Bring In the Right-Hander!

by Jerry Reuss

  Mr. Sinatra (in case the suits read this book) broke into a huge smile and said, “Schwartz, Heime Schwartz!” and laughed. The hands dropped to the sides of the suits, and Tom, who broke into a sweat, started laughing and told Mr. Sinatra, “This was the one I told you about.” I went about my business after I said, “It was a pleasure to meet you as well. Thanks for stopping by!”

  “Don’t Look at the Horse’s Balls!”

  I was never one to embrace baseball superstitions. I never had a lucky piece of clothing or any kind of ritual that could turn the fortunes of a game to my personal advantage. Former teammate and broadcast partner Rick Monday once admitted on the air that he didn’t believe in superstitions. “They’re all bad luck,” he said with a straight face.

  It amused me to watch other players give in to this behavior. For example, when taking the field, many players jumped over the foul lines, as if they were avoiding a pile of dog shit. Or they would cross themselves, thinking the good Lord would bless this at bat. Never mind the fact that the pitcher could neutralize the effort by merely crossing himself!

  One universal bad-luck omen in Chicago among players on all the teams I played for had to do with viewing the statue of General Phillip Sheridan mounted on his anatomically correct horse. Located at the intersection of North Lakeshore Drive and West Belmont Avenue, it’s along the route between the downtown hotel and Wrigley Field. Looking at the horse’s balls guaranteed a prolonged slump, the legend went. The true believers were easy to spot, as their heads would turn the other way when the bus approached.

  I made it a point to check out the good general and his steed because there were a number of times those brass balls were painted in the colors of the team that preceded us. I guess other clubs had their own way of dealing with perceived misfortune.

  I didn’t worry about a Chicago slump because I thought that had more to do with players challenging the bars on Rush Street at night with a day game a few hours away. Rush Street still owns a perfect record against every player who tried to challenge it.

  The wind direction was more of a determining factor on days I pitched at Wrigley. When the wind blew in from the lake, I liked my chances. When it blew out, it could be a tough day. Overall, in the twenty-five games I pitched there, I was 4–9 with a 5.09 ERA. The wind had something to do with my numbers, but pitch location was a much bigger factor. Peeping at the horse’s balls didn’t figure in the outcome at all.9

  I remembered the tale during my three-year tenure as a Dodger radio analyst. On the way to Wrigley for a game in 2006, I viewed the monument, thought about the superstition, and chuckled. “There’s no way the legend can affect me now,” I thought. “I’m immune.”

  Around the fourth inning I came down with a case of laryngitis and couldn’t finish the game. Was it merely a coincidence? Or did the legend of the horse’s balls finally catch up with me?

  Rebounding from a Disappointing 1984

  It was a new beginning for me in the spring of 1985. Because there were no aftereffects from either surgery, I could work as I did two springs ago. At the January winter workouts, I noticed that the spikes I wore in 1984 were a size too small. My feet expanded to a larger size because I no longer had to scrunch my toes to minimize the pain in my heels. That meant all new shoes.

  It appeared the mojo had returned, as I won five games in spring training—the same total I had during the 1984 regular season. I noticed another subtle difference. My pitches lost a bit of the sharpness and velocity that I had a few years back. At the time I didn’t know if it was because of the surgery or because I was thirty-five years old and time was catching up with me. With the normal aches and pains lasting a few days longer than they did in the past, I had my answer soon enough.

  Four seasons removed from the world champs of 1981, this Dodger team had a different look, as Lopes, Smith, Monday, Garvey, Cey, and Baker were gone and Russell and Yeager were delegated to backup roles. Orel Hershiser was poised for a breakout year, as Fernando was the leader of the staff. The names in the lineup included Steve Sax, Mike Marshall, Dave Anderson, and Mike Scioscia. It was a talented group, but the team didn’t jell until we obtained veterans Enos Cabell in mid-July and Bill Madlock at the trade deadline on August 31. We finished five and a half games ahead of the Reds to win the Western Division and redeem ourselves from a fourth-place finish in 1984. Our opponents in the playoffs would be the Cardinals.

