by Jerry Reuss
The amateur economist in me guesses the number to be in the millions of dollars, but that’s just speculation on my part. So the next time I’m asked about the deals and give my standard answer of “Who really knows?” understand that I have given the subject some thought.
Sorry, No Visitors Allowed in the Clubhouse!
I was up early that Sunday morning on April 16, as I had to make the trip to the ballpark to gather my gear. As I made the forty-minute drive from my home in Chesterfield, I thought about the reaction to my trade from the players, who were teammates Saturday and now former teammates on Sunday. Yes, I was apprehensive, being twenty-two years old and traded for the first time. How was I supposed to handle this? Should I let the trade roll off my back and come up with some witty quip? I wasn’t in a witty mood. Should I make the occasion an opportunity to rip the club? Not a good idea, as my parents and other family members still lived in St. Louis. And my uncle worked for the brewery. How about if I just thanked everyone for their support and wished them the best? I chose option three.
My locker was next to the table that held the huge coffeepot just outside the training room and was two lockers away from Bob Gibson. Never at a loss for words, Gibby saw me quietly pass by, sit down on my chair, and pack my gear. “Hey, I told you to shave that mustache,” he said with a laugh. He extended his hand and wished me the best. At the time I thought this was Gibson being Gibson and his way of dealing with an awkward situation. I didn’t know at the time just how on the mark his comment was. Other Cardinal players soon followed Gibby’s lead. I sensed that a lot of guys knew this feeling all too well, as their careers had them bouncing from club to club. Seeing me made them recall the uncertainty they painfully remembered.
After my bag was packed, I stepped into the coaches’ room and thanked everyone for all they did. Then it was a trip to Red’s office to say good-bye. Red criticized me for growing the mustache, but said it had no bearing on the trade. “There’s no club rule against it,” Red said.14
“Hey, this happened to me a few times. You’ll be all right” were Red’s words to me. We shook hands, and I went back for my bag but was stopped.
Probably the most curious good-bye was by clubhouse manager Butch Yatkeman, who had been with the club in some capacity since 1924. “Could we square up the past few weeks before you go?” Butch asked me just inside his office door, which was on the other side of the coffeepot. “Butch, the players were on strike for twelve days. Yesterday was the first day back. Tell me what I owe you for yesterday,” I said incredulously.
I wrote him a check, and I don’t remember the amount. I know it was for more than a day. As I write this memory, I wish this had been the conversation with him: “Butch, thanks for reminding me. What’s the tab? Suppose I put a home and away uniform and a jacket in my bag. Would ‘x dollars’ cover it?” Yeah, that’s a conversation that never happened. Still, the money would have been spent wisely, as the gear would be family treasures today.
I sensed that I was overstaying my time in the clubhouse. Players are funny about that. After I packed my equipment bag, the players gave me a reasonable amount of time to say good-bye. Then, move on. After all, the Cardinals had a game to play, and now I was the opposition.
As I walked through the clubhouse double doors, I saw Scipio Spinks, one of the players from the Astros involved in the deal. I stopped, shook his hand, and wished him the best. He had his equipment bag in his other hand, so I asked him, “Did you save your orange-sleeved sweatshirts from the Astros?” “Yeah, I have them in my bag,” he answered curiously. “Would you be interested in trading them for some red-sleeved shirts?” I asked with a smile. “How does one-for-one work for you?” he asked. “That works for me,” I told him. We made the trade.
That was my first sign of acceptance of the deal. It was time to move on. Incidentally, I still have those orange sleeves.
6.
Houston, I’m Comin’ to See Ya
After saying my good-byes to the Cardinals, I arrived in Houston later in the day. Jimmy Lake, the home clubhouse manager, picked me up at the airport and told me about the Astros during the forty-five-minute ride to the Astrodome. I dropped my equipment bag in the clubhouse, but the general manager, Spec Richardson, wanted to see me before I got dressed.
