Bring In the Right-Hander!

by Jerry Reuss

  The Winning Ways of Danny Murtaugh

  Danny Murtaugh was in his fourth tour as manager of the Pirates. In his first go-round, he managed the club from 1957 to 1964, including the world championship team of 1960, before retiring due to health problems. He then took a front-office job with the Pirates, evaluating players for Joe Brown. Murtaugh was pressed into service as an interim manager when Harry Walker was fired during the 1967 season. He then returned to his front-office role.

  Murtaugh was well aware of the abundance of talent in the system and asked to reclaim the managing job after Larry Shepard was fired in the last week of the 1969 season. Once he received medical clearance, Murtaugh returned to managing. He led the Pirates to a National League East Division title in 1970 and 1971, winning the 1971 World Series. Murtaugh stepped down after the 1971 season, and his handpicked successor, Bill Virdon (his center fielder on the 1960 World Series champions), took over.

  When Brown fired Virdon in September 1973, Murtaugh reluctantly came back to managing. Once again, with Murtaugh at the helm, the Pirates won the division championship in 1974 and 1975. He stayed through the 1976 season. He and Brown announced their retirements during the final week of the 1976 season.2

  Like Red Schoendienst, Harry Walker, and Leo Durocher, the other Major League managers I had played for in my career to date, Danny Murtaugh had a history. Before I joined the club, there were already memorable stories circulating about him.

  The Leprechauns at Work

  When he was a second baseman with the Boston Braves in 1947, Murtaugh and his roommate left the team’s roadside motel one night for a poker game. The game lasted into the next morning, and the boys went straight from playing cards to the ballpark. Unshaven and disheveled, Murtaugh and his roommate walked smack into Boston manager Billy Southworth. “Did you sleep well last night?” Southworth asked sweetly. “Like babies,” the players said in unison. “That’s good,” said Southworth. “I was afraid you might have been disturbed by the truck that crashed through your room in the middle of the night.”3

  Danny told his players during one of his infrequent meetings that he had a curfew. He didn’t like curfews, but the club needed one for their protection. “I’ll probably check sometime during the year,” Danny told the team. One night Danny gave the night-shift elevator operator (this is an old story!) two baseballs that he wanted signed, with the instructions to have them signed by the players who arrived after midnight, which was the curfew time. When Danny got on the elevator the next morning, he asked the operator for one of the balls. “You keep the other one,” he told the happy gentleman. Once the team arrived at the ballpark, he called the players who signed the baseballs into his office one at a time. “Were you in your room by curfew last night?” The response, as expected, was an emphatic, “Yes, I was.” Danny gave the unsuspecting player one more chance. “Are you sure about that?” Danny asked. “Absolutely, Danny.” Murtaugh produced the signed baseball, catching the player by total surprise. Danny told the embarrassed player, “Your fine for missing curfew is doubled for not telling the truth.” The story ends, as the rest of the players who signed the balls walked into the manager’s office one by one and placed their fines on his desk without a word being spoken.

  Danny always had a memorable quote for the media. This was one of his best. “Why certainly I’d like to have that fellow who hits a home run every time at bat, who strikes out every opposing batter when he’s pitching, who throws strikes to any base or the plate when he’s playing outfield and who’s always thinking about two innings ahead just what he’ll do to baffle the other team. Any manager would want a guy like that playing for him. The only trouble is to get him to put down his cup of beer and come down out of the stands and do those things.”4

  The first time I met Danny, he told me, “If you can give me six innings every start, you’ll win a lot of games. We’ll score a lot of runs, and we have some pitchers in the bullpen who can hold a game.” He was referring to Dave Guisti and Ramon Hernandez, two pitchers coincidentally from other organizations that Brown shrewdly got in deals from St. Louis and the Mexico City Reds, respectively.

  While Danny talked about the club, I could see something in his Irish eyes that I hadn’t seen with other managers. Those eyes displayed an air of confidence and honesty, but behind them was a sense of humor that had leprechauns dancing in the background, waiting for a chance to conjure up their magic. I would see examples of their mischief in the weeks to come.

