Bring In the Right-Hander!

by Jerry Reuss

  There were other factors to consider. At the end of four years at twenty-two years old (a senior citizen in the eyes of an eighteen-year-old), would a pro baseball career opportunity still be there? What if I was hurt in college and couldn’t play? However, if I signed, I could still attend college in the off-season, I rationalized. If I was hurt and couldn’t play anymore as a professional, I could still get my education from the money included in the bonus and get on with my life. I was involved in an internal war and at a crossroads in my life. On one hand, there was a four-year college scholarship with the prospects of turning professional at twenty-two years old or the alternate universe of seizing the opportunity at eighteen and following my heart’s desire. As we walked back to Stan’s office, I didn’t know what I would do, as Dad told me the decision was mine.

  The Clincher

  Once seated, George told us that the Cardinals would sweeten the deal by $2,000 for my parents’ long-awaited vacation. At eighteen I had no business sense and didn’t think to ask if we could improve on some of the other numbers. If they didn’t, we could have still walked out with $32,500 on the table and time on our side. My freshman year in college didn’t begin until late August or early September, at which point the Cardinals would lose their negotiating rights.

  Instead, I got caught up in the emotion of the moment. I saw Mom’s face light up. Remembering all the Little League, high school, and American Legion games they saw my brothers and me play as well as the other sacrifices parents make for their kids, this was the chance of a lifetime for me to repay them. Who knew if it would ever come again? I chose the opportunity of a lifetime and my heart’s desire instead of the potential that a college degree could offer. The vacation money tipped the scales, and I signed my first professional contract that day.

  To this day I don’t regret the decision. My parents and John went on a cruise during the Christmas and New Year’s holiday in 1967–68. I was invited to join them, but I declined. I was home during the holiday break from my freshman year at SIU. I had been living out of a suitcase since I signed the contract and needed the holidays to get my feet back on the ground. Besides, I had the house and the family car to myself for ten days!

  3.

  Life in the Minors

  After signing the contract there were a few people I had to contact. The coaches and players of Thoman-Booth Post 338 (my American Legion team), Coach Engert, and SIU head baseball coach Joe Lutz, with whom I had signed a letter of intent, were first on the list. Friends and relatives were next, as I packed what I needed for my first summer away from home. Everyone had wished me well.

  I arrived in St. Petersburg, Florida, in late June, as workouts for the newly signed players were in the final days before the Rookie League season began in Sarasota. My first impression was that these guys looked like pretty good ballplayers. The pitchers could all throw hard, and the hitters were able to reach the fences in batting practice. The first few days were spent conditioning and transitioning to professional baseball.

  The man in charge was George Kissell. George had already been in baseball since 1940 with the exception of three years of military service during World War II. During his baseball years he was a player, manager, scout, and roving instructor. Eventually, he spent seven years with the Major League club as a coach and field coordinator. By the time of his passing in 2008, he spent a total of sixty-nine years in service to the Cardinals.1

  There wasn’t much he didn’t know about the game. He carried a legal pad on a clipboard and kept notes on everything we did. Before workouts, he worked his way down the list compiled the day before, talked about it, and prepared us for that day’s work. It was like Coach Engert and Bunny became one person and was wearing a Cardinals uniform.

  Everybody who went through the Cardinals system had his own memory of George. I remember how he reminded us the correct height for every throw we would make. “Knock the bird off the chest!” he reminded us daily, referring to the stitching of two Cardinals perched on our threadbare uniform top. It didn’t matter if the throw was a pitch from the mound to the catcher or a throw to an infielder from an outfielder. The correct height for every throw was chest high. He also advocated that pitchers purchase the heavy wool sweatshirts and wear them daily. It was the belief of George and other baseball people of that time that a pitcher had to keep his arm warm to prevent soreness, and the heavy wool sweatshirts did the job best. Never mind the fact that the wool in the sweatshirts caused them to shrink every time they were washed.

  After a few days the team boarded a bus for Sarasota, as it was time to begin play for the first time as professionals. The fields we used were Payne Park for night games and a four-field complex that exists today behind Ed Smith Stadium.