I could smell his office before I arrived. Spec, with his ever-present cigar, invited me to sit with him. In his Texas drawl he said, “Bing told me where you were in your contract negotiations. If you had won fourteen games with me last year [the number I won for St. Louis in 1971], I’d give you the thirty-two thousand dollars you were asking for,” he said with his tongue shifting the cigar in his mouth from side to side. “But you didn’t,” he said as he glared with narrowed eyes, drawing a long breath through the cigar.
The room was quiet until he exhaled. The cigar was perched between two fingers as he pointed in my direction and said, “Still, I wanna do right by you. I’ll give you what you want prorated for the games lost to the strike if you sign the contract right now.” He pulled out a contract from a folder and gave it to me. I looked at it, saw the salary figure of thirty-two thousand dollars, and then asked for a pen. “Mr. Richardson, thank you for the consideration,” I said as I signed the contract. “Hell, boy, nobody calls me Mr. Richardson. It’s Spec. Got that?” he said with an outstretched hand and smile, cradling the cigar that was once again shifting in his mouth. We shook hands, and I was officially an Astro.
Maybe it was Spec’s way of welcoming me to the club. Maybe a few more thousand saved him the hassles of dealing with an unsigned player during the season. Maybe it was good salary karma. I don’t know. I was just happy to get it.
Important Cogs in the “Big Red Machine”
From 1962 through 1971 the Astros (and their predecessor Colt .45’s) had finished every year below .500 with the exception of 1969, when they were 81–81. In 1971 the Astros were 79–83, the same as the Reds. Both teams knew they had to make some changes. On November 29, 1971, the Reds sent Lee May, Tommy Helms, and utility player Jimmy Stewart to Houston for Joe Morgan, infielder Denis Menke, pitcher Jack Billingham, and outfielders César Gerónimo and Ed Armbrister.
The deal led the Astros to a second-place finish in 1972 with an 84–69 record, the best in franchise history. It was an even better deal for the Reds, who won the Western Division and a trip to the 1972 World Series with a 95–59 record.1 In fact, the deal was so good for Cincinnati that they went to the World Series in 1972, 1973, 1975, and 1976 (winning the latter two) and were dubbed the “Big Red Machine.”
The 1972 Houston club was a run machine, as the Astros led the National League in runs scored with 708. The everyday lineup included four players with 20 or more home runs and five players with 80 or more RBI. Defensively, Doug Rader and César Cedeño were Gold Glove winners, and Roger Metzger played shortstop like a Gold Glover.2
The Next Willie Mays
The player who caught the baseball world’s attention was twenty-one-year-old César Cedeño, who was touted by many to be the ’70s answer to Willie Mays. His numbers in 1972 included a .320 average, with 22 HR, 82 RBI, and 55 stolen bases. He also won his first of five consecutive Gold Glove awards in 1972.
When players perform the way Cedeño did, they make themselves immune to club rules. Like players around baseball, the Astros wore their stirrups higher and their pants lower. Spec didn’t like it when the blue star on the orange stirrups disappeared under the pants leg. So he told Jimmy Lake to replace the stirrups in all the players’ lockers with new stirrups that showed only a trace of the white sanitary socks. Any player altering these new stirrups would be fined, according to the line from upstairs.
Of course, the players bitched about it. Cedeño took one look at his leggings, threw them on the floor, and said, “I’m not wearing these.” He reached deep in his locker and produced another pair of stirrups that fitted his style and wore them that night. We waited for a reaction from Spec, but nothing was said. The next day any
player who wanted his old stirrups got them. Star players earn that right, says baseball protocol. This incident told all of us that Cedeño, with two-plus seasons in the big leagues, had arrived.
The Wit and Wisdom of Lefty Gomez
Like many starting pitchers, I took batting practice with my group on the day I started and then made my way to the clubhouse to change clothes and review my plan for the upcoming game. It was a routine I followed my entire career.