  I didn’t have many conversations with Danny during the three years we were together. In fact, few players did. Wisely, Danny let the players have the clubhouse and stayed out of their way. When he did speak, there was a good reason. Once, when some pitchers were complaining about the defense, he called us into his office and told us, “Gentlemen, you can’t expect people to do things they aren’t capable of doing. It’s the philosophy of this organization to find the best players we can, and when they’re ready for the big leagues, we plug them into a position. It’s not always their best position, but we found the run production they generate more than makes up for any defensive shortcomings,” he said sternly. After a pause, he smiled and said, “You’ll thank me in the postseason.”

  Spring of 1974: Work Hard, Play Hard

  Spring training of 1974 began at Pirate City, a four-field complex that included a barracks that the City of Bradenton, Florida, built for the club. With the four fields the players split into smaller groups to get their work done more efficiently. A day’s work included all of the drills that every team practiced: covering first base, backing up bases on throws from the outfield, and reviewing the defense for bunt plays, to name a few.

  One day Danny wanted to stress the importance of a sacrifice bunt to the pitchers. With the everyday infielders at their respective positions and Dock Ellis on the mound, the drill was run at game speed. Each pitcher had an outfielder or reserve infielder as his partner and was expected to lay down a bunt that would advance his partner to the next base. If the sacrifice-bunt play wasn’t executed properly, both the pitcher and his partner were told to run down the first base line, touch the foul pole, and return for another round. Well, the first round looked like a parade to the foul pole, as nearly every pitcher failed to advance the runner against Ellis, who was told he would do the running if he let up during the drill. If a pitcher failed to bunt his partner over a second time, you can bet the pitcher’s ass was being chewed out during that foul-pole run. Before the next round I learned the Pirates meant business when it came to scoring runs.

  Not every drill was as intense as the sacrifice bunt. There were drills that had me puzzled. But I learned the Pirate way. Someone in the organization purchased a forced-air tube called Iron Mike that could shoot baseballs as high as one hundred feet in the air and as far as three hundred feet and was used by the outfielders, infielders, and catchers.

  One spring day at Pirate City, Danny, who normally stayed in the background, ventured on the field while “Iron Mike” was still running and invited the pitchers, who were working on an adjacent field, to join him. “Gentlemen, I’m not one for changing what works. But the position players said they like what this machine can do. I’d like your opinion,” he said as the leprechauns behind those Irish eyes were watching. “How about if we shoot some pop flies in the infield for you to catch so you can see firsthand what this machine’s all about?” he said. So one at a time, we caught our first round. “Well, you handled that pretty easily,” he said with a smile. “Let’s try another round, only we’ll shoot them higher.” Not every one of the sixteen pitchers in camp was able to handle the one-hundred-foot high fly ball. Still, Danny pushed on. “Let’s try a squat position facing center field and see how we do,” he said matter-of-factly. “Maybe that’ll be more of a challenge for some of you.”

  Now, the pitchers were getting into the drill. As Mike shot a ball skyward, it created a loud pop, followed by the voices of pitchers shouting encouragement as the ball was in fligh
t. If it was caught, we all cheered. If not, we laughed at our teammate’s reaction when his effort fell short. Anyone who caught a pop-up that round was eligible for the next round. “Well,” Danny said with a laugh, “we still have five of you remaining. How about laying on the grass in front of the mound, face-down, and counting to three before you get up to catch the ball?” I was thinking, “Where does he come up with this shit?” I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. Eventually, the field was narrowed to two pitchers. I think it was Jim Rooker and Ken Brett. I don’t remember who was the winner . . . Maybe it was even a tie, as we had been playing for more than an hour. Eventually, Danny took off his sunglasses, called us all together, and asked us our opinion of Iron Mike. We were in complete agreement that it was everything as advertised and a great training tool.

