Bring In the Right-Hander!
Page 1
“In Bring In the Right-Hander! Jerry Reuss delivers a revealing and remarkable performance.”
—Fred Claire, former Los Angeles Dodger executive vice president and general manager and author of Fred Claire: My 30 Years in Dodger Blue
“Jerry Reuss had one of the great deliveries in baseball. And he has pitched a strike again with an insightful look at a career that transcended the “Golden Era” of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. I couldn’t put it down!”
—Steve Garvey, 1974 National League Most Valuable Player and ten-time All-Star
Bring in the Right-Hander!
Bring in the Right-Hander!
My Twenty-Two Years in the Major Leagues
Jerry Reuss
University of Nebraska Press
Lincoln and London
© 2014 by Jerry Reuss
All rights reserved
Cover image provided by the Los Angeles Dodgers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reuss, Jerry, 1949–
Bring in the right-hander!: my twenty-two years in the major leagues / Jerry Reuss.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-8032-4897-7 (cloth: alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8032-5508-1 (pdf)—ISBN 978-0-8032-5509-8 (epub)—ISBN 978-0-8032-5510-4 (mobi)
1. Reuss, Jerry, 1949–2. Baseball players—United States—Biography. I. Title.
GV865.R4243A3 2014
796.357092—dc23 [B]
2013035021
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To my wife, Chantal, whose encouragement helped me through the rough times and who was there to celebrate the good times, this book is dedicated to you! You are the love of my life.
Contents
List of Illustrations
Prologue
Acknowledgments
1. The Early Years
2. Turning Pro
3. Life in the Minors
4. Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa
5. Meet Me in St. Louis
6. Houston, I’m Comin’ to See Ya
7. Makin’ My Way to the Steel City
8. California, Here I Come!
9. Life after the World Series . . . Big Laughs, Great Times, and Transitions
10. Hits, Misses, and Whistle-Stops
Epilogue
Notes
About the Author
Illustrations
1. Jerry Reuss as a young boy
2. Overland team in 1960
3. Jerry pitching for the Ritenour Huskies
4. The Ritenour Huskies, who won the Missouri state high school baseball championship in 1966 and 1967
5. Jerry Reuss in St. Petersburg, 1968
6. Letter from Cardinals general manager Bing Devine
7. Jerry Reuss as a Cardinal
8. Danny Murtaugh and Jerry Reuss
9. Jim Rooker, Bruce Kison, Jerry Reuss, and Ken Brett
10. Willie Stargell and Jerry Reuss
11. Jerry visiting with Sandy Koufax during spring-training stretching
12. The final pitch of Jerry’s no-hitter at Candlestick Park
13. Jerry Reuss with Steve Yeager
14. Old-Timers Day at Dodger Stadium in July 1980
15. Phil Garner and Jerry Reuss
16. Jerry celebrating with Pete Guerrero and Derrel Thomas
17. Jerry celebrating the defeat of the Yankees in Game Five of the 1981 World Series
18. Jerry Reuss and Reggie Smith during a World Series celebration
19. Jerry Reuss addressing a crowd of Dodgers fans
20. Steve Yeager, Rick Monday, Jay Johnstone, and Jerry Reuss laying down some tracks
21. Legendary Dodger broadcaster Vin Scully and Jerry Reuss
22. Jerry Reuss dragging the infield
23. Steve Garvey and Jerry Reuss
24. Jay Johnstone and Jerry Reuss
25. Jerry Reuss and Tom Lasorda
26. Jerry Reuss, Tom Lasorda, and Steve Howe
27. Orel Hershiser and Jerry Reuss
28. Jerry ready to deliver a pitch in his final game
29. Jim Leyland, Jerry Reuss, and Don Slaught
30. Message posted on the scoreboard at Three Rivers Stadium as Jerry stepped out of the dugout for a curtain call
Prologue
Who would’ve guessed the momentum of the 1981 World Series would shift in the space of five pitches? Ron Guidry, the Yankees starter in Game Five, had beaten the Dodgers in his last three World Series starts against them since 1977 and was cruising through the first six innings.