Once, while preparing for a start against the Giants at Candlestick Park in early 1972, I had the pleasure of a pregame visit by none other than Hall of Famer Lefty Gomez. At the time Lefty was a rep for Wilson Sporting Goods and served all of the professional players under contract to Wilson when they visited the Bay Area.
I was aware of his reputation as a great pitcher and had read some of his quotes that are timeless. He once stated, “I talked to the ball a lot of times in my career. I yelled, ‘Go foul. Go foul.’” Another time, he said, “One rule I had was make your best pitch and back up third base. That relay might get away and you’ve got another shot at him.” I knew as soon as he entered the clubhouse I was about to hear my own Lefty quote.
I was sitting at one of the picnic tables in the clubhouse with that day’s lineup card, reviewing the San Francisco hitters. When he walked into the clubhouse, we were the only two people there. Moving quite spritely for a sixty-four- or sixty-five-year-old man, he approached me. “Hey, left-hander. How’s your change-up?” Normally, this was quiet time for me, but I always made an exception for baseball royalty. “It’s my fourth-best pitch,” I answered. He paused for a second, looked at me, and said, “You might want to work on that change and use it more often.” When advice came from a four-time twenty-game winner, a five-time All-Star with a perfect 6–0 record in World Series play, I listened carefully to every word. When I asked why, he told me, “Because when you get to my age, that’s all you’ll have left.”
A Near Miss
There weren’t many highlights in my first Astros season that ended with a 9–13 record. I walked nearly four batters for every nine innings pitched and paid the price. The best game I pitched was on June 18, when I no-hit the Phillies for eight innings. Larry Bowa led off the top of the ninth with a line drive between a diving Doug Rader and the third base line. A flyout and two strikeouts retired the Phils in the ninth, as I settled for a one-hitter. Incredibly, Rader apologized for not catching Bowa’s shot. Doug took a great deal of pride in his defensive acumen, as he collected five Gold Glove awards during his career. I told him, “There isn’t a third baseman in the history of the game that makes that play. I appreciate the effort and acknowledgment, though.”3
Harry the Hat
Harry Walker, the Astros’ manager, was an excellent teacher in one respect. After I won a game early in the season, Harry shook my hand and told me to be at the park the next day at 10:00 a.m. I needed some work on my hitting. Harry and a coach were waiting when I arrived at 9:30.
I dressed, went to the field, and saw that a pitching machine was set up in front of the mound. Harry took one look at my thin-handled bats and told me, “Those won’t work for you. Try this bat.” It was a thick-handled Louisville Slugger, U1 model, used primarily by players of a bygone era.
“Matty Alou used this style of bat for me in Pittsburgh. He struggled one year, made the change, and won the batting title the next year,” he said proudly. In 1965 Alou batted .231. After Harry presumably worked with him, he led the National League in hitting in 1966 with a .342 average. From 1967 to 1972 Alou hit under .300 just one season; in 1970 he hit .297.4
After suggesting that I change bats, Harry demonstrated the bunting stance he wanted me to use. Telling me to rotate my upper body while bending at the knees, he showed me how to fake a bunt and slap the ball on the ground while choking up eight to ten inches. This was a rare moment. Managers usually let the coaches handle these responsibilities. Harry, though, was hands-on. From his perch behind the cage, Harry would present a situation, and I’d respond with a bunt, a fake bunt/swing, a squeeze, a grounder to second, or a fly ball. Harry talked nonstop about when he would use these plays, as my respect and appreciation for him were growing.
Then somewhere along the way Harry started talking politics (hated Nixon), religion, the economy, the space program, or whatever else came to mind. I wondered if this time was to help me or serve as a forum for his opinion on everything Harry. Whatever respect I had in the early part of the session was lost by the time we returned to the locker room. Harry had me at “Be here at 10:00” and then lost me during his diatribe on the Cuban missile crisis.
My career hitting exploits will never be confused with the success of Matty Alou, but the lesson was learned. I used the U1 model my entire career and posted a .167 average, a respectable number for a pitcher.
