by Jerry Reuss
I don’t remember the next thirty seconds or so as the emotions flowed. Gone was the struggle of the last two years in Pittsburgh. Being 7–14 in 1979 didn’t matter anymore. I erased the memory of missing a no-hitter eight years prior and replaced it with a new reality.
Ron Cey was the first to the mound, followed by Yeager and then Garvey. In watching the replay of the game for the first time in years, I saw that Sandy Koufax, who joined us for the series, was there. I forgot about that until I saw him on the DVD I reviewed to write this book.
As the Dodgers exited the field down the right-field line, I was still accepting congratulations from teammates, coaches, and Tom Lasorda. Ross Porter, who worked the middle three innings on TV, asked me for a postgame interview.
If I could change just one thing that day, it would be the interview with Ross. Because of the adrenaline rush of the game, I was still in combat mode, and it showed in my answers to Ross during the postgame show. In what was one of the happiest days of my life, I appeared rude and a complete bore. Later, I apologized to Ross and he understood it wasn’t personal, but it still pains me to watch it thirty years later.3
When I got to the locker room, it was time to answer questions from reporters. My reputation as an interview wasn’t a good one. I was testy and impatient with reporters who didn’t do their homework and challenged them to be better prepared. I also remembered how opening up too much had burned me. By this time the reality of the evening had sunk in as the adrenaline rush eased, and I was ready to talk about it.
“Are you disappointed that you didn’t get the perfect game?” came the first question. I answered, “First of all, errors happen. Second, it was the same Russell who made an excellent play later in the game to keep the no-hitter alive.” That night Billy fielded nine grounders and went three for five with an RBI. Knowing that some guys were on deadline, I answered all of the obvious questions before they asked them. “Besides, it was Russell, along with Cey and Dusty, who made some good plays later in the game that kept the Giants hitless. By the way, we scored eight runs on seventeen hits, which allowed for some breathing room.”
For his part, Russell handled the questions about the error with his typical class. “At the time,” Russell said of his error, “it was no big deal. I just took too much time, I guess, and threw it away.”4 Actually, Russell’s error may have helped preserve the no-hitter. Jack Clark, who reached base on the play, strained his knee when running to second base on Murray’s grounder to end the first inning. He eventually was replaced in the sixth inning. With Clark, who hit well against me, injured and then out of the game, the Giants had a weaker lineup.
“When did you know you had a no-hitter going?” I was asked. I told the reporter, “Right after the first out of the game.” When I pitched I was hyperaware of everything that happened. I could spot a change in the batter’s stance. I remembered a hitter’s history against me. I knew how I wanted to pitch to him in this situation, and it could determine how I would pitch to him later in the game or even in the next game we faced each other. I knew each hitter’s strike zone and, just as important, the home-plate umpire’s strike zone. (Jim Quick, the home-plate umpire, had the same zone the entire game.) Because of this acute awareness, I have a hard time believing any pitcher doesn’t know he has a no-hitter in progress.
“Okay. Let’s try it this way,” the same reporter asked. “When did you believe a no-hitter was a real possibility?” It was a fair question, so I elaborated. “It became more of a possibility after each out. Early in the game I wasn’t thinking about a no-hitter. I was thinking about pitching to the Giants’ lineup, one pitch, one batter, and one inning at a time. I had to maintain that focus,” I responded.
What I didn’t tell him was this: I stepped out of that mind-set, looked at the scoreboard, and realized that something special was happening. The score was just 2–0 until we scored five runs in the top of the fifth. Normally, I pitched with a margin of error with a seven-run lead. Being in the midst of a no-hitter, there was no such luxury. Each pitch meant something. One mistake could end it. Even a perfect pitch could be blooped for a hit. Making the pitches was my responsibility. I couldn’t control luck.
“Were you aware of the fans applauding you when you left the dugout for the seventh inning and after every out you recorded?” was another question. “Absolutely,” I answered. “I was aware of everything! My teammates were with me on every pitch. They treated each pitch like we were in the World Series. From the seventh inning until the last out in the ninth, I had three extraordinary plays behind me. Ron Cey made a diving stop on a hard-hit grounder in the eighth, Russell made an outstanding play on a grounder deep in the hole, and Dusty Baker made a nice play on a liner to left that he caught ankle high.”