  On the day of my first start a huge thunderstorm chased us from one of the fields at the complex. I figured that was it for that day, especially after such a rainstorm. That’s the way it was in St. Louis, but this was Florida in the summer. The field was ready within a half hour. My debut as a pro was a memorable one. I pitched four innings, striking out six, while allowing just one hit. My next start wasn’t quite as impressive, as I surrendered my first pro home run to Darrel Evans, who played for the Kansas City A’s rookie team. He would hit four more against me in eighty-four at bats during our Major League careers over the next twenty-plus years.2

  Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Summer of 1967

  In early July after two Rookie League appearances, I was sent to Class A Cedar Rapids in the Midwest League. Class A ball was a definite upgrade from the Rookie League, as we had uniforms (home and away) that fitted instead of hand-me-downs from the Major League club. At eighteen years old I saw the world . . . at least the world that included small cities in the upper Midwest. I loved the lifestyle and performed well. In nine starts I was 2–5, with a 1.86 ERA (earned run average), sixty-three strikeouts, and nineteen walks in fifty-nine innings. As I was ready to board the bus for our season-ending road trip, Jack Krol, the Cedar Rapids manager, pulled me aside and told me I was called up to the Pacific Coast League (PCL) in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

  Tulsa, Oklahoma, Summer of 1967

  In his first year as manager with the Tulsa Oilers when I joined them was future Hall of Famer Warren Spahn. I was in awe the first time I met him. He read it in my face and immediately put me at ease. “It’s no different here than Cedar Rapids,” he told me as we boarded a plane to Phoenix. “Just keep the ball down, throw strikes, and good things will happen.”

  My first Triple A game with the Oilers was at Westgate Park in San Diego, which was torn down in 1968 and replaced by Fashion Valley Shopping Center.3 The date was August 28. I do remember a few things about the game. I threw my first pitch down the middle, and it was called a ball. The same thing happened on the next pitch. I walked the batter on four pitches and was behind 2–0 when Spahnnie came out to visit.

  “Warren, if those pitches aren’t strikes, then I can’t pitch in this league,” I told him. Later, Spahn was thrown out of the game for arguing a play at second base. Before the inning was over I gave up six runs and walked four, as Jim Gentile touched me for a grand slam.4 Welcome to the PCL.

  Little Rock, Arkansas, Summer of 1968

  After the 1967 season ended I still hadn’t registered for classes at SIU in Carbondale. Because I would have been eligible for the military draft had I not been a full-time student, I needed to be in school. Joe Lutz, the baseball coach, came to my rescue. He walked me through registration and secured an athletic waiver that allowed me to work out with the team during the school year. I took full advantage of the opportunity and never missed a practice. When spring break rolled around in March, the Cardinals flew me to Florida for ten days of Minor League spring training. When the Cardinals played in St. Louis on weekends during April and May, I drove home from Carbondale and worked out with them.

  When school was finished in June, they assigned me to their Texas League AA club in Little Rock, Arkansas. Arriving in mid-June, I started sixteen ga
mes and pitched 112 innings, which was fewer than the 168 innings pitched by Santiago Guzman, who led the team.5 I arrived at a crossroads regarding my career. If I continued as a full-time student, I could fall behind in my baseball development and watch other pitchers pass me by. If I played the whole season and picked up school when I could, I would lose my school draft deferment.

  Another option was to join the U.S. Army Reserve, which allowed me a compromise. I joined a unit in Little Rock in August with a number of teammates, including pitcher Harry Parker. When the 1968 season was over I checked out a local army unit at the Records Center in St. Louis, just a few miles from where I grew up. Because they had an opening, I transferred to the St. Louis unit. It was a fortunate bit of luck, as Harry, who stayed in the Little Rock unit, was called into basic training in early-April 1969, thereby missing the entire 1969 season. Chances are I would have been there with him.

  My First Spring Training, 1969

  Over the winter of 1968 and 1969, baseball went through a number of changes. With the addition of the San Diego Padres and Montreal Expos in the National League and the Kansas City Royals and Seattle Pilots in the American League, each league of twelve teams was now divided into two divisions of six teams each. The winners of each division would compete against each other in a League Championship Series (LCS), then the best of five games, to determine the pennant winners that would face each other in the World Series.

