Bring In the Right-Hander!

by Jerry Reuss

  As good as he was in the field, he was equally adept in the clubhouse, performing as the perfect counterpoint to the daily rants of Parker. On a typical day, one of them would say something loud enough for the other to hear, and off they would go, eventually meeting in the center of the clubhouse, the five-foot-eight, 170-pound Garner on his toes, pointing his finger in the face of the six-foot-five, 225-pound Parker, as both were shouting in each other’s face some of the funniest lines ever heard. It was the greatest show on earth! One indelible image on my mind is Garner, once standing on a stool, going at it face-to-face with Parker.

  Ever Hear the One about the Best-Laid Plans?

  Free agency was in full swing by 1977. It seemed that every time a player signed a new contract, it would leapfrog a signing from the day before. Nobody had a grasp on what their dollar value was to a club. But you could bet the very next contract signed was for more money, more years, with every penny guaranteed.

  I settled on a three-year deal with the Pirates starting in 1977. Harding (Pete) Peterson, who was in his first year as VP of player personnel after spending twenty-five years with the club, was part of the team that negotiated the deal for the Pirates. Pete told me during the first day of negotiations that he hoped we could reach a deal, because he wanted me to have a long and successful career and finish it with the Pirates.

  I was happy in Pittsburgh. The problems that plagued me in Houston disappeared (with the help of a divorce) after my first year with the Bucs. I was on a winner, I was contributing, and I wanted to stay. So instead of seeking the largest contract, I was willing to accept less than the open market offered, if the Pirates would give me a no-trade clause. That way I could have security, buy a house, and become a part of the community. In the off-season I had speaking engagements and personal appearances, all in an effort to promote the Pirates and bring people to the ballpark. I was happy to do it, and the Pirates were happy to have me out there.

  Chuck Tanner took over the managerial reins from a retiring Danny Murtaugh. I had a long-term contract, bought a town home, and was ready to have a great season. Everything was pointing in the right direction.

  But ever hear the one about the best-laid plans? I had my first losing season with the Pirates in 1977, ending 10–13 with an ERA of 4.11. Considering that I didn’t win my first game until May 24 and was 4–10 at the All-Star break, it took a good second half just to get there.

  In 1978 a young man by the name of Don Robinson came on the scene for the Bucs. After a great spring training he won a spot on the club and eventually in the starting rotation with Bert Blyleven, Jim Bibby, John Candelaria, and Jim Rooker. Robinson ended a fabulous rookie season with a 14–6 record and an excellent ERA of 3.47. However, the spot he earned was the one I couldn’t keep.

  I began 1978 in the starting rotation. After my first three starts of the season, I was sporting a bloated ERA of 6.57. I was given a chance to redeem myself with two starts in mid-May, but the struggles continued. By the time the June 15 trade deadline approached, I pitched in eleven games and had a 0–0 record with an ERA of 5.97. The club was sputtering with a 27–31 record in fourth place, six and a half games behind the division-leading Cubs. The front office was getting restless.

  I didn’t notice the flashing message light on my phone at the Pirates hotel in Atlanta until the morning of June 16. The message was from Pete, who asked me to call him in his office at 9:00 a.m. So I did. “Pete,” I said, “this is Jerry. What’s up?” Pete, who loved talking on his new speakerphone, put me on speaker and said, “Let me get to the point. I have a deal in place that would send you to the Cubs [I found out later it was for right-handers Ray Burris and Paul Reuschel]. I talked to Bob Kennedy [the Cubs’ GM], and he wants to put you in their starting rotation right away. To make it happen, I need you to waive your no-trade clause.”

  Shocked, I answered him, “Pete, do you remember why I asked for the no-trade clause?” He answered, “You wanted it in lieu of more money.” I told him, “That’s right. Plus, I didn’t want to be forced into making a snap decision about my baseball future. You just put me in that place. I’ll need some time to sort this out with my agent, Jack Sands.”

  Showing very little patience, Pete said, “The commissioner’s office has given us three hours to complete the deal because it’s after the deadline. Don’t drag this out.”

