by Jerry Reuss
All that remained was for Bob to work out a deal with Layton. “I’ll do it for three large,” Layton told Emmer. “I can’t afford three thousand, Joe,” Emmer replied. “Who said anything about three thousand! I want three large Dodger jackets,” Joe answered. “I’ll work on it,” said Bob with a laugh. With that the Big Blue Wrecking Crew, our new name, had a record, a choreographer, and a date with The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson.
Mo and I were back in the limo Monday morning for another trip to Hollywood. This time, we were asked to bring our best suits, a dress shirt, and a tie. Once at the studio we handed over our dress clothes that had to be altered for the appearance with Johnny Carson that evening. We were in one of the rehearsal rooms as Joe Layton put us through the paces.
It was evident in just a few minutes that our baseball skills didn’t transfer to the dance floor. If you ever heard the story about the monkey and the football, that punch line best describes our efforts. Working to the dub of the record we cut the day before, Joe walked each of us through our respective parts. Joe had an incredible routine, tremendous patience, and an unbelievable sense of humor. It was time to leave the comforts of the studio and head over to Burbank for our rehearsal with the Tonight Show band.
“Here’s Johnny!”
We were taken to our dressing room that featured a huge spread from a nearby deli that surpassed anything we had at the ballpark. “Does Carson treat all of his guests like this?” I asked. “No, this is courtesy of Alive Enterprises. All of our acts have food backstage” was the answer from the Alive rep. “Is there anything else that you’d like?” he added. Mo asked, “Would it be possible to have a few cold Heineken?” “I’ll have a case here in fifteen minutes” was the response as he left the room. “Yep, I could get used to the rock ‘n roll lifestyle,” I said with a smile. “Yeah, if we only had the talent to back it up!” Mo said with a laugh.
The door to the dressing room opened. “Get dressed, gentlemen,” said the Tonight Show rep as he poked his head in the door. “Doc Severinson will be ready for rehearsal in ten minutes.” We put on the suits we brought with us and noticed the alterations for our shirts and ties, as the buttons were resewn so the shirts would rip off and the ties were now the clip-on variety.
Once onstage and after accepting congratulations from many of the band members and Doc for the World Series win, it was time to get down to business . . . show business! Johnny would introduce us as the Big Blue Wrecking Crew singing “We Are the Champions,” and then the curtain would rise as the four of us had our backs to the audience.
Because I was the first to turn and sing my solo, I took my cue from the band. Jay followed me with his part, and then it was Rick’s and Steve’s turns to sing their solos. Fortunately for us, Joe was still with us, out of camera range in front of the first row of the audience, taking us through the routine step by step.
The rehearsal with the band went pretty well, considering that when we finished the finale Doc had tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. Either that or he was crying from the fact that his career had sunk to a new show-business low.
Because the time for taping the show was just minutes away and we were the first guests, we stayed close to our marks while visiting with a number of people backstage. I don’t know about the other three guys, but I was scared shitless. I could pitch in front of fifty-six thousand screaming Dodger fans and millions more listening on radio and watching on TV because I was in my world. But singing and dancing on The Tonight Show was out of my league.
Strangely enough, the excitement of performing before millions meant the convergence of my real and fantasy worlds. What athlete hasn’t dreamed of being a rock star? I was walking through the steps one more time when I heard a familiar voice. “Jerry, if you don’t know the routine by now . . .” I looked up and there was Johnny, laughing.
From backstage we heard Ed McMahon’s “Here’s Johnny!” As Carson eased into his monologue, a stage manager told us that we needed to take our marks when the show broke for commercial. Joe, recognizing that all of us were a bit nervous, said, “I’ll be out front between the cameras. If you need a cue, just look at me.” The band went into their bumper music for the break as we took our marks.
As Johnny went into our introduction, I looked to my right as Mo caught my gaze. “Hey, what’s your pucker factor?” he said, laughing. “You couldn’t drive a greased needle up my ass with a sledgehammer,” I answered.