  Finally, someone asked the obvious question: “What does this drill have to do with pitching? We never catch pop-ups in the game.” Danny paused, then smiled and said, “Absolutely nothing!” The leprechauns were roaring with laughter as Murtaugh put on his sunglasses and walked away.

  Rollin’ Down Highway 41

  The Pirates assigned me uniform number 27. There’s nothing wrong with 27, but it just didn’t feel right. I thought about it on the way to the park one day when the Allman Brothers song “Ramblin’ Man” came on the radio and I heard the lyrics “. . . rollin’ down Highway 41.” I happened to look at a street sign that told me I was driving on Highway 41! I liked the way it looked, so when I got to the park I asked John Hallahan (Hoolie), the equipment manager, about the availability of uniform number 41. “I’ll make the switch at the start of the season . . . provided you make the club,” he told me with a smile as he took a long drag on his cigarette.

  Dock Walked to the Beat of His Own Drum

  During the last week of spring training, Dock Ellis injured his hand while packing a trunk, which caused him to miss his scheduled opening-day start. Instead, I was honored, as Danny named me opening-day pitcher against the Cardinals in St. Louis. It was my first opening-day assignment.

  I had a no-decision against Bob Gibson, as we eventually lost the game. In fact, we were 0–6 to start the season. By the time the month of April was over, we were 6–12 and sitting in last place in the NL East. Nothing seemed to get us out of our funk. Dock decided to take matters into his own hands.5

  On May 1, 1974, he tied a Major League record by hitting the first three batters of the game. In spring training that year, Ellis sensed the Pirates had lost the aggressiveness that drove them to three straight division titles from 1970 to 1972. Furthermore, the team now seemed intimidated by Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine. “Cincinnati will bullshit with us, then kick our ass and laugh at us,” Ellis said. “They’re the only team that talks about us like a dog.” Ellis single-handedly decided to break the Pirates out of their emotional slump, announcing, “I’m going to hit these motherbleepers.” True to his word, in the first inning of the first regular-season game he pitched against the Reds, Ellis hit leadoff batter Pete Rose in the ribs, then plunked Joe Morgan in the kidney, and loaded the bases by hitting Dan Driessen in the back. Tony Perez, batting cleanup, dodged a succession of Ellis’s pitches to walk and force in a run. The next hitter was Johnny Bench. “I tried to deck him twice,” Ellis recalled. “I threw at his jaw, and he moved. I threw at the back of his head, and he moved.” At this point, Murtaugh came to the mound and told Dock, “I guess you don’t have your good stuff tonight,” and removed Ellis from the game.6

  The Pirate Family

  Dock once told me, Brett, and Rooker that we were orphans. “Orphans? What the hell are you talking about?” asked Rooker. “Most of us came up through the organization; we’re family,” he explained as his voice became louder and higher pitched. “You came from somewhere else, and we took you in,” he said with a touch of arrogance. I guess Dock thought by coming through the organization and being a member of the family, he had trade immunity. When he was sent to the Yankees in 1975, I wondered how that family thing worked for him.

  Dealing with Dock

  I brought a boom box to the park so we could have some music in the clubhouse. Dock took exception and, then, a bat to it. I saw the pieces scattered around the clubhouse. I told him, “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just turn it off?” I mentioned my displeasure about the radio to Tom Reich, who represented Dock. Tom put his head down, shook it, and told me, “I’ll talk to him about it.” When I joined the Dodgers in 1979, there was a big cardboard box waiting for me in my locker. When I opened it I was shocked to find a newer, bigger, and better boom box with a cassette deck. The note on the inside read, “Make sure you play it LOUD!” It was signed, “Dock Ellis.”

  The Corner of Boardwalk and Park Place

  The first time I walked into the Pirates’ home clubhouse, I noticed something different from the St. Louis and Houston clubhouses. Instead of being arranged numerically, the Buccos were divided by ethnic backgrounds. Along the back wall the Latin players dressed in Spanish Harlem. The wall on the left of the entrance was The Ghetto, home of the black players. Separated by the door to the shower room on the same wall was Boardwalk, while the adjoining wall was Park Place, where the white players dressed. Curiously, the only player out of place was Bruce Kison, who lockered on the corner of Spanish Harlem and The Ghetto. When I asked Bruce about it while writing the book, he said that he never thought about it until I had mentioned it. “Hell, I just went wherever I was told,” he said with a laugh.

