by Jerry Reuss
The pig got the royal treatment, which included a solo ride on the elevator to the top of Dodger Stadium during the sixth inning. The look on Lasorda’s face was priceless when stadium security called him while on the bench during the game and informed him of what had happened. He hung up the phone, beelined to me in a fit of rage, and suddenly stopped, shook his head, and said, “No. No. I’m not gonna ask you because I already know the answer. Just put it back in its cage.”
Everybody on the bench wondered what that was about. When Lasorda told them about the call from security, the bench broke into howls of laughter. Truth be told, I had nothing to do with the pig being put on the elevator. Now, I may have mentioned the idea in passing to a couple of teammates . . .
Dodger Swag
There was always one element of the Dodger uniform that impressed me as a visiting player. Under the lights of a night game at Dodger Stadium, they seemed whiter than white—almost like a glow. Plus, the players didn’t have just one team jacket, but had three different styles: a windbreaker, a medium-weight zipper jacket, and a heavy button jacket for the colder temperatures. I mentioned to the clubhouse manager, Nobe Kowano, that I’d like to purchase each of the jackets the club didn’t supply. On the other three clubs I played for, the club issued one jacket, and I paid for anything beyond that. It was the same procedure for long-sleeve sweatshirts. Nobe looked at me with a puzzled look on his face and asked, “You mean you want to buy three more?” I corrected him, “No, I want to buy the jackets the Dodgers don’t normally supply.” Now, he corrected me. “We give you all three jackets. Have you looked in your locker? I gave you all three jackets with your name on the back and three sweatshirts. The club supplies you with anything you need. Let me know if you need more.” Well, well, well! Maybe there was something behind Lasorda’s welcoming speech.
You Wanna Do What?
I was traded to the club on April 7. Ken Brett joined the Dodgers on June 11. When we were teammates in Pittsburgh in 1974–75, we had adjoining lockers, so I knew what a free spirit he was. One day he asked me, “Is there anything you’d like to do in your career that you haven’t done?” The question surprised me, as we never discussed a subject this serious. I thought about it and said, “Well, yeah, I’d like to win twenty games one year, play in another All-Star Game, and pitch in a World Series.” I paused and asked him, “How about you?” He floored me with his response. “I wanna dress with the grounds crew and drag the infield in the fifth inning!” Of all the things he could have said, he hit me with this. Now I started laughing as he continued, “I’d like to do it tonight. You wanna do it with me?”
My mind flashed on all the reasons we shouldn’t do it—like getting fined. Ken and I got fined twenty dollars for laying by the pool in San Diego. I was nicked for twenty bucks for the Houston popcorn incident. What the hell! At least this way I knew I was gonna get hit. The only question was the amount.
“I’m in!” I told him. “Great. Let’s meet in the grounds-crew locker room around the third inning so we can get dressed,” he answered. Of course, when we told the groundskeepers what we wanted to do, they looked at us like we were crazy. “You wanna do what?” they asked. “Dress in your clothes, drag the infield, and get back to the bench like nothing happened,” we told them. Their minds flashed on all the reasons they shouldn’t do this—like getting fired. Finally, one of them said, “See if these pants and shirts fit.”
The hardest part of the plan was getting on the field undetected. After all, we had to walk down the runway between the clubhouse and field, hide in the storage room, and follow the two real groundskeepers on the field as soon as the final out was recorded in the top of the fifth inning without being spotted by Lasorda.
Fortunately, Rick Monday (Mo) and Steve Yeager (Boomer), who were stationed at their spot in the far end of the dugout, saw us as we made our way down the runway. Holding their laughter, our partners in crime stood in front of the storage room and then walked in front of us as a screen from Lasorda as we made our way onto the field.
We grabbed our drag from the compartment just below the auxiliary scoreboard a few feet from the dugout and made our way to the third base line as the players were laughing their asses off. Tom was in full four-letter voice as the last thing I heard him say was “Tell those sonsabitches, I’ll get their ass for this.”