  There were some major rule changes for the upcoming year. In an effort to counteract a trend of low-scoring games, Major League Baseball adopted two measures during the Baseball Winter Meetings held in December 1968. The strike zone was reduced to the area over home plate between the armpits and the top of the knees of a batter. Also, the height of the pitching mound was reduced from fifteen inches to ten inches, and it was recommended that the slope be gradual and uniform in every park.6

  There were also changes regarding the business of baseball. The first pension agreement between ownership and the players was set to expire in March 1969. Marvin Miller, the executive director of the Major League Baseball Players Association, had his pension proposals ready in mid-1968, which included an increase of the owners’ contribution, a reduction in years to qualify from five to four, and retroactively including players from the previous ten years. In an effort to show that the players meant business, Marvin and the players devised a tactic that had players hold off on signing their 1969 contracts until an agreement could be reached.7

  Baseball had a new commissioner. Bowie Kuhn was a compromise choice between the two leagues. Kuhn, who didn’t want to start his term with labor problems, encouraged a new deal with the players. It took some arm-twisting on the part of Dick Meyer, vice president (VP) of the Cardinals and chairman of the Players Relations Committee (PRC), to make it happen. The settlement included most of what the association wanted in pension contribution, the vesting requirement reduced to four years, and the retroactive application of benefits and vesting requirements.8

  The players as a group scored a major victory, but some individual players paid a price. With spring training knocking at the door, there was little time to negotiate contracts, so many players were presented with take-it-or-leave-it offers. Joe Torre, then with the Braves, was one of those players. When Joe and Braves GM Paul Richards couldn’t reach a contract accord, Joe was shipped to the Cardinals on March 17 in exchange for Orlando Cepeda, who slumped in 1968 to .248, with 16 HR and 73 RBI after batting .325, with 25 HR and leading the National League in RBI with 111 in 1967.9

  August A. Busch Jr. Makes His Presence Known

  Having his Cardinals play in three of the last five World Series and win World Championships in 1964 and 1967 should have put Cardinals owner August A. Busch Jr. on top of the world during the spring of 1969. He was anything but overjoyed. The game he bought into was changing. He liked to handle business his way without interference, much like he did when he purchased the Cardinals in 1953. It proved to be sports-marketing genius. Anheuser-Busch, also owned by Busch, went from second in the American brewing industry to first, where it stands today, because of the tie-in with the Cardinals.10

  And Busch shared this good fortune with the Cardinal players. When he became aware of racial bias in St. Petersburg in 1961, he leased two of the best motels in the city so that in 1962 and for years after players could live in the same accommodations.11

  Busch also helped set up Stan Musial in the restaurant business in St. Louis, awarded Roger Maris an Anheuser-Busch distributorship in Florida, and gave Lou Brock a yacht and Bob Gibson a motor home when they retired.12

  In 1961 Busch intervened on Curt Flood’s behalf and “asked” manager Johnny Keane to give Flood an opportunity to play regularly. Busch also provided the Flood family with financial help for their eldest son’s medical bills and found Flood’s wife a job as a print model for the brewery.13

  When Curt painted Busch’s portrait in 1967, the club owner was “tickled to death” with it and hung it on his yacht. Busch was so pleased with Flood’s work that he commissioned him to paint his entire family. This made great newspaper copy, and once the story about the Busch painting came out, it led to exhibitions of Flood’s paintings and for many paid commissions. Busch became a patron of Flood’s art, and Curt took full advantage of it.14

  Not only did Busch extend his benevolence to star players, but he extended it to all players in varying degrees. The Cardinals had baseball’s first million-dollar payroll in 1968. On the road we enjoyed private rooms.

  On my first trip with the Cardinals in September 1969, I unlocked the door to my room at the Pittsburgh Hilton to discover that I had a suite! I had only read about them. For this leg of the trip, I would stay in one.

  Single rooms for players remained the custom for the Cardinals during my tenure. The rest of Major League Baseball still housed players two to a room, with the exception of some superstars.