“Have you ever gotten this close to a no-hitter?” was the question from the back of the pack. I told them, “I pitched one in Little League and one in high school. Professionally, I was this close just once. It was on June 18, 1972, when I pitched for Houston. It took more than eight years to get this close again.”
When Leonard Koppett, a highly respected journalist from the Bay Area, wrote about the game, he stated, “It was better than a perfect game in this respect. Reuss had to get 28 outs for the no-hitter instead of the 27 outs needed for a perfect game.”5
Lasorda, when asked about the game, told reporters, “It couldn’t have happened to a greater guy.” He paused and added, “Well, yes, it could. I could have pitched it.”6
The Next Day
On Saturday the game was scheduled for 1:05. Usually, the day after a start meant a forty-minute run before we took the field for batting practice. I’m not sure if I did the run that Saturday, as there were reporters who still needed some time for their Sunday column. There were also an extra couple of dozen balls to sign as well as appearing on the Giants’ pregame radio show. I did my best to accommodate everybody and still get on the field on time. It’s the job of the previous day’s starting pitcher to collect the baseballs hit during batting practice in a bucket and fill the basket used by the batting-practice pitcher. There was a local TV crew that needed a few minutes after BP. I finished my work, handled the interviews, and signed the balls. I didn’t know if I could make it to the dugout in time for the national anthem, which, if missed, was an automatic twenty-five-dollar fine.
In San Francisco the path to the dugout from the locker room meant walking through the Giants’ bullpen in right field, which complicated things. I rushed like hell changing into dry clothes, putting on my jacket, and running through the hallway to the bullpen door. I held my breath as I looked out the window to see if the players were lined up in front of the dugout.
I caught a break. Somehow, it just didn’t seem right to throw a no-hitter one night and then get fined the next day for missing the anthem! So I took a deep breath, relaxed, and opened the door to make my way to the bench.
As I started my stroll to the dugout, I noticed applause. By the time I approached first base, the entire crowd of twenty-five thousand was applauding. I thought one of the “Willies,” Mays or McCovey, was on the field. I looked around and saw just the starting pitchers, and then it hit me . . . this is for me! Imagine! A Dodger player getting an ovation in San Francisco . . . two straight days!
So I took off my cap and acknowledged them, and, to my surprise, they stood up. This lasted until I got to the dugout. It was the first time in my career that something like this happened, so naturally I milked it for all it was worth.
Lasorda came up to me and said, “That’s fifty dollars!” “What for? I didn’t miss the anthem,” I protested. “That’s fifty dollars for acknowledging San Francisco fans,” he answered. I told him, “Do you see those fans wearing Dodger blue in the stands?” “Yeah, so what?” he asked. “I was tipping my cap to them and no one else,” I said with total conviction. He looked at me, then at the fans in Dodger jackets, looked at me again, shook his head, and walked away muttering, “I’m the dummy for arguing wit
h you.”
The Aftermath
On Sunday afternoon there were no more interviews, no more balls to sign, and I was able to get my work done. So I was planning a leisurely grand entrance on the field. After all, it was a doubleheader with more than fifty thousand faithful attending the game. This should be some kind of entrance. It was show time.
I made my way on to the field, and there was . . . nothing. I paused, hoping by turning around that the fans would see my name on my jacket and the applause would start. Again, there was nothing . . . except for a guy in his forties with long hair, green teeth, and a scraggly beard wearing a Giants cap, standing over the Giants’ bullpen roof. He looked at me and said, “What the hell you waitin’ for? Get your ass in the dugout where you belong, you asshole!” Well, things were back to normal.
It was baseball tradition for a club to award a pitcher who threw a no-hitter with a new contract calling for a raise. The Dodgers signed me to a five-year deal in 1979 that took agents and lawyers a few months to settle. No way (and no need) for a new contract in those early days of free agency. But that didn’t stop Dodger owner Peter O’Malley from showing his appreciation.