The infielders and umpires loved it, as did the fans along the first base line who followed our tour from the start and gave us a standing ovation as we exited through the stands above the first base dugout.
Tom was still fuming as he met us at the top of the runway between the dugout and the locker room after we changed back into our uniforms. “Dammit, I can’t have players pulling off stunts like this. If Peter [O’Malley] saw this, it could cost me my job. That’ll cost you both a hundred dollars!” Ken and I thought it would be more than that. Maybe he gave us a break because of the great job we did.
Big Changes Help Revive My Career
Coming off the World Series years of 1977 and 1978, 1979 proved to be a real disappointment for the Dodgers, as the team finished under .500 for the first time since 1968. Yet for me the year was a confidence booster. I know a record of 7–14 with an ERA of 3.54 isn’t impressive, but I proved to myself I could still start and win. Over a three-year span I was 20–30, not a record that secures one a place in the starting rotation, much less a spot on the roster. There were some adjustments that I still had to make. That winter I stumbled on some changes that turned around my career.
Dodger pitchers were a breed all their own. As far back as the days of Koufax and Drysdale, they were given free rein to train on their own, bypassing the traditional running programs used by other clubs. For starting pitchers the day after a start was an aerobic day, which meant a minimum thirty-minute jog. The second day was an anaerobic day with sprints after a ten- to fifteen-minute bullpen session. The third and fourth days between starts were a repeat of the first two days, with a reduced amount of running and no bullpen session.
When I joined the club Don Sutton pulled me aside and explained to me, “The Dodgers found that the pitchers work harder and have more success when they work on an individual program. As long as we do our work, we keep the program. If one pitcher doesn’t do his work, all of us have run the traditional way the other teams do. I wanted to explain all of this to you to make sure you’re not the guy who will screw up this privilege for the rest of us.” I didn’t embrace the idea of substituting jogging for sprints every other day, but I wanted to try it. From the center field fence inside Dodger Stadium, I jogged through the parking lot and past the Union 76 station and proceeded to a horseshoe-shaped path that returned me to the field. It was about a fifteen- or twenty-minute run. By the time the season was over, I was running the complete perimeter of the stadium parking lot, a forty-minute run, with ease.
After the 1979 season I visited Dr. Frank Jobe’s clinic at Centinela Hospital for a complete physical. Dr. Jobe was the Dodgers’ team doctor but also was the forerunner in sports medicine, as he was the first doctor to develop and perform the now famous “Tommy John” surgery. While testing for stability of my left shoulder, he noticed an area in the back of my shoulder where the muscles had atrophied. We discovered after some tests that my left shoulder, my pitching shoulder, had about one-third the strength of my right shoulder. I was prescribed a series of exercises to perform with light free weights to strengthen the area.
About this same time I was introduced to the Nautilus weight-training program. Dr. Jobe and the Dodger training staff endorsed the program because it increased muscle strength without adding bulk. After a few sessions on the newly purchased machines housed at the ballpark, I continued my winter workouts using Nautilus three days a week at a local gym with an aerobic run and alternated the free-weight program with racquetball for another three days a week. When the winter workouts began at Dodger Stadium in January 1980, I was ready to go. Throwing batting practice a few times a week at the ballpark
allowed me to integrate the workout program with a baseball schedule before the start of spring training. This was my second year of a year-round workout program, and all was going well until the Dodgers dipped into the free-agent market.
The Odd Man Out . . . Again
On November 15, 1979, the Dodgers signed Minnesota’s Dave Goltz to a six-year deal as a starting pitcher. That meant the Dodgers’ starting rotation heading into the 1980 season was Burt Hooton, Rick Sutcliffe, Don Sutton, Goltz, and Bob Welch. Each of these five starters had a better year in 1979 than I did, earning their spots in the starting rotation.
Having faced this very situation the previous few years, I knew that no club had the same five starters from the start of the season to the end. It was a matter of time before I’d get the chance to prove myself as a starter. Rather than fight pitching in relief, I went with the flow.
