by Jerry Reuss
He could also be cocky. Once, before an afternoon game in Chicago, he stood on the top step of the dugout stairs, sniffed the air, and told no one in particular, “I smell about twelve hits for us today. I’ll get my four, and the rest of you sons of bitches can split the rest!”
One of Dave’s favorite quotes was, “When the leaves turn brown, I’ll win the batting crown.” That’s exactly what he did in 1977 and 1978.
He also had a great sense of what it took for him to be the best. “I come into the clubhouse and rave and scream to prepare me for the game. . . . [S]ome [players] meditate, I verbalize. I’m the type of individual who says what’s on his mind. I’ve been that way all of my life.”10 With that approach, Parker never wrote a check with his mouth that his game couldn’t cash.
Kicking the Bucket
Once the weather turned hot, the players dipped a towel in a metal bucket containing ammonia, water, and ice that was located down the ramp from the dugout. It took the edge off the heat.
No amount of that mixture could cool me off one night after I coughed up a lead and was taken out of the game. Baseball decorum dictates that a pitcher who is removed from the game must wait on the bench until the inning is over before he can retreat to the clubhouse. It was also a club rule on every team I played for.
I was still steaming from my performance when the inning ended. So, in my typical immature fashion, I took my disappointment out on the ice bucket. I kicked the metal bucket and shattered it, as water drenched the walls and runway.
When I got to the park the next day, I noticed a letter typed on Pirate stationery sitting on the stool in front of my locker. I picked it up and read it.
Dear Jerry,
Due to the fact that you destroyed our water bucket last night, we will deduct the cost of a new bucket from your next paycheck in the amount of $7.95.
Regards . . .
Of course, I lost it. “These no-good, cheap sons of bitches can kiss my ass!” I shouted. The attention in the clubhouse was on me. “Can you believe this shit?” I continued.
So Willie got up from his stool, walked over to my locker, and asked me what was the matter. “These assholes want to fine me $7.95 for breaking the ice bucket!” I told him. “No,” Willie answers. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “It’s right here in this letter.” Willie asks, “Can I see that?” I showed it to him. “Man, that’s horseshit. A man can’t even let off some steam every now and then around here,” Willie said with mock indignation.
Other players walked over to my spot on Boardwalk and asked to see the letter. So they passed it around. “Man, that’s a shame,” one said. “That shows no respect,” said another teammate, shaking his head. “You ought to go up to the front office right now and tell them what you told us,” suggested another player.
By this time Hoolie came up to me and asked, “Is this letter bothering you?” “Your damn right it is!” I answered, still pissed off. “Here,” Hoolie said in a quiet voice. “Let me take care of it for you.” He grabbed the letter from my hand, tore it into pieces, and threw it into the trash. “There, that takes care of that,” he said matter-of-factly, dusting his hands as he walked away.
I stood there dumbfounded. Suddenly, I looked at the faces of my teammates, as they could no longer hold back their laughter. Willie walked up to me with a half smile on his face and asked, “Hey, do you feel better now?” I paused, closed my eyes, and wanted to crawl into a hole. I had just been had! One by one my teammates walked up to me with big smiles on their faces, shook my hand, and said to me, “Glad your back with us” or “Don’t worry, we got your back” and “Welcome to the Buccos!” Once again, I was reminded of being a Bucco!
Living Life on the Edge
In Jim Rooker’s first five years in the Majors with Detroit (1968) and the expansion Kansas City Royals (1969–72), his record stood at 21–44 but with a respectable ERA of 3.93. His career turned around after he joined the Pirates in 1973, as he was 67–45 with an ERA of 3.00 through 1977. Maybe it was the change of scenery from last place in the American League to one of the top teams in the National League. Maybe he came into his own as a pitcher.
I asked Jim in the summer of 2011 what the difference was. “During a stay in winter ball in 1972–73, I switched my fastball to a two-seam grip,” he explained. “When I changed my hand position slightly at the delivery point, I discovered a power sinker I could throw for strikes. Instead of pitching behind in the count, I was ahead of the hitters, as I could confidently throw my other pitches for strikes. Throwing my sinker for strikes changed my whole outlook on pitching and extended my career,” Jim concluded.11
Whatever the difference was, Rooker, at times, was the best pitcher on the Bucs’ staff. Without an overpowering fastball or a knee-buckling curve to add to his newfound sinker, he had what scouts would call average Major League stuff.