During the next home stand, the club gave me a beautiful giant-screen TV during a pregame ceremony. I thanked Peter, the Dodgers, and my teammates for making a dream come true. But now I had a problem. There was no room in the home I just bought for a TV this size. So when I stopped by Peter’s office a few days later to thank him, he asked me how I was enjoying the new television. I told him that I couldn’t thank him enough for his generosity, but there was no place to put it. He seemed a bit puzzled and then asked me, “What would fit?” “A table model would be perfect,” I answered. A few days later a delivery truck arrived at the front door with a large table-model TV set along with the latest VCR. Peter found a place for the big screen. It was put in the manager’s office for the entire club to enjoy.
Later that home stand Tom asked me to come into his office and sign a dozen balls. He instructed me to sign on the “sweet spot,” usually reserved for the manager or Hall of Famer, as these balls were to be used in an auction where he would be appearing that evening. They were designated as baseballs used in the no-hitter. I looked at him as I was signing and said, “Tom, these balls are new. No one will believe they were used in any game.” His response was classic Lasorda. “You know that and I know that. But the people who head the charity won’t. Nor will the winning bidders. You’ll look good and I’ll look good. The charity gets the money, and they’ll be happy. The fans in attendance will be thrilled, as will the people who buy the baseballs because they believe they’re buying a piece of history. So, with one little white lie, we make all these people happy! How can you have a problem with that?”
With that, I signed the rest of the balls, closed the box, and said, “Have a safe trip!” I really doubt that he told everyone at the banquet that the signed balls were game-used from the no-hitter, but if there was anyone who could sell it . . .
Because videotape degrades after time, I wanted to transfer the game to DVD. So, I searched for the one-inch masters, only to hear that Channel 11 in Los Angeles threw them out some years ago. MLB Productions had a copy, but the audio was of the Giants’ radio announcers. Fortunately, my good friend Mark Wolfson, who produced and directed the game for Channel 11, had the original masters for the first six innings in his garage. He found them in a box that was unpacked after his move to the Bay Area. The elements of a DVD were there. Mark sent his tapes to MLB. I sent my VHS copies and my one-inch master from the final three innings to MLB for the audio featuring Vin Scully and Ross Porter. From these three sources and some excellent engineering, DVD copies were made. I now refer to the finished DVD made from bits, pieces, cuts, splices, and edits from the three sources as Frankenstein.
The Dodgers celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of the game on June 27, 2005, and invited me to throw out the first pitch at Dodger Stadium. It was also a special day for another reason. This was the first pitch I threw after my knee replacement. Both my new knee and old elbow survived and now live together in harmony to throw another first pitch when asked.
Introducing . . . Diamond Vision!
By the All-Star break of 1980, my record was 9–2 with an ERA of 1.96. I was one of six Dodger players selected for the All-Star Game to be played at Dodger Stadium. Ironically, the manager of the National League All-Stars was Chuck Tanner. I was curious as to how Chuck would greet me, as the last time we spoke was the day I was traded to Los Angeles. To Chuck’s credit, he was his old bubbly self. “Congratulations,” he told me. “It looks like you turned things around. I’m happy for you.” In turn I congratulated him for winning the 1979 World Series.
Before the game I was asked by ABC, who televised the game, that if I started an inning to pause ten to fifteen seconds before throwing my first pitch so they could run some of the no-hitter footage. No problem, I told them. When I finished my warmup pitches and the ball was thrown by Mets catcher John Stearns to second base, I remembered the network’s request. So I looked around the infield and saw Ray Knight at third and Dave Concepcion at short, both of whom played for the Reds; Phil Garner, my former teammate from the Pirates, at second; and Keith Hernandez of the Cardinals at first.
