, I thought. I’ve only had one bad outing since I came back from Vancouver. What the hell was he talking about? Except that I knew. I was asking to do something unorthodox, and unorthodoxy does in baseball what heresy does in the priesthood.

I set my bulldog jaw. “I need to throw,” I said. “And I’m goin’ to throw.”

“Oh, crissakes. If you have to throw, go ahead.”

But by this time he’d made his point to everybody in the dugout. I was being a weirdo again.

Later on Mike Marshall said that while I was throwing in the bullpen Joe Schultz kept walking down to the end of the dugout to look out at me. He’d come back each time shaking his head. And in the shower after the game Sal was telling the catchers that I was throwing too much. Know something? The catchers agreed.

This was the big day for the underprivileged kids of Washington, D.C. It was a pretty big day in the life of the Seattle Pilots too.

Breakfast with Mincher, Pattin and Marshall, and of all things, we got to talking about old Guess Who? Not vindictively, you understand, rather the way you talk about something funny that happened last night. Mincher said we were missing something by being out in the bullpen, that Maglie was great in the dugout—especially when Marshall was pitching. “If a guy hits a fastball when Marshall is out there,” Minch said, “Sal says, ‘Son of a bitch, he’s throwing that fastball too much.’ In the very next inning a guy will get a hit on a curve ball and Sal says, ‘Son of a bitch, why doesn’t he go to his fastball more?’”

“I try to sit next to him whenever I can,” Mincher said.

At ten o’clock, five of us boarded the bus for Washington: Joe Schultz, Don Mincher, Mike Marshall, Marty Pattin and I. On the bus were six Orioles: the bullpen catcher Charley Lau, outfielders Dave May, Paul Blair and Don Buford, coach Billy Hunter and Jim Hardin, the pitcher.

During the one-hour ride, Joe Schultz was asking around about what kind of deal we were getting into and he found out that we were going to the Sheraton-Park Hotel, where we’d be assigned a playground in which to conduct a clinic. After that we were all going to the stadium for the dedication. “Oh shitfuck,” Joe Schultz said. “I didn’t think it was going to be like that. Oh fuckshit.” He seemed agitated.

At the hotel things seemed pretty well organized. Everybody’s name was on a list and they gave out tags and the addresses of the playgrounds and assigned drivers to take us out. Naturally this all took a while and we were standing out in the corridor waiting when Joe Schultz said to Mincher, “Shitfuck, Minch, what do you say? Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Mincher hesitated for a moment and it was all over. Schultz had his man. “Hell, I’m getting out of here and grabbing a cab,” Joe Schultz said.

“Crissakes, don’t leave me behind,” Mincher said. “I’m going with you.”

And the two of them left the hotel and took a cab back to Baltimore.

Ah, shitfuck.

At the end of the day, after the clinics and the elimination races for the kids at the playgrounds and the meet at the Stadium, and after guys like Sam Jones and Red Auerbach and Jim Beatty and a lot of Olympic swimmers and pro-football players had made their little talks and done what they could—little as it was—for the black kids of Washington, D.C., we took the bus back to Baltimore and Mike Marshall said he thought he understood what had happened with Joe Schultz and Don Mincher.

“I could see it coming,” Marshall said. “Joe couldn’t cope with the situation. He wasn’t in charge. He was forced to follow along. It was frustrating to him not to know what the plan was and he’s neither intelligent nor competent enough to be at ease with the unknown. That’s why he surrounds himself with other people, coaches, who are as narrow as he is. He wants to rule out anyone who might bring up new things to cope with. He wants to lay down some simple rules—keep your hat on straight, pull your socks up, make sure everybody has the same color sweatshirt—and live by them.”

And it was obviously true. Like on the bus going to Washington, Joe Schultz and I were sitting across the aisle from each other. I handed him the sports section of the paper and when he was through with it I asked him if he wanted to read the rest of the paper. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t read that.”

There’s no comfort for Schultz in the front of a newspaper. When he wants comfort he can get it from somebody like Mincher. I don’t think Joe would have gone back to Baltimore alone, and I don’t think Mincher would have either. But they gave each other just enough support to do it together. They were less afraid, both of them, of running out than they were of facing this great unknown that involved so many people.

Talking about Joe Schultz reminded Marshall of something that happened the other night. Although we had just blown a game to the Orioles, when Schultz came back into the clubhouse he was smiling. Mike thought that was kind of strange until he heard Schultz say, to nobody in particular, “Lou Brock stole his 25th base tonight. That’s 25 out of 25.”

And Mike Marshall thought, “My God. The man’s living in a dream world. He still thinks he’s with the Cardinals.”