Not needing four pitches in a relief role, I used just a fastball and a curve. I noticed that when I released my four-seam fastball on the inside of my middle finger, the pitch would run into the hands of a right-handed batter. In baseball language I developed a cutter, or cut fastball. Because I could throw this pitch consistently for strikes, I used it.
When the pitch was knee-high, it had late running action that made an adjustment difficult for opposing hitters. Much like Rooker did with the Pirates, I pitched ahead in the count and recorded early-count outs. When hitters looked for the pitch, I used my sinker on the opposite side of the plate and forced a routine fly ball or groundout.
If there were ever doubts as to the cutter’s effectiveness, those were erased one day when Larry Bowa of the Phillies pulled me aside and accused me of cheating. “I know you’re doing it. I just haven’t figured out how. But I will.” I told him, “I knew someone would catch me. I just didn’t think it would be you.” The only thing better than a successful new pitch was someone believing I was cheating and being hell-bent on discovering how!
I was like a kid with a new toy. My command of the cutter allowed me to throw my sinker and curve for strikes with complete confidence. For the first time in my ten-year baseball career, I was pitching to contact and enjoying positive results. In eight relief appearances my record was 3–0 with three saves. Then came the chance I anticipated.
Opportunity Knocked
Rick Sutcliffe, the National League’s Rookie of the Year with the Dodgers in 1979, struggled in the early part of 1980 and was sent to the bullpen in early May after six starts, posting a 0–2 record with an 8.33 ERA. Lasorda wouldn’t commit to Sutcliffe’s spot in the rotation, as Dave Goltz came down with the flu and couldn’t make his scheduled start on May 16. I started the game that night against the Pirates and won 8–6, pitching seven innings and allowing four runs on eight hits. Not a stellar performance but good enough to merit another start. I stayed in Goltz’s spot, and Dave pitched a few days later, taking Sutcliffe’s turn in the rotation.
Four days later I beat St. Louis, and five days after that I shut out Cincinnati. I was in the midst of the most consistent run of my career. Still, the best was yet to come.2
All I Can Remember about the No-Hitter
People have asked for more than thirty years about the no-hitter I pitched against the Giants on June 27, 1980. How did you feel before the game? At what point during the game did you know you had a no-hitter? Were you disappointed that you didn’t have a perfect game? (That was the first question asked by a reporter after the game in the clubhouse!) Did anybody on the bench talk about it? Was this game your biggest thrill in baseball?
Here’s everything I remember about the day, the game, the aftermath, and my thoughts about it today.
The Dodgers flew to San Francisco on Friday morning, the day of the game, so we could enjoy the off day, Thursday, at home. Traveling on the day of the game was normal for the Dodgers when flying to San Francisco or riding a bus to San Diego.
One could almost sense it was going to be a special night at Candlestick Park when the game started, if for no other reason than the weather. Vin Scully told the story best on the television pregame show. “First of all, let it be known and truly declared it is hot in San Francisco. I mean hot. It’s been eighty degrees and higher all day, and it’s still that warm in the ballpark tonight. It borders on the unbelievable.” Only Vin Scully can turn a weather report into his own brand of baseball poetry. Still, with no wind and a higher than normal temperature, it made a Friday evening at Candlestick actually feel balmy. It was the only time in all the years of playing at the ‘Stick that I remember weather like that.
I don’t remember anything special about warming up. It probably was routine, as I worked both sides of the plate with the fastball, spun some curves, and maybe even threw a change-up or two.
We scored a run in the top of the first against Vida Blue, whom I had pitched against as far back as Triple A when he was with Des Moines and I was with Tulsa. The bottom of the first began with two quick outs and brought Jack Clark, who ultimately had a lifetime average of .371 and five home runs against me, to the plate. He hit an easy two-hopper to Russell at short, who fielded it cleanly and then threw it on a hop to Garvey at first. I can’t count the number of times I saw Steve pull a ball out of the dirt for an out. This time he didn’t. So Clark was on first as Rich Murray ended the inning, grounding into a force play.