Harry was fired on August 26, 1972, as the club was 67–54 and in third place, the best record the Astros recorded at this point in any season.
Why make the move? Astros great Jimmy Wynn believed it was because of Harry’s racial attitudes as well as the front office refocusing attention from bad trades by hiring a new manager with marquee value.5
I was aware of Harry’s attitudes on race when players exchanged stories in the clubhouse, on planes and buses, or in hotels. I never witnessed anything firsthand, as I came on the scene during his final year. But I probably would have heard all about it had I hit longer that morning.
Harry had a lot of baseball to offer, but he was his own worst enemy. Respect and trust from the manager were the missing ingredients for the talent-laden Astros of 1972, and Harry Walker couldn’t and didn’t provide either.
Many Astro players were thrilled when they heard Harry was fired. Their prayers were finally answered. These answered prayers should have come with a warning label like on the back of a cigarette package—“Be careful what you wish for!”—as his replacement was none other than Leo Durocher.
Leo the Lip
For all living things to exist they require certain essentials like air, food, and water. For Leo he needed constant attention, an enemy, and a mark. Though he stood maybe five foot six and weighed around 150 pounds, his persona was overpowering. When he entered a room his ego squeezed the air out of it. That booming voice bounced off the walls with his brashness and cocksure authority. His manner of impeccable dress wore well in his ever-present spotlight. When Leo moved in his calculated manner, he fully expected the earth to move with him so that he would always be the epicenter.
Such was the scene in the Astro clubhouse on August 28 when Leo was introduced to the club. Leo was very low-key and deliberate as he told us, “We have thirty-one games remaining, and we’re eight and a half games behind Cincinnati. You got yourselves here, and I’m here to help you the rest of the way. I’m not here to change things, but I will observe.” As we listened he looked around the room, sizing up each of us as if we were across the table in a poker game, hoping to spot our “tell.” At twenty-three years old, this was the first time I witnessed a managerial change. So I sat there like a sponge, soaking up the moment.
Like my teammates, I had some questions. Why, at sixty-eight years old after a tumultuous stay in Chicago where he was at odds with the sportswriters, broadcasters, umpires, players, the commissioner, the league president, and whomever else, would he want to manage again?
It wasn’t my place to ask the question then, but recalling it in 2013 I believe Leo looked at the situation like he would a card game. What was the upside? It was one more chance to grab the brass ring, as the club could catch fire, the Reds could falter, and he would have his name above the title as the man who finally led the Astros to the postseason. Just as important, making the playoffs would have helped erase his most visible failure with the 1969 Cubs, and he could have ridden off into the sunset as the credits rolled. His minimum bet was just thirty-four days of his time. At the end of the season, he could decide his plans for 1973. What was the downside? It was the same investme
nt of time and the option to return in 1973.
Nice Guys Finish Last
Leo said he took the job after asking himself one question, “Can I win with this club next year? My answer was yes. They were a solid ballclub and they have the best young player in baseball, César Cedeño.”6
He had a new game plan for 1973. “I decided I was going to do something I had never done before. I would be one of the boys, a pal, and a buddy. The times had changed, and you had to change with them. I was going to do it their way. I’d play cards with them for half an hour before we went out,” Leo explained.7
What Leo failed to understand was that the Astros needed a manager the players could trust and respect. When you’re a ballplayer in your midtwenties, do you really want a sixty-eight-year-old “pal” who takes your money in the daily card games?
With the best record in team history in the books for 1972, the Astros decided to fine-tune for the 1973 season. Rich Chiles was traded to the Mets for Tommie Agee, who batted .227 for the Mets in 1972. The reason for adding Agee was the planned move of Bob Watson from left field to catcher. Watson did his best making the adjustment but played only 3 games behind the plate and 142 in left field. Agee played in 83 games, spelling the regulars at all three outfield positions and pinch-hitting before being shipped to St. Louis in August.8
