by Jerry Reuss
Maybe I knew back then this would be Joe’s response. So I did it my way. I sent Joe a letter (didn’t even give him the courtesy of a phone call) around the first of February. Joe called me the morning after he read the letter and told me, “The Basic Agreement [between Major League Baseball and the Players Association] states that you must report to camp by March 1. If you’re not in uniform by then, you’ll be fined a substantial amount for every day you miss. Do you understand?” said the furious general manager. “I do,” I responded meekly.
I took whatever final exams I could and flew to Florida. I saw Joe first thing the morning I reported to camp. “I’m glad you’re here, but I’m in no mood to discuss this matter with you now. I’ll come to you when I’m ready” was Joe’s response. Joe and I eventually settled my indiscretion. But it took some time to rebuild the bond of trust.
Danny was more receptive. “I’m okay now that you’re here. But you’re gonna have to straighten this matter out with Joe. Also, be prepared for what you’ll hear in the clubhouse,” he said as the leprechauns behind his eyes turned their backs to me.
Entering the clubhouse, I was greeted with a sarcastic round of applause and was referred to as “the professor.” I deserved this ration of shit, I thought. Finally, after a while, I told my teammates, “I apologize. I made a mistake in judgment, and it won’t happen again.” Most of them were good with that. Others reserved their opinion.
Fortunately, I was already in great baseball shape. Before I came to camp I threw five or six innings in a few college intersquad games. If there was a doubt as to what shape I was in, it was erased when I completed thirty-six innings that spring, tied with Dock for the most by a Pirate pitcher.
Hall of Fame Player, Hall of Fame Man
Willie Stargell (Pops), the team captain, was the heart and soul of the ball club. He was always there for a teammate. When Rick Langford, who was the pitching coordinator for the Toronto Blue Jays when I interviewed him, joined the club in Atlanta when he was first called up to the Majors in 1976, he got a phone call from Willie. Pops invited him to share a cab to the ballpark, and they talked about the differences between the Major Leagues and the Minors during the fifteen-minute ride. Once they got there Willie showed Langford the clubhouse and answered the questions that any rookie would have. “I didn’t even know how much to pay the clubhouse attendant, how to get to the field, or where to sit on the plane,” Rick told me in 2011. “Willie was there to make the transition easy. I was just one guy that didn’t play a big part on the club, and he took that amount of time for me. I’ll never forget that.”
When Willie was offered a paid appearance, he would do it on the condition that he could bring along a young player and would split the fee with the kid.
Willie picked up the idea for his “Stargell Stars” from a friend who awarded rose-shaped stickers for good deeds to anyone who deserved one. Pops designed gold stars with adhesive on the back and gave them out to anyone as a show of appreciation for a job well done. It wasn’t just for players but batboys, trainers, coaches, front-office personnel, and fans.
Willie not only talked the talk, but walked the walk. He preached a steady-as-she-goes philosophy, never too high when you win and never too low when you lose. He believed a player lost his effectiveness at either end of the spectrum. He lived those words daily, as he always replaced his helmet in his slot the same way, whether he homered or struck out. He never once lost his cool because of an umpire’s call or because the game situation favored the opposition. “I’d rather turn that negative energy into a positive,” Willie once remarked. For the same reason, he didn’t share the eye-for-an-eye philosophy when players retaliated for breaking an unwritten baseball rule. Instead, he believed in a more global view. “What goes around comes around,” he would say, understanding that karma transcended all things baseball. Probably, his most famous quote was, “The umpire says ‘Play ball,’ not ‘Work ball.’” The quote said everything about Willie’s perspective.
He also had a Hall of Fame sense of humor. Once when I struggling during a game, he walked over to the mound and told me, “Throw it down the middle and let them hit it. Let those ‘brothers’ [he actually used the dreaded N word] in the outfield run it down.” He was also a Hall of Fame–caliber instigator.