We scored another run off Blue in the third and knocked him out of the game with five runs in the fifth. After working through the Giants’ batting order the first three innings, I was aware that they were hitless. Still, the Giants’ fans were their rowdy selves until we posted that five-spot in the fifth.
For my teammates and the rest of the people on the bench, it was a different story. Around the fifth or sixth inning, the bench got quiet, especially when we were batting. I kept the same seat on the bench, as I marked it with the jacket I wore between innings. It wasn’t because of superstition; I just wanted to know where it was when I came from the field. No one touched it. In fact, the players kept the same seats, a baseball tradition celebrated daily to maintain a run of good tidings. In my hyperaware state, I knew they knew what the scoreboard told the world.
After the sixth inning many of the 20,285 fans in attendance acknowledged each out. Remember, this was San Francisco, where the Dodgers were the enemy from the South. The rivalry over the history of these two teams had always been intense. Both had roots in New York, where they had hated one another. I had no idea of the depth of feeling until years later when, at a Dodgers Fantasy Camp, Duke Snider revealed that he always hated Halloween because the colors were orange and black, the same colors worn by the Giants!
A smattering of fans cheered for me as I headed to the mound in the bottom of the seventh. When I went to the mound in the ninth, they stood and applauded. In between they cheered each out. I would have expected that at Dodger Stadium but not in San Francisco.
The Giants players, however, had other ideas. Nobody wants to be no-hit, especially at home. So when they came to the plate, each of them wanted to be the guy who broke up the no-hitter. Their breathing was different, their setup before each pitch was more intense, and they took just a bit more time between pitches. There was no guessing what pitch I was going to throw. I threw ninety-nine pitches in the game, with sixty-six of them being strikes. All but a few were fastballs, which I threw exclusively from the seventh inning to the end of the game.
As we had an 8–0 lead heading into the bottom of the seventh, I began “the finish,” a quick review of what the hitter did against me earlier in the game and how I would pitch to him this at bat. This was where the possibility of the no-hitter factored into pitch selection. Each pitch and each out became a countdown. Just nine more outs . . . eight more . . . seven . . . were the words I heard. When I started the eighth, a voice in my mind reminded me, “Keep the ball down, pitch for a groundout, and remember, six more outs . . . five more . . . four!”
As I walked to the mound, oblivious to the cheering for the bottom of the ninth, t
he voice reminded me of the Houston game. “You have another chance. Focus on location. Stay knee-high on the corners.” That’s all that concerned me.
Catcher Mike Sadek led off for the Giants in the ninth. He fouled back the first pitch for strike one. I missed inside for a ball. With the count 1–1, I wanted another strike. So Yeager set up for a fastball inside. Fouled back again. With two strikes, I had options: go for the strikeout (Sadek struck out twice earlier) or just get the out. I jammed him with a fastball, and he rolled an easy grounder to Cey. One out.
Rennie Stennett, a former teammate in Pittsburgh, was the pinch-hitter for the pitcher. The first pitch was way high and outside. “It’s not velocity, but location,” the voice reminded me. Stennett swung late and fouled the next pitch, a fastball belt-high and inside, down the first base line. “Let’s get in there again,” I thought. Rennie fouled off another pitch down the right side. The count went to 1–2 as Stennett stepped out of the box. “He doesn’t strike out much. But he can’t catch up with your fastball inside. Stay in there and jam him,” I thought. Stennett jammed himself, rolling a two-hopper to Russell, whose throw to Garvey was perfect.
Two outs and the voice said, “Take a short walk and reset. This is the guy you waited for all night long.” The batter was Bill North. He had grounded out twice and flied out in his last at bat. While North took his time getting in the box, I thought, “Let’s go!” My first pitch was a fastball that was high for ball one. “Make the adjustment,” I thought. I looked for the sign. Yeager called for a fastball inside, as North tapped a routine two-hop roller to me in front of the mound. “You have all the time in the world. Pick it up, turn, and throw to Garvey’s belt,” I thought. Once I saw Steve catch it, I was airborne.