But he had the balls of a cat burglar. He walked the thin line that separated victory from defeat and came out a winner more times than not. When he wasn’t in a game, his demeanor was much the same: live on the edge and don’t give an inch. In July 1974 or 1975, Rook arrived at the park with a bag of assorted fireworks, which included some M-80s. A day or so later a group of us, which included Rook, myself, Bruce Kison, and Ken Brett, took his bag of goodies out on the field to see what we could do with them. Within minutes we placed a lit M-80 and a baseball into a ten-pound cast-iron posthole cover. Once lit the explosion propelled the baseball so high in the air that we had to hide in the bullpen bathroom, knowing the speed of what goes up like a rocket must come down even faster. The ball landed on the plastic outfield turf, and the first bounce went as high as the second deck . . . maybe sixty to eighty feet! Yep, we were living on the edge in Rooker’s world.
Payback Is a Bitch!
When sitting on the bench during a game when you’re not playing, guys like to get comfortable. The backs of the bench, which were small at Three Rivers Stadium, didn’t afford that luxury. But we managed. Players who sat on the bench with one leg crossed over the other in an effort to sit comfortably found themselves at the mercy of Richie Hebner, who liked to spray the raised shoe of unsuspecting teammates with a spew of chewing-tobacco residue and then laugh in their faces. Most guys dealt with the defacement of their shoes in their own manner, such as cutting the laces on Hebner’s spikes before the next game. Hebner, whose nickname was Hack, knew how the game was played. If the payback was fair, everybody had a laugh.
Rooker, however, didn’t play fair. Hebner saw Rooker sitting with his legs crossed on the bench one night and sprayed Jim’s shoe. It was precision aim, as he covered just the toes. Hebner was in full belly laugh when Rooker politely told him, “You might want to clean that shit off my shoe, Hack.” Hebner was surprised at Rooker’s reaction and responded, “Bleep you! I’m not cleaning anything. Maybe what you need is this,” and spit on his shoe again.
Now it got interesting. We’re trying to win a ball game, and both guys have drawn a line on the turf and won’t back down. Rooker calmly watched his dripping shoe and very deliberately told a ready-to-fight Hebner, “I’ll ask you one more time, Hack. Clean it off my shoe.” “Or what, what are you gonna do about it?” challenged the now-crazed third baseman. Before the calm and collected Rooker could respond, the inning was over, as Hebner, still laughing, grabbed his glove, ran out of the dugout, and took his position at third base. Rooker’s last comment about the incident was “I’ll get his ass!”
Rooker’s locker was located just two or three stalls away from Hebner’s on the Park Place side of the clubhouse, a perfect vantage point for the relentless pitcher. For the next few days, Jim observed the unsuspecting infielder who had forgotten the verbal altercation, as he plotted his revenge. Hebner became a victim of his own daily habits. After infield practice he liked to strip down to his shorts, grab a newspaper, and head to the same stall in the clubhouse restroom to “pinch a loaf” before the game started.
Finally, Rooker struck. Jim skipped infiel
d practice, cleared all clubhouse personnel from the restroom area, locked the door to the back entrance, and waited for Hebner to come off the field. Richie, in a bit of a hurry, grabbed a newspaper, and headed for his favorite stall, only this time he was still in his uniform. Rooker, once sure that Hebner was comfortably seated, pulled one of the M-80s out of his back pocket, lit it, threw it on the tiled floor by the stalls, closed the connecting door to the clubhouse, and just waited. Within seconds there was an explosion so loud that it brought the security officers who were stationed at the stadium entrance to the clubhouse.
Most of us players followed what Rooker was doing and howled with laughter when the bathroom door opened, pouring smoke into the clubhouse that silhouetted the dazed Hebner, pants and underwear at the top of his shoes, newspaper still in hand, with a shell-shocked look on his face as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. When Hebner saw the clubhouse in a fit of laughter, he shouted at Rooker, who was standing about ten feet away with his arms crossed and a look on his face that said, “I told you to clean my shoe, didn’t I?”