  Apparently, Pete and I had different ideas about what the no-trade clause was designed to do. Pete thought of it as nothing more than a formality; he would still make whatever deals he wanted and then ask questions later.

  For me, in addition to the security and sense of community, the no-trade was also an investment. If and when the Pirates attempted to move the contract, I could and would ask for a cash buyout to waive the clause.

  There were other factors to consider. I asked Jack about the Deferred Compensation Trust, the part of the contract that took up the bulk of time during our negotiations. Because the papers were drawn in Pennsylvania, I wanted to know the tax ramifications with a move to Chicago. The same question was asked with regards to my salary. What about renting a place in Chicago? What out-of-pocket costs would result? Three hours just wasn’t enough time to get the answers.

  Jack and I just wanted to see how interested Pete was in making the trade. So we asked Pete if he would buy me out of the no-trade clause. “No way!” barked Peterson, sounding indignant. Jack, letting Peterson’s attitude roll off his back, told me, “Let’s see just how interested the Cubs are.” Bob Kennedy gave us a flat no on a buyout. He had payroll troubles of his own and didn’t want to complicate them further.

  So there was no deal. All that remained were some hard feelings on all sides. I was aware at the time I signed the contract that all general managers try to improve their clubs every waking minute and that trades can materialize in minutes. I was also aware that a no-trade contract didn’t mean a club couldn’t trade a player; they just needed the player to approve the deal.

  Pete’s back-door approach had an effect on me. I saw it as a lack of respect. It took a while to develop a new perspective. After all, the game of baseball is just a business, and anyone can be replaced at any time.

  I didn’t win my first game of the season until August 20, a complete-game effort against the Astros in the second game of a doubleheader. This win was one of ten in a row, as the Pirates were making a move on the division-leading Phillies.

  I finished the season with the Pirates with a 3–2 record and a 4.88 ERA. I won two games in September. Both were complete games, as one was a shutout against the Mets. The Pirates finished a game and a half behind the Phillies in second place. But where did I stand with the club after another poor season and, more important, after rejecting a trade?

  I considered Chuck Tanner an excellent manager and a straight shooter. In spite of all that had happened, I was comfortable asking him about my future with the club. So after our last game of the season, I asked him where I stood. Would I be given a chance to win a job in spring training of 1979? Would I be considered for a job in the starting rotation?

  Chuck, one of the most positive people on the planet, told me, “Absolutely. With the job you did down the stretch run, you’re definitely in my plans,” he said with a smile. Chuck was always so positive that, if he came home and found a pile of horseshit in his living room, he would smile that smile, thinking somebody had just given him a horse.

  I wanted to get my career back on track, so I moved to San Diego that winter and worked out with Padres trainer Dick Dent. I liked his program and believed it would rejuvenate my career.

  I came to spring training in 1979 ready to go. I was in outstanding shape. When the games started I was paired with Blyleven. In our first game he was scheduled to pitch three innings, and I had two. Not a problem with Bert, but if I was being considered as a candidate for the rotation, as Chuck told me last September, why not three? So I asked Chuck. “Don’t worry about it,” he answered. “Next time out, you’ll get additional
innings.” A few days later I was written in for two more. What gives? It was time for another meeting with the manager. Only this time I didn’t see that smile. Instinct told me that whatever was said last year meant nothing now. And I was becoming a big pain in everybody’s ass.

  Change was in the air. It was time to move on . . . again. I had a meeting with Peterson and said if an opportunity came up somewhere else, we should consider it. Only this time we should work together.

  8.

  California, Here I Come!

  Within a week I was called into Tanner’s office and told there was a possible deal with the Dodgers. Pete’s demeanor was all business. It was not at all like it had been a few years ago when we agreed to the contract. “First of all, the Pirates will pay you nothing for your no-trade clause to accept the deal. Second, the Dodgers want you to sign a new contract. You have three days to make a deal with Los Angeles. Here’s Al Campanis’s number,” Pete said as he dropped the number on Chuck’s desk and walked out of the office.