Their laughter was the last thing I heard as Johnny said, “Would you welcome the Big Blue Wrecking Crew!” And the curtain and my adrenaline level rose as the band went into the first few bars. The audience noise was deafening, and I could barely hear the band, which was right next to us. I heard my cue and turned to sing my opening line, “I paid my dues,” into the brightest lights I’d ever seen!
I scanned the room, looking for my lifeline, our choreographer, Joe Layton. I was lucky. I spotted him between the two cameras where he said he was going to be. He wasn’t easy to see with the lights and audience members on their feet waving their arms. But I could follow his movement enough to maintain the pace. During the song, which included turns, moving the mic stand, and grabbing the mic, I had the mic in the wrong hand. I heard Joe yell, “Other hand!” Boy, he was good! But the mistakes I made through the number didn’t matter to the audience, especially when we ended the number by removing our suit coats, ripping off our clip-on ties and Velcro-fastened shirts, and firing them to the floor, revealing our blue T-shirts with the Dodger logo encrusted in rhinestones.
After inviting us over to the couch and greeting us, Johnny’s first words were, “I think people thought you were going to be bad,” which had us howling. Johnny, being gracious and a true professional, took us through an interview that gave the world a chance to know us off the field.
This was my only Tonight Show appearance. When I think of all the talented artists over the years who never got the chance to show what they could do in the national spotlight, I appreciate those moments even more.
But Wait—There’s More!
After we stopped in the dressing room for a quick bite and a taste or two of the chilled Heineken, Shep herded us into waiting limos for a trip to Carlos ’n Charlie’s, a Hollywood restaurant that was owned in part by him and Bob.
Sometime during the evening, Shep and Bob told us that the Crew was booked on The Merv Griffin Show, The Mike Douglas Show, and Solid Gold. I don’t remember the exact dates for Merv and Mike, but it was during the week of November 2–7. By the time we performed the routine on Solid Gold on Saturday morning, November 7, we had it down. Too bad, as we had taken the act just about as far as it would go.
We were booked for two holiday appearances with Norm Crosby at Knotts Berry Farm in Buena Park on December 29 and 30. Rick made the comment about just how far Norm’s career was in the toilet since he was opening for us!
The final appearance for the Big Blue Wrecking Crew was on Super Bowl weekend of 1982 as we performed the skit one more time for the Hamilton/Amvet Corporation. It was as close to being a rock star as any of us would get. To this day, every time I see the Heineken logo, it reminds me of the best time of my baseball career.
9.
Life after the World Series . . . Big Laughs, Great Times, and Transitions
Even with the schedule of the Big Blue Wrecking Crew and other promotional appearances in the winter of 1981–82, there was still time to prepare for the 1982 season. I stayed with the off-season conditioning program that worked the two preceeding seasons. Forty-minute jogs alternating with racquetball games and trips to the gym for Nautilus training and free weights became the norm in the winters from 1980 to 1984. When the Dodgers opened the doors to the clubhouse in late January, I was there to get my head start on spring training. When the Dodger plane departed Los Angeles for Vero Beach for spring training in 1982, I was ready and thinking of a World Series repeat.
All managers have a team meeting the first day of spring training
. That’s were the introductions are made of the new players, coaches, trainers, and other staff members. The next meeting occurred at the end of spring, once the rosters were trimmed. That’s the way it was with every team I played for but one. Lasorda had a closed-door meeting every morning at 9:00 a.m. Attendance in full uniform was required. He believed that when everyone was in uniform, it was time to work. His first words in the spring of 1982 were about winning the consecutive world championship. “We have to work that much harder to repeat,” he told all in the room. Personally, I couldn’t have worked much harder. But I could certainly work smarter. No more five- to six-mile runs. Instead, I ran three to four miles at a faster pace. At this point in my career, I needed to take some of the stress off my legs.
Still, these morning meetings were more fun than business. Once the business and practice schedule for the day was covered, we never knew what would happen. Sometimes, he had a rookie stand up and tell the team all about himself. More than once the kid, as nervous as hell, had to sing his college fight song. Welcome to the club!
Even in spring training there were six-dozen balls to sign every day. Tom constantly had to remind guys to sign the baseballs, as the season’s bartering was under way. One player who signed every ball every day was Ken Landreaux.