Who’s That Masked Man?
Fireworks weren’t Jim’s only props for pranks. One of the best in his collection was a rubber mask of an ogre that featured long, bushy white hair. He would put on the mask and catch unsuspecting teammates at a vulnerable moment. He caught most everybody at one time or another. The best reaction always came from first baseman and outfielder John Milner. “Hammer,” as Milner liked to be called, would always jump and scream when Rook would surprise him, much to the delight of teammates who were glad it was Milner and not themselves.
It was custom in the ’70s through the mid-’80s for most clubs to have beer available in the clubhouse after a game, as it encouraged the players to sit and discuss the game before heading home. During the years I was with the Bucs, the small clubhouse dining room featured Pittsburgh favorites Iron City on tap, Iron City Light in cans, and Rolling Rock in their trademark green bottles.
Hammer, who came over from the Mets as part of a huge four-team deal that also scored Bert Blyleven from the Rangers for Al Oliver, had his own way to relax after a ball game. First, he pulled off his uniform top, sweatshirt, and shoes and put on his robe/smoking jacket. Then he would pour a few ounces from a bottle of Martell Cordon Bleu in his locker into a brandy snifter, have a taste, and chase it with a Beck’s beer, all while chain-smoking. I once asked him about this postgame scenario, and all he would say is “It’s gotta be Cordon Bleu and Beck’s. Otherwise, it’s not right.”
Parker, who lockered next to Milner, tried the combination, liked it, and joined Hammer, as the ritual now included their own chaise lounges, with a table, a lamp, and an ashtray full of butts between them. They kept it up for hours after a game as the cleanup crew vacuumed the carpet around them.
Hammer made it his responsibility to bring the Beck’s beer to the park on a daily basis. For whatever reason, Beck’s was sold only in a four-pack. Each day upon arriving at the park, Milner put each evening’s postgame fare in the upright refrigerator before getting dressed. Because the beer was there for everyone to see, it was just a matter of time before the troops struck.
After one game Milner disrobed, put on his jacket, and headed for the fridge. He was shocked when he saw the empty bottles of Beck’s sitting in the carton where he had left them. Hammer raised all kinds of hell about this. The next day, still pissed off about the transgression, he came into the clubhouse with another four-pack, placed them in his spot in the fridge, and walked in the clubhouse and told everyone within earshot, “There will be hell to pay if it happens again!”
Hammer seriously misjudged his teammates. Instead of heeding his warning, they accepted his words as a challenge. Sure enough, John found only empty bottles, as he prepared for his postgame sit-down with Dave. Milner was livid as he yelled in the middle of the clubhouse. Of course, the players had their heads turned away from the crazed first baseman while laughing.
Still determined, Hammer arrived at the park the next day, four-pack in hand, and headed to the dining room. He closed the door behind him and proceeded to clear a space in the top-loading cooler where the postgame spread was kept to hide his Beck’s. Not saying a word, he went to his locker and prepared for the game. It didn’t take but a few minutes before Rooker, who observed Milner’s arrival and departure from the dining room, discovered the hidden Beck’s under the trays of cold cuts. It was genius on Rooker’s part to leave the beer alone and to keep other players from draining the contents. He had bigger plans.
After the game, much to Milner’s surprise, the bottles of Beck’s were intact. Milner, finding safety in his personal Fort Knox, repeated the process the next few days. Then Rooker struck.
Approximating the time the habitual Milner would arrive at the park, Rooker and a few other players emptied the cooler of its contents as Jim put on his ogre mask and crawled into the cooler. We carefully placed the original contents over Rooker, who was lying on his side, and covered everything with towels. We closed the sliding tops and took our seats at our lockers.
Like clockwork, Hammer entered the clubhouse a few minutes later, with Beck’s in hand, and made a right turn into the dining room. Closing the door behind him, he opened the sliding doors as the masked Rooker grabbed Milner’s arm. What we heard in the clubhouse was a blood-curdling scream, as Milner came running from behind the door into the clubhouse. All I could understand was “Dead white guy . . . grabbed me . . . he’s dead! Ugly motherbleeper. . . dead . . . grabbed my arm.” By this time the clubhouse was filled with uncontrollable laughter.