The Three-Man Lift
Kurt Bevacqua, who joined the club in a trade with Kansas City over the winter, was another player who enjoyed the clubhouse stage. Dirty Kurt (nicknamed Dirty for a multitude of reasons), always in a hyper state, was prime meat for the clubhouse pranksters. Once Bevacqua was offended when trainer Tony Bartirome refused to give him a rubdown. “I only give rubs to guys who actually play in a game,” Tony told him. Of course, always willing to stir the pot, Stargell pulled the agitated Bevacqua aside and told Kurt not to mess with Tony. “Bleep him!” was Kurt’s response. “Look,” Willie calmly explained to the reserve infielder, “he may look small [Tony was maybe five foot nine, weighing around 165], but he’s one of the strongest men around this team.” “My ass,” Kurt said in disbelief. Willie continued, “Watch him rip up these phone books.” “Hey, Tony,” Willie said as he and Kurt entered the training room. “Kurt doesn’t think you’re strong enough to rip a phone book in half.” “I don’t have to prove shit to backup infielders that come into my training room begging for courtesy rubs,” replied the trainer as he was working on another player.
Now, Bevacqua was getting annoyed at the put-downs and challenged Tony. “Okay, you skinny shit, let’s see what you got.” Tony finished with the player he was taping and told Kurt, “I got work to do around here. If it’ll shut you up, I’ll do it.” Willie handed him a phone book. Tony grabbed it and with a flick of his wrists ripped the four-inch phone book in half. “Now do you believe me?” Willie pleaded to Bevacqua. “That doesn’t mean shit,” said the surprised but unimpressed newcomer. Willie kept at it. “What if I told you he could lift three guys?” “What do you mean, ‘lift three guys’?” was Kurt’s reply.
Suddenly, the interest of the clubhouse was centered on Stargell and his mark. Guys were gravitating to the training room. I looked at Ken Brett, whose locker was the first address on Boardwalk, right next to mine, and asked him, “Any idea what this is about?” “Not a clue,” was Brett’s reply. “But something’s gonna happen.”
Bevacqua was louder than ever, as Willie explained Tony’s exploits that he personally witnessed. “There’s no way he can lift three grown men off the ground high enough to roll a baseball under,” protested Kurt. “Hey, I got a hundred bucks that says he can” came a voice outside the training room. On cue another voice responded, “I’ll take that bet.” Suddenly, the clubhouse was alive with bets taken on the three-man lift. Kurt could still be heard above the rest of us. “I want some of this!” shouted Kurt. Both Willie and Dave Parker volunteered to be lifted, as the activity shifted to the center of the locker room.
Tony set Willie and Parker on their backs, laying parallel to one another on the floor with an opening in the middle for the third player. Looking around the faces that had closed ranks around the two players on the floor, he spotted Bevacqua and said, “Hey, part-time, how much do you weigh?” “One-eighty!” shouted Kurt. “Get your ass on the floor!” barked the agitated trainer.
Tony placed Bevacqua in the middle and had him put an arm around the head of Stargell and the other arm around Parker and told Willie and Dave to hold that in place. He then had Kurt overlap each of his legs between the legs of the guys on the outside, who then placed their outer legs over Kurt’s. “When I count to three, I want you to strain every muscle in your body, especially you, loudmouth,” Tony quietly told Kurt and the other two players. The crowd of standing players was unusually quiet, with smirks on their faces and hands behind their backs. I didn’t understand why their hands had cans of shaving cream, aftershave, cartons of milk, and juice until I heard Tony shout, “Three!” Bevacqua’s pants were pulled down with his shorts and jock as the bounty of products sp
rayed, splashed, and poured on his exposed person. It seemed like five, maybe ten, minutes passed before the laughter stopped. Tony told him, “Next time you want a rub, go to one of those places on Liberty Avenue [once the center of red-light activity]. You’ll get a ‘happy ending’ there!”
“I’ll Get His Ass!”
It just wasn’t in Bevacqua’s nature to let the joke pass, as he became obsessed with one-upping Willie. If Kurt walked past me and I said, “Hey, Kurt, how’s it going?” He would respond, “I’ll get his ass!” and walk away.
Kurt waited and his patience paid off. Willie wasn’t in the lineup one night, and while sitting on the bench he crossed his hands over the knob of his bat whose barrel stood upright on the dugout turf. Once Willie pulled his hat over his eyes and rested his chin over his hands, he nodded off while appearing to be studying the hitter. Remember, Three Rivers Stadium was a multipurpose facility, and when in the baseball configuration the dugout was half pebbles and half turf.