  I learned not to take a healthy season for granted. I finished with a record of 14–10, fourth best on this club.10

  “We Will Not Pitch to Jack Clark with the Game on the Line”

  When the Dodgers celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of the 1981 world championship in September 2006, they sponsored a luncheon in the Stadium Club and invited fans to participate in a Q&A session with the players, coaches, and manager. It didn’t take long for one of the fans to ask Lasorda, “Why did you pitch to Jack Clark in 1985?” Tom took the high road in his response and told the well-meaning fan, “If I’d known he was going to hit a home run, I would’ve walked him!” It brought the house down with laughter, then applause. Lasorda continued, “As manager, I’m entitled to the first guess. Everyone else gets to second-guess!” There was more applause as the program moved on.

  What’s hard for me to believe is how that one decision has, in many ways, defined Lasorda’s managerial career in the minds of so many baseball fans. In his defense let’s look at the numbers. He managed 1,599 wins (nineteenth best in Major League history), and his teams made it to the postseason seven times, the World Series four times, while winning it twice. He was elected to baseball’s Hall of Fame in 1997. Off the field he’s supported the military, numerous police and fire departments, and charities of all kinds as well as raised money for hospitals and schools. He also managed the gold medal—winning USA baseball team in the 2000 Olympics. Yet fans still want to know about Jack Clark. Tom probably doesn’t discuss it anymore, but I was there and because this is my story, I’ll tell you what I remember.11

  Prior to the October 9 League Championship Series opener with St. Louis, Lasorda, the coaches, and Dodger advance scouts held a meeting in the Dodger clubhouse to discuss in detail the tendencies of each Cardinal player. When Lasorda got to Jack Clark, he told everyone in the room that “Clark is the only legitimate home run threat on their club, and he’s especially tough in the clutch. We will not pitch to Jack Clark with the game on the line.” Lasorda paused as he scoured the room, allowing his words to sink indelibly into the minds of all in attendance.

  We won the first two games in Los Angeles, as the Cardinals took all three games in St. Louis. We had to win the next two games at home to advance to the World Series. We led the sixth game at the end of six innings by a score of 4–1.

  In the top of the seventh, the Cardinals knocked Hershiser out of the game, scoring two runs on three singles and another run against Tom Niedenfuer when Ozzie Smith, whose home run beat Niedenfuer in Game Five in St. Louis, tripled in that extra run, as St. Louis tied the game at 4–4. With Smith on third base, Niedenfuer struck out Jack Clark and Andy Van Slyke to end the threat. Niedenfuer retired the Cardinals in order in the top of the eighth. Mike Marshall’s homer gave us the lead again, 5–4, in our half of the eighth.

  In the top of the ninth, Cedeño struck out, McGee singled and stole second base, Ozzie Smith walked, and Tommy Herr grounded out to first with the pitcher covering. On the play both McGee and Smith advanced, leaving first base open and Jack Clark coming to the plate. The career matchup between Clark and Niedenfuer showed a definite advantage to the pitcher (Clark versus Niedenfuer: 17 at bats, 4 hits, 0 homers, 1 walk, and 4 strikeouts).12

  I was in the Dodger bullpen, warming up next to right-hander Kenny Howell. We were both ready to go into the game, as we looked at the scorecard with the lineups posted on the wall behind us. With first base open and Clark coming to the plate, we figured that Lasorda would walk Clark intentionally (Lasorda’s words during the meeting were still ringi
ng in our ears) and bring Van Slyke to the plate with the bases loaded and two outs. After walking Clark, Lasorda had to choose among three possible scenarios: let Niedenfuer face Van Slyke, replace Niedenfuer with Howell, or replace Niedenfuer with me. Chances are if Lasorda brought me in, Whitey Herzog would have countered with right-handed-hitting Brian Harper.13

  Both Kenny and I waited to see what Lasorda would do. There was no visit to the mound, which was curious, but when we saw Niedenfuer go into his stretch, I looked at Kenny and said, “He’s not going to pitch to him, is he?” Kenny responded, “I thought we weren’t going to pitch to Clark with the game on the line.” We watched Clark swing, and before we heard the crack of the bat, we knew the first pitch was heading deep into the left-field bleachers. We watched left-fielder Pete Guerrero throw his glove to the ground and then looked at one another in silence. What could we say?