When Rooker entered the clubhouse still wearing the mask, Hammer let out another scream. There was an aftershock of belly laughs. For weeks Hammer stayed out of the dining room. He had one of the clubhouse attendants place the Beck’s in one of the refrigerators. Surprisingly, nobody messed with it. Its presence always brought a smile to everyone’s face, and who wanted to destroy the daily reminder of one of the great pranks of all time?
Scrap-Iron
Called Scrap-Iron for his gritty style of play, Phil Garner was the big prize for the Pirates when they traded six players to Oakland for a package of three in mid-March 1977. Garner’s first day as a Pirate was on March 18. He arrived at McKechnie Field in time to get a uniform, get loose, and start the game at third base.
I was pitching that day against the Tigers. Tito Fuentes, who was in the American League for the first time after spending eleven seasons in the National League, came to the plate in the top of the first inning. Fuentes had this ritual he performed before every at bat. Batting right-handed against me, he held his right hand in the air, signaling for time to the umpire, and dug a hole in the batter’s box with his right foot.
For pitchers of a previous generation, they would have drilled him in the ribs on the first pitch for that violation of baseball’s unwritten rules. I was a bit more tolerant, up to a point. Then Tito adjusted his wristbands, his batting gloves, and something new he just added, his headband. I was ready to pitch before he came to the plate, and now I was annoyed, having to wait for this shit.
Fuentes finished his ritual series of tics by grabbing the barrel of his bat and tapping the knob on top of the plate so the bat flipped into his waiting hand. Now he was ready to hit.
I delivered my first pitch, a fastball down the middle. Fuentes swung from his ass, fouled the ball back to the screen, and fell to the ground in the process. I got a new ball from Satch Davidson, the veteran NL umpire who was working the plate, and in seconds I was ready to go.
Not so fast! Fuentes was still dusting his uniform before he repeated the whole ritual. The wristbands, batting gloves, the headband, and the bat tap were all adjusted and completed as he stepped into the box to hit . . . except he added something else. He signaled me with his left hand and told me to throw! I thought, “You piece of shit! You’re gonna make me wait and then tell me when you want me to throw?” I shook off two curves and got the sign for a fastball, as the
catcher, Duffy Dyer, knew what was going to happen.
I fired a fastball, elbow high (well, maybe closer to the chin), as Fuentes hit the ground, his helmet heading toward the dugout and his bat to the backstop.
I took a few steps toward the plate to get a new ball from Satch and stared at the prone infielder and told him, “Pull that shit again and I won’t miss!”
Fuentes looked at me and then at Satch and barked, “He did that on purpose!” Satch walked from behind the plate, pulled his mask off, and told Fuentes, “Get your ass in there and hit, and no more of this bullshit.” Apparently, Satch attended the same old school I did. I don’t remember what happened the rest of that at bat, but Fuentes, who was understandably pissed off, just stepped to the plate without any more adjustments.
When the inning was over Garner, whom I didn’t have the chance to meet before the game, came up to me in the dugout with a smile on his face and said, “Is that the way you guys play in this league? Damn, I’m gonna love it here!”
Garner was a breath of fresh air. He brought an aura of leadership with him from his days in Oakland. A quick study, he had the respect of manager Chuck Tanner, as Gar would position both the infielders and the outfielders as the game progressed, much like the manager that he would be after his playing career ended.
Because Chuck liked the running game, the Pirates, who were billed as the Lumber Company during the last year of Brown-Murtaugh leadership, changed their tag line to Lumber and Lightning the first year of the Harding Peterson—Chuck Tanner combination.
Garner fit the profile perfectly. There was a huge difference in the offensive numbers across the board when comparing the 1976 numbers of Hebner to the 1977 numbers of Garner.12
Defensively, Garner, primarily a second baseman for Oakland, was a huge upgrade for the Pirates at third. Suddenly, grounders between the shortstop and third baseman that went for hits in 1976 were turned into outs in 1977. Because Gar could cover so much ground in the hole, it allowed the shortstop to play a step or so closer to second base, which cut off a number of potential base hits through the middle.