  Equally surprising were the barbs tossed freely throughout the clubhouse. Al Oliver noted, “Nothing was off-limits, even racial slurs. Nobody was above the fray, not even the coaching staff. Nothing was said in a vicious manner, just a bunch of guys cracking on each other in ways that would never be accepted anywhere but in a locker room. In the Pirate organization we had so many black and Latin players that the white guys felt comfortable joking with us. A big factor in that was that we were winning. A losing team is more apt to point fingers. Much of what went on in the Pirate clubhouse wouldn’t have been tolerated in a losing clubhouse.”7

  Always in the middle of anything was Dock Ellis. Whether he made sense or not, Dock’s opinions were heard. There were times he would get so excited that his voice would reach a pitch that only dogs could hear.

  Called for Traveling

  The Pirates had a rule regarding wives joining their husbands on a road trip. The rule, as I remember it, was that your wife could join you on a trip just once and only after the player received the club’s permission. I reasoned that if I paid her way, where and when she showed up was our personal business. I had family in St. Louis and a home in Houston that was for sale and wanted my wife (now ex-wife) in both cities. Not so fast, said the Pirates.

  After a second trip I was fined a hundred dollars. I called Marvin Miller, executive director of the Players Association, and told him about the fine. Marvin, always cordial yet to the point, asked me a few questions. “Obviously, she didn’t fly on a team charter. Did the Pirates pay for her commercial flight?” Marvin asked. “No” was my answer. “So, she flew independent of the club paying any of her expenses?” he asked. “That’s correct,” I responded. “Since she’s a private citizen, she can go wherever she wants,” Marvin told me.

  Marvin filed a grievance against the club. By the time the grievance was heard, I was fined a total of five hundred dollars for breaking this rule a few other times. I never made this information public because the issue was between the Pirates and me.

  Once news of the grievance being filed was made public, I told reporters that the issue wasn’t open for discussion. Joe Brown also refused to talk about it. Ultimately, the money was returned to me. Joe Brown, when asked by the press if the rule was still in effect, said, “It means that Jerry Reuss has been refunded his money and nothing else.”

  What Was I Thinking?

  Baseball superstition dictates that if you have vanity plates made for your car, jewelry with your number on it, or buy a house in th
e city where you play, chances are greater that you’ll be traded. I was never superstitious, but I was traded twice after buying homes in the cities where I played. Thinking that there might be something to this, I moved to Santa Barbara, California, between the 1974 and ’75 baseball seasons. I fell in love with the city. With the mountains, the ocean, and the warm winter, who wouldn’t? Within a few months I bought a home there. One day I rode my bicycle on the campus at the University of California at Santa Barbara and found the baseball team practicing. After a short time I approached the baseball coach, Dave Gorrie, introduced myself, and eventually asked him about the possibility of working out with the team that winter. Dave needed a few days to think about it and clear it with the athletic department. True to his word, Dave called me and said that I could join his club for the workouts.

  While on the field with the student athletes, I thought about the possibility of resuming my education. There was still money in my college scholarship fund set up by the Cardinals when I signed in 1967, and my high school and college transcripts allowed my credits to transfer.

  There was only one problem. The winter term ended on March 8, which was three weeks into spring training. As I look back today, I had one of those What was I thinking? moments. I decided to enroll anyway and let the Pirates know about it after the first of the year. The proper and respectful way to handle the situation would have been to call Joe Brown and let him know what I was thinking. Then, I should have asked him if attending the winter term would have been feasible. Joe’s answer probably would have been something like this: “Jerry, I’m all for you attending classes in the off-season. Your job requires you to be in Bradenton the third week in February. So, as much as you wish to continue your education, I can’t permit you to show up after March 8.”