  Clark’s three-run homer gave the Cardinals a 7–5 lead and, after a 1–2–3 Dodger ninth inning, the ticket to the 1985 World Series. By the time our bullpen crew made their way to the clubhouse, everyone else was already there, removing their uniforms as a tearful Lasorda closed the door and made an impromptu speech. “I lost it for you guys. We worked so damn hard to get here, and we lost the game like that,” he said, finally losing his composure. Hershiser stood up, put his arm around a weeping Lasorda, and told him, “We win as a team, and we lose as a team.”

  According to newspaper accounts, Lasorda handled the postgame interviews with class. He told Thomas Boswell of the Washington Post, “‘I feel like jumping off the nearest bridge,’ the Los Angeles manager said. ‘If Jack Clark makes an out, I look good. But he hits a homer, and even my wife knows I should’ve walked him.’” Boswell continued, “Sure, it was a bonehead move to let Clark hit when Lasorda had the choice of forcing Andy Van Slyke (.091 in the playoffs) to face Niedenfuer, or else making Brian Harper (.000) win the pennant against left-hander Jerry Reuss.”14

  Lasorda told the Associated Press, “I decided to pitch to Clark because Niedenfuer had struck him out in the seventh. If he had hit a long fly ball for the final out, nobody would be talking about it,” said a dejected Lasorda. “After he hit the home run, everybody in the world knows I should have walked him. If you second-guess anybody, second-guess me. I’m the guy who made the decision.”15

  Probably the most curious quote by Lasorda appeared in the Los Angeles Times. “The last three times Clark had come to the plate with a man in scoring position and first base open, Lasorda had ordered him walked. But this time, the left-handed Van Slyke was the next batter, not Cedeno. ‘If I had a left-handed pitcher up, then it would have been a different story,’ said Lasorda, who did have a left-hander ready—Jerry Reuss—but didn’t use him.”16

  Did Lasorda forget that he had me warming up when Clark came to the plate, or, while sorting through the aftermath of his decision, did he forgot that I was ready in the bullpen when Gordon Edes was interviewing him?

  Niedenfuer handled the postgame interview with the grace and class of a seasoned veteran. “I’m proud that I have the ability to be the person on the mound in that situation. . . . I wanted to succeed . . . but I failed. . . . [I]n about four days, I’ll start working out, trying to improve for next year.”17

  I liked Lasorda’s first guess on a possible Clark scenario during our preseries meeting. “Don’t pitch to Clark with the game on the line.” That was my opinion in that meeting, and it hasn’t changed over the years. Lasorda second-guessed himself when he decided to pitch to Clark. However, though I didn’t agree with Tom in choosing to pitch to Clark, I respected and supported his right as a manager to make that decision.

  The World’s Most Expensive Hot Dog

  Lunch at one thirty or two just didn’t always carry me through the rest of the day. The peanut butter and jelly or baloney in the food room at the ballpark just didn’t satisfy my craving. I needed something more substantial. I needed a concession-stand delicacy, the spicy dog (otherwise known as a heart attack in a bun) with a huge squirt of mustard.

  Of course, the best time to get them was around the second inning, when I was supposed to be on the bench. No problem. I gave Mitch Poole, who was a clubhouse attendant during my Dodger years and is the current Dodgers equipment manager, five dollars, which meant one for me and one more for him. I came into the clubhouse during the bottom of the second inning and found my treat under my jacket. I went to my hiding place on the stairs just outside the clubhouse and took my first bite. It was a little taste of heaven—at least it was until the clubhouse doors opened and Lasorda caught me.

  “That’s twenty-five dollars!” he says matter-of-factly as I chewed my spicy dog. “You know, you could buy a steak dinner at Chasen’s for twenty-five dollars.” I didn’t say a word. I got caught. What could I say?

  Tom headed to the food room, made a gigantic baloney sandwich, and came out talking while he’s eating. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but I knew it was more about the fine. Finally, he had to swallow. So I told him, “At least if I spent twenty-five dollars at Chasen’s for a steak dinner, I could eat it in peace. I’ll have the fine on your desk before I go home. I’ll see you on the bench in five minutes . . . assuming you’re finished by then.” He looked at me, looked at his half-pound of baloney, and shook his head as I headed to the dugout.