Kurt found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a lighter and belly-crawled through dirt, pebbles, turf, and who knows what else past the manager, coaches, and players to Stargell’s location. He emptied the bottle on the turf and lit it. Poof! The flame shot up within a foot of Pops’s chin. To my surprise, Willie didn’t move a muscle until he slowly opened his eyes.
To me and the other players who watched this spectacle, we held our breath until we saw that Pops was okay. Willie took a deep breath, looked at me, and asked, “Bevacqua?” I nodded, and Willie went back to sleep.
On the Road with Dirty Kurt
When we returned from our next road trip, Kurt had an envelope addressed to him from a mall in upstate Pennsylvania. The enclosed letter read, “Dear Kurt, We are celebrating the Grand Opening of our new mall in Erie and we would like for you to be a part of the celebration. The ribbon cutting is scheduled for 9:00 AM Saturday morning and we would love to have you join us. For your time, we will pay you $1,000.” Now, a thousand dollars was big money for an appearance in 1974, and Kurt let everybody in the clubhouse know he was getting it. Kurt had the traveling secretary, John Fitzpatrick, call and confirm for him. Night games on Fridays began at 8:05 p.m. at Three Rivers, and we played a long game the night before his scheduled appearance. But Kurt was up before 5:00 a.m. and on his way north.
Bevacqua found the mall using the directions provided but didn’t see any grand-opening signs. So he parked in the empty lot and banged on the double glass doors at the mall’s entrance. Finally, the security guard answered, as the high-energy Bevacqua was screaming about the appearance and the planned festivities. No matter how much Kurt inquired, the guard had no answers. “Can you call this lady who sent me the letter at home?” he pleaded. The guard looked at the name and said, “There’s nobody here by that name.”
Meanwhile, back in Pittsburgh, Willie woke with a smile on his face of scorched whiskers, sipping that first cup of coffee, wondering how Kurt was enjoying his appearance. A cup of payback always tastes best hot, with cream and sugar.
Within minutes of walking into the clubhouse that afternoon, everybody knew about Kurt’s appearance. When Bevacqua arrived all conversations stopped as he walked straight to Willie’s locker. Kurt put out his hand and said, “Truce? I won’t mess with you anymore.” Willie shook his hand and told him, “If you don’t start no shit, there won’t be no shit. It’s the Bucco way!”
The Cobra Uncoiled
Dave Parker (nicknamed “Cobra” by Pirates announcer Bob Prince) probably benefited most from Willie’s approach. When Dave first came to the Pirates in 1973, he was platooned in the outfield, much like Willie and Al Oliver (Scoop) were early in their careers, as both Bill Virdon and Murtaugh sat him on the bench when tough veteran pitchers were facing the Bucs. Dave, like Pops and Scoop, didn’t like the platoon method but wisely listened to Willie and studied the game when he wasn’t in the lineup.
He became the everyday right fielder in 1975. By 1978 he was the league’s Most Valuable Player. In the years we played together with the Pirates (we were also teammates with the Reds), I never saw Dave lose his temper. After a strikeout Dave, much like Willie, would walk back to the dugout, place his helmet in the rack, drop his bat in its slot, light a cigarette, and take a seat on the bench. The demeanor of both Willie and Dave set the tone for the rest of the club. It wasn’t always copied, but it was there to be noticed.
Parker Meets Muhammad Ali
Parker was probably the most physically imposing player in the game during my years with the Bucs. At six foot five and weighing around 225 pounds, he had a perfectly sculpted body. In fact, he had muscles where most of us don’t even have places!
With his physique and a boisterous personality, Dave never had a problem getting the attention that he sought. He also had no problem handling the numerous interview requests. He could be humorous, thoughtful, intelligent, and arrogant within the same interview . . . much like Muhammad Ali.
During my Pirates tenure, we stayed at the Executive House in Chicago when playing a series against the Cubs. Dave and I were on the elevator when we stopped at a floor and Muhammad Ali joined us for the ride to the lobby. Ali looked at both of us, nodded, and turned to face the door. I looked at Dave, who stood there with his mouth wide open in shock and, for the only time in my memory, had nothing to say. So I thought I’d break the ice. “Well, Dave,” I said matter-of-factly, “go ahead and tell him how you could whoop his ass like you told us in the locker room!” That got Ali’s wide-eyed attention as he turned to face Parker.