  It was hard to believe the relationship I had with the Pirates just two short years earlier had evolved into a “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out” ending. Or maybe this was that baseball karma that Stargell had referred to when I showed Joe Brown disrespect by arriving at spring training late because of school in 1975.

  I called Jack and explained the situation, and he gave Al a call. When Jack, who negotiated the long-term deal with the Pirates, called me back, he had a tone in his voice that I had never heard. “The Dodgers want to sign you to a deal for five years guaranteed at a 50 percent raise over your present salary,” Jack said slowly. I thought for a second and responded, “Jack, I’m 13–15 over the past two years with an ERA over 4.00 [actually 4.33], and they want to guarantee a raise for five years?” “That’s right,” Jack said with a smile in his voice. “Jack, that works for me,” I said. “I thought you’d like it,” he responded. Jack called Al, and within a few hours I was a Dodger.

  From the Golden Triangle to the Golden State

  April 7, 1979: Traded by Pittsburgh to Los Angeles for Rick Rhoden

  MapQuest says that Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh was more than twenty-four hundred miles from Dodger Stadium. But the way the two clubs went about their business, the distance was much greater than miles. Walk into the Pirates’ clubhouse in the mid- to late 1970s, and you would’ve believed you were at a frat party a half hour after the keg was tapped. A stroll into the Dodgers’ locker room during those same years was much the same as attending a board meeting at a Fortune 500 company. It was two different ways of being successful.

  Tom Lasorda

  I can’t even estimate the number of people I’ve met in more than forty years in the game. Many fade in and out, and it takes a while to remember a face, place, or time when someone asks about a certain player or coach. Others leave a lasting impression and become lifelong friends. Some had such a profound impact on me that they deserve their own chapters. Such is the case with Tom Lasorda.

  I first saw Tom when he coached third base for the Dodgers in the mid-1970s. Using all that energy and enthusiasm, his personality was totally opposite that of Dodgers manager Walt Alston. But he was the right man for the third base coaching job, as he managed most of the Dodgers’ roster while they were in the Minors. He was also the right man for the job when Walt retired in 1976 and Lasorda was named the Dodgers’ manager.

  Tom had a great relationship with fans. He would sign autographs tirelessly and talk with them one on one. One hot and humid July afternoon in St. Louis after a ballgame, he signed autographs from the time he walked through the glass doors at Busch Stadium 2 until he got on the hotel elevator. My wife and I observed him from our window at the team hotel just across the street from the ballpark. He made sure everyone in the crowd got his signature. He had to be out there in the heat for more than an hour on a day he ran a fever and should have been in bed.

  Aside from Steve Garvey, Lasorda got the most fan mail. The intern who handled the mail put it in a box and delivered it directly to his office. To his credit, he opened and read every letter. If it was an autograph request for some enclosed baseball cards, he signed one or two and put it in the return envelope. If the letter was critical of him or the way he managed, he called the person directly and straightened it out. There’s no way to count how many times Lasorda did this. But you can bet by the time that call was finished, the Dodgers and Lasorda had a fan forever.

  Talking to him during a game could be an entirely different experience. On more than one occasion, Tom went to the mound to bring in a reliever, changed his mind, and left the pitcher in the game as Lasorda and the Dodgers came out on top.

  But these decisions by the seat of his pants didn’t always have a happy ending. One particular time after leaving the pitcher in the game, the Dodger hurler got hammered. So he had to make the trip a second time. A fan yelled at Lasorda as he made his way back to the dugout, “You should’ve taken him out the first time ya went out there!” Without missing a beat, Lasorda answered, “Did ya know they were gonna score all those runs? I didn’t either. If I did, I would’ve taken him out earlier! You get the second guess. I get the first one.”