  After the game I went in his office to pay the fine. He told me, “Keep it. If I fine you, I have to fine me for doing the same thing.” “Thanks,” I told him, understanding that the rules applied to everybody. “Next time, find a better hiding place,” he said with a smile as I walked away.

  Where Else Could You Get a Dozen Pizzas for Fifty Dollars?

  While waiting at the Montreal gate for our charter return to Los Angeles, Lasorda remarked that we would have to stop in Chicago to refuel. I could see he was annoyed, so I thought I’d stoke the fire. “So, what’s the problem with Chicago? You’re big there, aren’t you?” I asked him. “I’m big everywhere,” he shot back. “What’s it to you?” I returned the volley, “How big are you?” He fired a verbal knockdown in a voice loud enough for everyone in our travel party to hear, “How big do I need to be?” He had everybody’s attention and made a big deal out of it. “Are you big enough to have a dozen pizzas delivered to the plane when we land?” I asked, setting the hook. “That depends,” he said. “How much you wanna bet?” I pulled out my wallet and saw a crisp, new fifty-dollar bill, the last remnant of the meal money passed out ten days ago. “I got this brand-new fifty-dollar bill if you think you can do it,” I told him with a tone of challenge in my voice. He smirked and said, “I wouldn’t think of doing this for less than a hundred dollars. But, because it’s you, nothing would give me greater pleasure than taking that fifty dollars from you, you smartass!” So now the trip to Chicago had a real purpose.

  When we landed at O’Hare and pulled up to the gate, I’ll be damned if there wasn’t a kid out on the tarmac with a mountain of pizza boxes in his arms, waiting for steps to be pushed to the plane’s front door. Once the steps were in place, the door opened and the kid with the pizzas entered.

  Lasorda greeted him, grabbed the microphone, and called me up front. “I bet Reuss fifty dollars that I could have a dozen pizzas delivered when we landed here. I want him to pay up in front of all of you!” he announced boldly. I happily gave him the fifty dollars, grabbed the mic, and told everybody, “Where else could you get twelve pizzas for fifty bucks? The food’s on me, everybody. Enjoy!” To my surprise the cabin filled with applause. I shook Tom’s hand, grabbed a few boxes, and distributed them to my appreciative teammates as I made my way to my seat, accepting high-fives the whole way. It took Tom a few minutes to realize he had just been had.

  “I Can Start or Pitch Out of the Bullpen”

  In spring training of 1986 with many of my contemporaries from the 1981 world championship club playing elsewhere, I knew instinctively my days as a Dodger were numbered. With Valenzuela, Hershiser, Welch, Honeycutt, and Pena
all younger (Honeycutt, at thirty-two, was the only starter, besides me at thirty-seven, who was over thirty years old), I heard the whispers of the Los Angeles media.

  At first the questions were subtle. “Do you see your role as changing now that you’re the elder statesman?” “Do younger players ask you for advice more than ever before?” I tried a simple “No, not really” answer to both questions, and it may have appeared in print as “As the elder statesman of this club, I don’t see my role changing,” or “Young players aren’t asking me for advice any more this year than in other years.” It was more of the same old shit. I didn’t make a big deal out of the manufactured quotes because I learned by this time to pick and choose my battles.

  However, when the questions pointed to a possible trade, I decided to have some fun with it. “Did you know there were scouts watching you pitch today?” was a question asked on a daily basis from a number of different writers. “Really?” I asked in mock amazement. “I hope they liked what they saw. By the way, who was here?” And they gave me a list from their notes. So I kept a list for myself.

  If I remember correctly, nearly every team saw me pitch that spring. In fact, I met the writers in the pressroom after a game (something players weren’t allowed to do) with a notepad and pen to record the names of the teams and the scouts. I commented about a team or a scout, “Hey, he’s their top guy. I’m flattered!” or “How much would it cost the Dodgers to have them take me?” The writers liked the exchange because (1) they didn’t have to walk in the locker room, ask a question, and wait for a response and (2) it was better than the yes and no answers.