I wasn’t at my best, allowing four hits, three walks, and the Yankees’ only run in the second inning. I also dodged a huge bullet working out of a bases-loaded jam in the top of the fourth. Then I found my groove as I retired eight of the next nine Yankees from the fifth through the seventh.
When Guidry fanned Dusty Baker to lead off the home half of the seventh, it marked fifteen of the last sixteen Dodger batters retired as Pete Guerrero stepped to the plate. I sat on the bench and thought, “Just get me a run, and I’ll hold them right there.” Somebody listened. Pete hammered a hanging slider into the left-field bleachers that tied the game. The crowd of more than fifty-six thousand came alive. The electricity that filled the air at Dodger Stadium the past two days was back in full force. Steve Yeager, the next Dodger batter, fell behind in the count 1–2 on a couple of nasty sliders. Then Guidry tried to sneak a fastball past the veteran catcher. The pitch caught too much of the plate, as Yeager homered to give us a 2–1 lead. Maybe I should have asked for some runs earlier.
The Yankees were retired in order in the eighth. We had Davey Lopes on first base with two outs and Ron Cey batting against reliever Rich Gossage. On a 1–1 pitch Cey was hit square on his batting helmet. Suddenly, the importance of the game paled in comparison to the status of a man’s life. The crowd was quiet as we all waited to see if Cey could get up. After a few minutes, Ron was helped to the clubhouse and then taken to a local hospital for X-rays. Talk about a peak and valley of emotions.
We still led 2–1 in the top of the ninth. Everybody in the house was on their feet. Like my teammates, I was riding that wave of momentum and the excitement that was just three outs away. Bob Watson grounded to short for the first out. Lou Piniella, with an RBI (run batted in) single in the second, bounced a single up the middle. I shook my head as the ball came back to the infield. “I should have known that it wouldn’t be easy,” I thought. The next batter, Rick Cerrone, lined my first offering to center for the second out. Aurelio Rodriguez, standing at the plate, was all that stood between me and taking a series lead of three games to two. Rodriguez lined the first pitch just foul down the third base line for strike one. He tapped the next pitch foul at the plate for strike two. Before I delivered my next pitch, I did something for the first time during a game. While rubbing the ball I walked around the mound and scanned Dodger Stadium from left field to right, drinking in all the excitement. This was the moment I dreamed of ever since I was a kid back in Overland, Missouri. Like anybody who has ever played the game, I lived this scene in my mind many times in different schoolyards and ball fields. My next pitch would make my dream a reality.
Acknowledgments
“Work hard . . . and play just as hard!” That was the mantra repeated by Willie Stargell regarding his baseball career as well as his life away from the game. For me, I was living my baseball life by this code long before we were teammates on the Pirates. In fact, as you read this book, you may think that I played much more than I worked. That was hardly the case. With all the workouts in gyms lifting fr
ee weights, sweating through the various Nautilus programs, jogging miles around the National League (NL) ballparks, and conditioning on a Versa-Climber later in my career, I did the work behind the scenes as well as the countless hours spent on the field. The “play” part of the equation presented an equilibrium that allowed me to play in twenty-two Major League seasons.
Of course, no player makes it to the big leagues much less plays as long as I did without the help of a huge supporting cast. The following groups and individuals were instrumental in creating the proper learning environment, while teaching, coaching, directing, or helping me on my life’s path. My heartfelt thanks to the priests, nuns, and lay teachers at All Souls School in Overland, Missouri; the moms and dads who served as Little League coaches and chauffeurs; the administrators, teachers, and coaches at Overland’s Ritenour High School (a special tip of the cap to baseball coaches Lee Engert and Pete Hensel); Thoman-Boothe, American Legion Post 338, including the veterans (thank you for your service), administrators, and coaches; the front-office personnel of Major and Minor League teams, including owners, general managers (GMs), scouts, managers, coaches, trainers, and clubhouse attendants; my teammates over the years, whom I credit for the wins as I take the blame for the losses; my parents, Melvin and Viola, who were there when I played my first Little League game and followed my career to my final professional game; my brothers, Jim, who introduced me to the game in the backyard, and John, who played in many of the neighborhood games while we were growing up; my children, Shawn, Jason, and Brittany, who experienced the middle and later parts of my career that included long stretches away from home; and my wife, Chantal, who was there for moral support through all of the good times, the bad times, and the times in between.