I called Garner in from second because he was the only one of the infielders I knew. “Gar, see that giant TV screen [making its debut in a Major League Baseball park that evening] above the left-field bleachers?” I asked. “Yeah, isn’t that something!” he responded, having no idea where I was going. I told him, “There are over fifty-six thousand people in the ballpark tonight watching us on it right now.” Gar glanced at the screen. “Yeah, I can see that.” I continued, “There’s probably another twelve to fifteen million listeners on radio and maybe more than fifty million watching on ABC!” Now he’s laughing and asked, “What’s your point?” I told him, “That’s about seventy-five million wondering what the hell we’re talking about!” He looked at me and shook his head. “They probably think we’re talking about baseball, but we’re talking TVs!” he said, laughing as he made his way back to his position.
It turned out to be a good meeting. I struck out the only three batters I faced, and when the National League took the lead in the bottom of the sixth, we held it, making me the winning pitcher.
“That Shit Can Cause Cancer!”
Most of the time when I wasn’t pitching, I’d find a comfortable spot on the bench and watch the game. My favorite spot was a few seats from the water fountain toward the third base side of the bench. Like many players during my era, I’d pop open a fresh bag of chewing tobacco, grab a wad, pop it in, and enjoy a cheap buzz.
One night Reggie Smith, who could be as cantankerous as hell, sat down a few cushions from me. As we fell behind early in this ballgame, Reggie was observing the ritual of spitting on the dugout floor. Finally, he had enough. “That’s disgusting. Don’t you realize that people have to walk through that?” With the seed shells, paper cups, dirt, and everything else, the floor looked like a toxic waste dump! I spit again, looked at Reggie, and said, “Something on your mind?” “Goddamn right!” he replied.
Meanwhile, we got a runner on with Joe Ferguson coming to bat. “Don’t you know that shit can cause cancer?” Well, now he had my attention. “It’s worse than smoking. That wad sits right next to salivary glands, your throat, and everything else in your mouth.” Well, Reggie succeeded in harshing my buzz. “I never thought about that,” I answered. So I reached in my mouth and grabbed the chew, and, at that very moment, Fergie hit a two-run homer that put us in the lead.
Following baseball custom, everyone went to the home-plate side of the dugout to share high-fives with Joe . . . only I got the chew in my hand with no place to lose it . . . except for a coffee cup with maybe a half inch of coffee still in it. So I dropped it in the cup, wiped my hand, and gave Fergie his due. There’s another baseball custom during a rally, and that is you return to the same seats. Which means,
once again, I was sitting two seats away from Mr. Warmth.
No sooner did I sit than I heard, “Well, did you get rid of it?” What the hell, Reggie! He didn’t let up. I was about to say, “Yeah, and thanks for letting me know,” when I heard the noise of someone retching and throwing up at the other end of the dugout. It was Lasorda, with the trainer slapping him on the back, while Tom is spitting and yelling in the same breath, “Who the hell put chewing tobacco in my coffee? I’ll kill the son of a bitch who did it.”
That was a new baseball custom I hadn’t heard about. If there’s a half inch of coffee left in your cup, don’t throw it out. There might be more runs in it. Tommy chugged the remainder of his cup and got more than he bargained for.
Once I realized what had happened, I lowered my head and tried to hide my laughter. Still, there was Reggie. I turned my head, looked at him, he looked at me, looked at Tom, who was still screaming, and said, “You didn’t . . . You did!” Now, he had the giggles.
What a sight it was. A manager who just Heimliched my chew like a cat would a hairball, and two veterans, who never shared much more than a hello, laughing like ten-year-olds while fifty thousand Dodger faithful cheered their boys in blue.
Just How Many Games Did Sinatra and Rickles Win for Us?
The players who came through the Dodger farm system stayed much to themselves. They played great together, but off the field they went their own way. During 1979 my closest teammate was Ken Brett. When Brett was released late in spring training of 1980, I gravitated to Jay Johnstone and Don Stanhouse, who were signed as free agents over the winter of 1979–80. The reason was simple. We made each other laugh.
During batting practice at Dodger Stadium one day in 1980, Stanhouse and I took our normal position in right field while Jay took batting practice with his group. As Stanley (my nickname for him) and I stood there, he mentioned to me, “Things are just a little too slow for me today. We need to do something to liven things up.” I asked him what he had in mind. “I don’t know. Can you think of something?” he responded. “Okay,” I said. “When Jay comes out here, just follow my lead.”