When Ken Landreaux Speaks, We All Listen
One day, after reminding us yet again to sign the balls, Tom thanked Landreaux in the meeting for being the only guy to sign them daily. “There it is every day, K. T. Landreaux,” Tom remarked. He paused, then continued, “Landreaux, I was curious about your middle name. I looked it up in the press guide and it said your full name is Kenneth Antoine Landreaux.” Now you can hear the laughs around the clubhouse. He then asked Landreaux if his middle name was Antoine. Kenny stood up and said, “Yeah, that’s right.” The laughs got louder. Puzzled, Lasorda looked at him, grabbed a ball, looked at it again, and asked, “But you sign them K.T. How in the hell do you get K.T. out of Kenneth Antoine?” The laughter was even louder. Landreaux paused and with a straight face said, “If two parallel lines mean equal and H2O can stand for water, then K.T. can stand for Kenneth Antoine Landreaux!” The clubhouse erupted in laughter. Meeting over!
Every year, Tom had to read aloud a letter from the commissioner. It’s the standard letter regarding gambling and the penalties if you’re caught. All he wanted to do was get through it. About a paragraph into it, somebody farted. He got the giggles and couldn’t recover. We’ve all been there. So he stopped and said, “Look, let me get through this.” He started from the top, read a paragraph, and somebody else farted . . . louder and longer! He laughed so hard tears filled his eyes. “Dammit, let me read this bleepin’ thing!” he pleaded. So he started again, got back up to speed, and heard guys giggling like schoolkids. He paused, fought the urge to laugh, and battled on. Finally, when he finished, we all applauded. It was probably the only time a reading of a letter from the commissioner ever received a standing ovation!
Extra Work
Among the things I loved about Dodger spring training was the chance to get extra work when the schedule would permit. When the team was on the road and I wasn’t pitching, it meant some extra BP in the cages or fielding some grounders back to the mound on one of the half fields. Because we shared the complex with the Minor League players, the Major Leaguers were invited to use the open cage at the far end of the row where the newly purchased curve-ball machine was installed. Because the baseballs used were either new or taken from the previous day’s BP, we didn’t fear a lopsided ball being spit through the rubber tires. This was the only kind of BP we saw during the spring. The other starting pitchers not in the game were great partners because we’d talk pitching and have competitive games involving bunting and situational hitting. The local kids hired to feed the balls loved us because we would tip them ten or twenty dollars for their time.
Getting grounders back to the mound was a bit more difficult because we needed a Minor League coach to hit them. My favorite coach for grounders was Terry Collins, currently the manager of the New York Mets, who was just beginning his managing career in the Dodgers’ Minor League system. Terry carried a bit of an edge with him and always worked at game speed, except one particular day. After tapping easy one- or two-hoppers back to the mound on the half field closest to the batting cages where a crowd of Minor Leaguers gathered, he asked how I was doing. I answered, “Fine, but does your husband hit the grounders in the family?”
Collins stopped, his mouth opened in disbelief, and I could see the blood rush to his face from a pulsating vein on the side of his neck. In measured words he responded to my challenge of his manhood and said, “Oooh! I think I understand now. You want some game-speed grounders, don’t you?” Boy, did I light his short fuse! The next grounder zipped past me like a bullet. Pausing to admire his work, Terry looked at me through squinty eyes and a full-beaded sweat and asked, “Is that better?” I nodded and said, “You’re getting there.” After that some I caught, some I knocked down, and others were too hot to handle. However, it was just a matter of time before I got nailed with a shot through the box. The killer shot caught me below my right kneecap, and down I went.
Terry told me years later when he managed the Angels and I was their road TV analyst that the first thing he thought of while running to the mound to see me was “I’m going to lose my job.” He paused, laughed, and continued, “Then, I hope he’s all right!” The voice of reason in my head said, “It doesn’t matter—you’re still gonna get fired!”
When he arrived he bent over and asked, “Are you okay?” I squinted, looked at him as he was silhouetted by the sun, and said, “Is that all you got?” He was ready to blow a fuse but stopped when he realized that I was working him.