Special thanks are given to the number of people who helped with this book. There were a number of former players and teammates who gave me their time and recollections of many of the events mentioned in this book. They are Norm Miller, Jimmy Wynn, Larry Dierker, Steve Blass, Jim Rooker, Kurt Bevacqua, Bruce Kison, Phil Garner, Jim Fregosi, Steve Garvey, Jay Johnstone, Bill Madlock, Rick Monday, Wally Moon, Steve Rodgers, and Carl Erskine.
Many thanks to those employed by the Pittsburgh Pirates: director of baseball communications Jim Trdinich, team photographer Dave Arroyo, and the liaison for alumni affairs, Sally O’Leary.
Former and current members of the Los Angeles Dodgers front office were kind enough to provide guidance and their professional expertise: Peter O’Malley, Fred Claire, Toby Zwikel, Steve Brener, Chad Gunderson, and Mark Langill.
Many thanks to David Smith of retrosheet.org, whose website and answers to my personal requests provided many of the dates, places, and people that are included in this book; Jim Gates of the National Baseball Hall of Fame, who filled in many of the blanks with information on long-forgotten facts about my career; the people at baseball-reference.com for their stats and information regarding my early years in the Minor Leagues; John L. Smith, columnist for the Las Vegas Review-Journal and an author of numerous Las Vegas—related books for advice and direction; author of many books on baseball Doug Feldman for his thoughts on promotion and minute details of the St. Louis Cardinals; the Major League Baseball Players Association, especially the late Marvin Miller, Donald Fehr, Dick Moss, the late Mark Belanger, and all of the players who served as player representatives over the years; and Jack Sands and Joe Barinelli of Sports Advisors Group, who took care of the business side of baseball.
So, it’s time now to grab a chair, kick back, and enjoy my life in baseball!
Bring in the Right-Hander!
1.
The Early Years
It was my older brother, Jim (six years my senior), who took me out to the backyard to play ball that first time. Jim, being right-handed, was surprised that I batted and threw left-handed. There wasn’t a problem with me using his bat (other than it was too big for a five- or six-year-old), but it was awkward using his glove to catch. Once Dad saw how I loved to play, he picked up a glove for me to use. When Jim started hanging with his high school buddies, I enlisted other kids in the neighborhood to play ball games in the backyard, the schoolyard, and the lot on Lackland Avenue between a church and Ortmann’s Funeral Home. Today, a Walgreen’s drugstore occupies the spot where the church and the lot once stood.
Because Jim was playing Little League at Overland’s Legion Park, I wanted to play. Once I was old enough, I tried out for a team and didn’t make the cut. As there were so many other kids my age who wanted to play, other teams were added, and I played my first year of Little League. I was a first baseman in those early years and pitched only because the coaches insisted. Because I was bigger than most of the other kids and could throw harder, I experienced early success as a pitcher. My dreams were to be a Major League Baseball (MLB) player. I once expressed that opinion to Jim. He told me, “That’s a big dream. Do you know that the odds are one in a million of making it?” Jim made good grades in high school, so I figured he must know something. But I shot back at him, “Maybe so, but I’ll be that one!” That’s cocky for a second or third grader, but I knew what I wanted. And I wasn’t about to let anybody or anything stand in the way of my dreams.
It might have been 1955 or 1956 when I attended my first Major League game. My two brothers (Jim and my younger brother by two years, John) and I jumped in the car with Dad on a picture-perfect early-summer afternoon. It took less than a half hour to get a few blocks from Sportsman’s Park (renamed Busch Stadium in 1953) and maybe another half hour driving around the neighborhood, as street parking was at a premium.