“Jeez, Jerry, what the hell . . .” Dave stuttered. He recovered quickly, however, and put out his hand to greet the champ. “Hi, I’m Dave Parker!” Ali replied, “Yes, I know who you are.” Ali looked at me as I put out my hand. I had my biggest smile when I said, “Hi, champ, I’m . . .” I was interrupted. “You’re an instigator, that’s who you are,” Ali said as his eyes narrowed. Dave and Ali exchanged pleasantries for the remaining ten or twelve floors. For me, it was the longest elevator ride in my life.
Baseball’s Best Player
While playing for Houston in 1972–73 and watching César Cedeño play center field every day, I believed he would be the best ballplayer that I would ever have for a teammate. He batted .320 with a total of 47 HR, 152 RBI, and 111 stolen bases during those two years. A Gold Glove winner from 1972 to 1976, he was a five-tool player (he could hit for power, hit for average, and field, run, and throw above average) who did something every day that made everybody take notice.
But when you compare Cedeño’s production in 1972–73 with Parker’s in 1977–78, César takes a backseat to big Dave. Parker, a right fielder and also a five-tool player, led the National League in batting both years with .338 and .334 averages, respectively, just two of the five consecutive years he batted more than .300. He also hit 51 homers and drove in 205 runs while winning Gold Glove honors from 1977 to 1979.
What separated Dave from César (and the rest of the league) was his intensity. Cedeño could turn his play up a notch when he wanted, while Dave was always at full speed. It seemed Dave was always in the right place, whether he was backing up the center fielder, backing up a play at first base, or running the bases. There’s no telling how many shortstops or second basemen heard his footsteps when covering second base on a possible play, as they knew instinctively that he would come into the base hard.
He played with such intensity that after breaking his cheekbone in a home-plate collision with Mets catcher John Stearns on June 30, 1978, he was back in the lineup on July 16. Dave’s reaction to the injury was simple. “If I can see, I can play,” he announced to the world. In order to protect his cheekbone, he wore two different face masks, one while batting and switching to the other when running the bases. When players throughout the league thought about their nagging injuries, they were reminded about Parker’s courage and were inspired to play with pain.
In the late seventies I didn’t know much about the players in the American League. So, b
ased on the five years I played with Dave in Pittsburgh, there was no doubt he was the best ballplayer I saw during my twenty-two years in uniform.8
A Locker-Room Presence
In 1974–75 it was Dock who made the Pirates’ locker room his stage. When Dock was traded to the Yankees in the winter of 1975, Dave Parker jumped into the locker-room spotlight. Unlike Dock, who would go off on a tangent to prove a point, Dave cut right to the heart. It didn’t matter where you were born, your ethnic heritage, religious background, marital status . . . Nothing was sacred. Nor was it personal. But it was a daily comedy routine.
Dave was an equal opportunity offender. Players, coaches, and the front office were his favorite topics. “Pay me my money!” he would shout in the locker room, referring to his impending free agency in 1978. Pirate ownership heard him loud and clear, as Dave signed a five-million-dollar, five-year deal before the 1979 season, making him baseball’s highest-paid player at a million dollars a year.
Unfortunately, many people in Pittsburgh who had lost their blue-collar jobs in the steel industry resented someone earning the kind of money Dave did. As a result the fans took out their frustrations on Parker, showering him with nuts, bolts, and radio batteries as he positioned himself in right field. On Bat Day, when replica-size bats were distributed to many of the forty-three thousand fans in attendance at Three Rivers Stadium, one fan decided to throw a bat on the field near the spot where Dave was standing.
Dave’s reaction was to verbally attack the fans of Pittsburgh, which in turn infuriated them even more. There were numerous times his car was vandalized in the parking lot. He received death threats. These fan-resentment incidents became daily news wherever Dave and the club went. When the club struggled in 1980, the fans blamed him. With slumps and injuries from 1981 to 1983, the remainder of his contract, Dave chose his hometown of Cincinnati when he became a free agent.9
To those individuals who ventured into our locker-room world, Dave could be perceived as arrogant. When Dave was asked why he wore the Star of David around his neck, he told the reporter, “My name’s David and I’m a star!”