His whole demeanor changed as he regained his composure. “Let’s get a drink of water, and if you want more, I’ll hit them,” he said quietly with a smile. We got that drink, took our positions, and Terry, never one to miss a teaching opportunity, stopped to talk to the crowd of Minor Leaguers who witnessed the events and told them, “Gentlemen, this is what it takes to be a Major Leaguer, hard work and then more hard work!”
After that session Terry looked forward to meeting me on the half field. If I remember correctly, he invited a few Minor League pitchers to join me during our next workouts, allowing Minor League pitchers to work alongside a major leaguer. That was coaching genius on the part of Collins. For twenty to thirty minutes, four or five players got some concentrated work as opposed to standing around waiting for a chance to bunt in the batting cages. The players Collins chose were top-notch kids who came to play, so the drill became competitive and the experience was invaluable.
At the end of spring training, I put a fine bottle of chardonnay in his locker with a note that read, “Hope the time it takes to enjoy this vintage is as enjoyable as the time we spent on the half field!”
Traveling in Style
When I joined the Dodgers in 1979, a whole new world of player travel was set before my eyes. I had heard about the Dodger plane for years. To experience the reality was something else. First, the Kay-O II, named after Walter O’Malley’s wife, was a Boeing 720B jet (the Dodgers were the first MLB team to own their own jet) configured for sixty-eight first-class seats in five compartments. Up front was a card table opposite the galley. Behind it was the section for the staff, front-office workers, and nonuniformed personnel. The players occupied the next two sections of seating, including the two card tables, which separated the players’ section from the back of the plane. Members of the press who traveled with the club brought up the rear.
How important was the Dodger plane to the organization? For the traveling party, it meant that after a game on getaway day, there was never a wait for a commercial flight or a charter that was delayed. There was never a question about the safety of the plane, as it was painstakingly cared for. The meals served on board were as good as could be found on any plane.
While other clubs traveled exclusively
on buses during spring training, the Dodgers flew to Tampa or St. Pete. It took twenty-two minutes from liftoff in Vero to landing in Tampa. The commute from Dodgertown to the beach where many players spent their spring usually took a half hour.
The Dodger plane transported entire families from LA to Vero Beach before spring training. When spring training was over, the Kay-O II returned everyone to Los Angeles if opening day was in Los Angeles. During the years the club opened on the road, families would return to Los Angeles a few days before camp broke, as the plane returned to Vero to take the team to their destination.
The plane also played a big part in the Dodger mystique. Seeing it up close and personal with the blue Dodger wordmark against the white background, it was a symbol that declared, “This is as good as it gets.”
Of course, all good things come to an end. After the 1982 season the plane was retired, as the costs of using it just couldn’t be justified. I remember Lasorda telling us that flying on a charter commercial airline like other clubs would be just as good. I knew better. And I know he did too.
Dodgertown—the O’Malley Way
Another great perk of playing for the Dodgers was spring training at Dodgertown in Vero Beach. When Dodger personnel and their families arrived in Vero Beach on the Dodger plane in late-February 1980, it marked the beginning of a new era of my baseball career. When the families exited the plane, fans from around Florida greeted us, as each player and his family were ushered to a member of this welcoming group and given the keys to a rented car and directions to the rented home or apartment for spring training. I never witnessed this kind of reception anywhere except in Vero Beach.
Although many of the players stayed off campus from Dodgertown, we were always invited to the events that marked the warm spring evenings. Once a week there was an ethnic food night in the cafeteria. Whether the theme was Spanish, German, French, Greek, or a barbecue . . . it didn’t matter, as everyone in the organization was invited. I never attended the St. Patrick’s Day celebration, but the stories over the years were legendary. When someone mentioned Christmas at Dodgertown, the O’Malley family put plans in motion for Santa to appear and hand out presents to the younger kids around the swimming pool that was decorated for the occasion with a Christmas tree and a pile of snow. There were lunches and activities planned for the families while the players worked, including a day of picking strawberries and a day trip to Bermuda for lunch and shopping for the wives on days when the Dodger plane needed to be flown.