We were on foot only a few blocks from the entrance on the third base side, and as we approached I could sense the electricity of activity surrounding the park. People rushed from all directions to the ballpark entrance. We turned our walk up a notch as we got in step with the rest of the crowd. We slowed down once we found our place in line, as Dad had the tickets in hand and we passed through the turnstiles.
All my senses were on high alert. The entry level was cool but humid, much like our basement. The pungent smell of cleaner couldn’t wash away years of stale cigars and beer that was past its prime. There was the sight and sound of a nearby vendor, dressed in his red-and-white-striped jacket and straw hat, yelling, “Scorecards . . . get your scorecards here! Can’t tell the players without a scorecard. Just a dime.” It took all of just a few seconds to part with some of my allowance to buy my first souvenir scorecard. My next purchase happened just seconds later, when I had to shell out for a pencil. That took care of that week’s allowance. It was a rookie mistake that never happened again.
Before we trekked to our seats, there was a bathroom stop. No way Dad was getting up from his seat once the game began. While waiting for one of my brothers to finish, we stood outside the men’s room just a few feet from the concession stand. There were new smells and the sounds of fresh popcorn popping and hot dogs sizzling on the grill. Even though I was feeling the effects of a full stomach after Mom’s breakfast that could have fed the neighborhood, it was there and then that I realized hot dogs at the ballpark always tasted better than those we ate at home.
Once all zippers were up, we walked up the ramp that took us to the “promised land” on the concourse level. As Dad showed the usher our ticket stubs, I gazed upon a sight that would be forever burned into my mind. Looking beyond the overlap of the upper deck, I saw the bluest sky ever, stopped only by the dark-green pavilion roof shading the right-field seats. Draped with a screen that ran from the right-field foul pole at the 310-foot mark to the 354-foot mark in right-center field and affixed at the bottom to the top of the right-field wall, the pavilion was the area that Harry Caray talked about when Stan Musial lofted a fly ball in that direction. “There’s a drive . . . deep to right . . . It might be outta here . . . It could be . . . It is, a home run!” Harry said as the noise from the crowd in the background rose to a crescendo while we listened to his account on our radios. Now I was seeing it for the first time.
Directly in front of the wall was the warning track that bordered the outfield wall and the fence in front of the first row of seats around the perimeter of the playing field. On the other side of the track was the greenest grass I’d ever seen, with no bare spots or weeds!
We found our seats behind the Cardinals’ third base dugout as I watched the spectacle in front of me in total amazement. It was batting practice (BP). Some players were hitting, others were fielding grounders, and the rest of the players were in the outfield, chasing fly balls. There was action on the field no matter where you looked.
Looking above the left-field wall, I saw the Budweiser scoreboard. Though basic by today’s standard, that hand-operated scoreboard gave fans the current pitchers and the inning-by-inning score in games around the Major Leagues.
After the teams finished their infield practice, a group of men in work uniforms like the one Dad wore came on to the field, carrying rakes and a long hose. The grounds crew swept, raked, and watered everything, including the dirt!
The Cardinals took the field as the nearly full house stood and applauded. The noise stopped only when the organist played the national anthem. I took those moments to view the Cardinal players (Ken Boyer at third was the player closest to our seats) in their home whites, navy blue hats, and the red Cardinal logo on the front of their uniform that played perfectly against the green grass, the tan color of the dirt, the dark green of the right-field seats, and the bluest of skies.
If I had to pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with the game of baseball, that was probably it. Coming to the ballpark as a fan was one thing. That wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to be a ballplayer. I wanted to play on this field. I wanted to do it forever. Within a few years, that wish was granted.
Little League all-star teams from all over the St. Louis area descended on Busch Stadium on July 9, 1960, for a chance to play on these hallowed grounds. My Overland team made the pilgrimage to play three innings in one of the four games occurring simultaneously in the outfield grass at 1:00 p.m. When I found out our game was played in right field, I immediately envisioned blasting a homer on the roof. In my mind, I heard Harry, “It might be outta here . . . !” All I could manage was a single to left in my only at bat. But I had the thrill and memory of a lifetime.