  When we returned from a road trip, each player received a “beer slip.” That letter could be redeemed for a case of their favorite Anheuser-Busch beer. Being just twenty years old at the time, I couldn’t use it. But Dad did and sure enjoyed having an extra case or two of beer every month.

  While other clubs used both commercial airlines and charters for their transportation (the Dodgers with their own plane were the exception), the Cardinals chartered exclusively with United Airlines, who stocked each flight with chilled cases of Budweiser for every trip.

  There were numerous family picnics at Grant’s Farm, Busch’s estate, whose acreage housed many wild animals as well as the brewery’s famed team of Clydesdales. The farm had tours open to the public, but during the team picnics it was closed for the enjoyment of Cardinal family members.

  Yes, Mr. Busch could be a very generous man, as long as his generosity was on his terms.

  Trouble Brewing in a Baseball Paradise

  The divide between the Cardinal players and Busch had been growing since Marvin Miller became head of the Players Association in 1966. Marvin negotiated the first Basic Agreement with baseball owners in 1968 that called for a grievance procedure, a raise in the minimum salary from $7,000 to $10,000, and the development of an owners-players committee to study the reserve clause.15

  It widened more when Curt Flood issued a salary ultimatum to the club in early-March 1969 that was printed in the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. After being offered a $5,000 raise from his 1968 salary of $72,500, he rejected the club’s offer by telling them, “If you people want a .300 hitter who also happens to be the best center fielder in baseball, it will cost you $90,000, which is not $77,500 and it’s not $89,999.99.” Of course, Busch had a fit when he heard about it. Obviously, Flood no longer held that special place in Busch’s heart.16

  With labor discontent and Flood’s outburst on his mind, Busch could no longer hold his anger about the perceived ingratitude of the players. So on March 22 he entered the Cardinals’ clubhouse at Al Lang Field with a contingent of Anheuser-Busch and Cardinal officials as wel
l as the St. Louis beat writers, to deliver a message to his players.

  As a twenty-year-old in my first spring training, I had no idea what the speech was really about, as it definitely had an undercurrent meant for others in the room. I only wondered why it was being delivered in a public forum instead of just to the players.

  In reading transcripts of it in 2011 and taking it at face value, it appeared that he wanted the focus back on the field and not on pension or contract matters, which he believed to be detrimental to the game. It was more a state-of-the-game message from management’s point of view after a winter of baseball discontent that was meant for public consumption. Fair enough, but there was no mention of management’s unwillingness to understand the players’ point of view. Nor was there any mention of what management learned from negotiations with the players’ union that would prevent a situation like this from ever happening again. What he said in this speech was one thing; his actions afterward told more about his true feelings.

  An Unforgettable Spring

  Even with all of the peripheral issues surrounding the team, there were some lasting spring-training memories. I remember when Bob Gibson delivered a knockdown pitch to the Mets’ Tommy Agee on the first pitch in his first at bat as a member of the Mets; I remember my surprise when Steve Carlton yelled, “Welcome to the National League,” as Agee was sprawled in the dirt; I remember the sad look on Orlando Cepeda’s face when he came to the clubhouse to pack his bags after being traded to Atlanta; I remember Joe Torre, traded for Cepeda, when he put on his Cardinal uniform for the first time; I remember how Stan Musial and Red Schoendienst exchanged endless “Whadda-ya-say’s” every time Stan came to the clubhouse; I remember the professionalism of the veteran Cardinal players working fundamental plays with rookies, knowing that the kid who stood beside him could be the one who would replace him; I remember the interviews with Jack Hermann and Bob Broeg, two writers from competing St. Louis papers that I read on a daily basis while growing up; I remember meals at a different restaurant every night that I bought with Major League meal money; I remember the hard work that players and coaches poured into every day; I remember watching the players who packed their bags, as some were reassigned to the Minors, had their contracts traded or sold, or were given their outright release; I remember when Red called me over and told me it would be my last day with the big club as he took the time to thank me for the hard work I did. I told him, “Thank you for inviting me and for the opportunity to spend the extra time around the Major Leaguers.” After spending four or five weeks with the Cardinals, I developed a taste for the Major League lifestyle. I was willing to do whatever it took to be a part of it. All in all, it was one hell of a spring.