  Welcome to the Club

  I joined the Dodgers on April 9, 1979, in Houston. Once I put my equipment bag in my locker, Lasorda invited me into his office for a brief meeting. “Welcome to the Dodgers!” he said proudly, putting his hand out to shake mine. “You spent ten years in the big leagues, and now you’re in the Major Leagues!” I was about to hear excerpts from one of his speeches. “I looooooove the Dodgers!” he bellowed. He continued with a story about working for the Dodgers when he was dead.1

  I never heard this kind of enthusiasm from anyone in the game. Maybe the Dodgers were the right place for me. Once I could get a word in, I saw another side of Lasorda. “Tom, I’ll pitch any way you need me,” I said, “but I prefer to start.” Suddenly, he was all business. “I already have five starters. Besides, if you were that good, why did Pittsburgh choose five others guys over you and trade you here?” I responded, “Fair enough. Let me put it this way. If one of our starters can’t pitch, keep me in mind.” Lasorda paused and said, “All right, I’ll keep that in mind. How are you for tonight?” I stood up and told him, “I’m ready to go.”

  I pitched four scoreless innings in relief of Bob Welch, recording my first save for my new club. But the day was more memorable because of what happened after I left the manager’s office.

  “Fined? For What?”

  Joining the Dodgers in 1979 meant an adjustment on my part. It didn’t take long for me to accumulate fines at a record pace for my indiscretions. Some were valid (missing the national anthem was legit for $25), while something like leaving the toilet seat up (a major, major no-no at home, but in the clubhouse . . . c’mon!) cost me $10.

  The visitors’ clubhouse in the Astrodome was huge, as it housed both baseball and football teams. That space included four to six picnic tables for the players to use.

  Pete Prieto, the Cuban-born visiting-clubhouse manager, was known around the league for a couple of things. One was a clean clubhouse. It had to be, as the Astrodome was home to rats as large as house cats. Pete, who sipped his Cuban-blend coffee in a china cup, also had a state-of-the-art popcorn maker that rivaled those in theaters.

  Players ate his popcorn so fast that he didn’t have time to bag it. He just served it on beer trays piled in a mound on each of the picnic tables. Players scooped what they wanted on a paper plate from the trays.

  After batting practice the first day as a Dodger, I removed my sweaty clothes, wrapped a towel around me, washed my hands, and then grabbed a handful of popcorn on my way back to my locker.

  Davey Lopes took exception to this and yelled, “That’s a fine!” I looked at him, knowing the unwritten clubhouse rule of grabbing food without covering yourself and said, “Look, I got a towel around me.” Davey said, “That may work in Pittsburgh, but here you go
tta be dressed.”

  Lasorda was passing by, heard Davey’s loud voice, and came over to see what was happening. So Davey told him. “That’s $10!” Tom said. “I was wearing a towel,” I pleaded. “If you wanna fight it and you lose, the fine doubles. Now, if wearing a towel is all you got, the fine is now $20,” Lasorda sputtered, sounding like a Philly lawyer.

  I looked at both of them and quietly said, “Okay.” I dropped the towel, stood on the seating area of the table, and lowered my bare ass in the center of the beer tray stacked with popcorn. “How much is this?” I asked.

  Davey’s eyes got big, and his jaw dropped. He grabbed his hat, shook his head, and as he walked away he muttered something like, “Where do they find these guys?” Lasorda stood there wide-eyed and started laughing while telling me, “You’re crazy!” I guess I showed them. No more $10 or $20 fines for me. No, sir! From that point on, I graduated to the $25–$250 range!

  There’s a Pig in the Manager’s Office

  Tom Lasorda has a unique ability to reach people, which is part of what made him a Hall of Fame manager. Whether it’s a speech before heads of state or a conversation with members of a player’s family, I’ve watched all of them captivated by every word.

  Once, while on a road trip to Atlanta, Joe Beckwith, a pitcher for the Dodgers in the 1980s who lived in nearby Auburn, Alabama, stopped Tom in the hotel lobby and introduced him to members of his extended family. Two hours later Lasorda was still telling stories. And they were laughing just as hard as when he started.

  One of Beckwith’s relatives was a pig farmer and was so impressed with Lasorda that he sent him a live pig when we returned from our trip as a way of saying thanks. Of course, there were some reporters, TV personalities, broadcasters, players, and so on who stopped by his office on a daily basis and seemed surprised that there was a real pig there! There were others who wondered what was going to happen next. They didn’t have to wait long to find out.