by Jerry Reuss
I told Gordon Edes of the Los Angeles Times that I suspected the Dodgers were actively trying to trade me. “There are three signs you’re about to be traded,” I said. “One, Al [Campanis] says there’s no trade in the making; two, Lasorda says he loves you like a son; and three, you get your meal money one day at a time!” At least these quotes were my own.18
This kind of exchange continued into the season. Writers from across the country read what their counterparts were writing, and when the team came to town they were ready with their own questions. “Do you feel as if you’re auditioning for your next job?” was one question I heard. “Would you waive your no-trade clause for a deal with [name the club]?” was another. Mind you, I didn’t mind the attention. It’s just that nobody wants to deal with this kind of attention. It forced its presence in the clubhouse and made everybody uncomfortable.
My way of handling a situation like this was to do something so off the wall that it would remove the tension and make life fun for me, as well as my teammates. Timing was essential. The baseball gods presented me with the perfect opportunity on May 6, 1986, in Chicago. Both the Cubs and the White Sox had home games scheduled with the Dodgers and Yankees, respectively. It was one of those rare occasions when the true Chicago baseball fan could enjoy an afternoon game at Wrigley and a night game at Comiskey. It was also a chance for me to pull off one of my best pranks in front of baseball writers from three major markets.
After we lost a tough game to the Cubs on a Leon Durham walk-off homer in the ninth, I sat at my locker and answered questions from the Chicago writers about trade rumors. Someone brought up the Yankees as a possible trade partner and that they were playing the Sox tonight, and suddenly I thought this was the perfect stage.
Rick Honeycutt had the locker right next to mine. So I asked him, “How far is Comiskey from here?” Rick had spent his first four years in the majors with Seattle and the next three with Texas before he joined the Dodgers in 1983. He said, “It’s not that far, maybe a half hour by cab. Why?” “I think I’m going to trade myself to the Yankees,” I told him.
“You what?” Rick asked. “Yeah, I’ll pack my bag with towels and walk right into the Yankees’ clubhouse and tell Piniella I’m now a Yankee,” I boldly told a confused Honeycutt. “You think you can just walk into the Yankees’ clubhouse and pull this off?” he asked as his interest was piqued. “I can . . . and I will!” I answered, as the idea now became a personal challenge. “Mind if I come along?” he asked, as he started laughing. “I gotta see this!” “I insist on it,” I told him. “After all, I need someone to point me to the visitors’ locker room at Comiskey,” I answered matter-of-factly.
In a where no man has gone before scenario like this, it’s prudent to do one’s homework. Not knowing Lou, except by reputation, I wanted to get an idea of how he might handle it. Lou was in his first year as a manager, and he had just been suspended for two games. And it was only May. So I went to the best source I knew, Tom Lasorda!
I walked into Lasorda’s office while he was eating, which meant every man for himself. “Hey, Tom,” I asked while keeping a distance from his fork. “What do you want?” he growled with his mouth full. “How well do you know Piniella?” I asked. “He’s Italian [actually, he isn’t], ain’t he? He’s gotta be a good guy!” Tom answered, spewing with every word. “Why all this interest in him?” Lasorda asked.
I told Lasorda my plan. He stopped eating and started laughing. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch! It’s not enough that you torment me every day, now you want to bleep with a manager from another team,” he said. “What the hell! Go for it. If I tell you not to do it, you’re gonna do it anyway!” he said shaking his head. “Now, get your ass out of here,” he said as he shoveled another bite in his mouth. Because this was the way most of my visits to his office ended, I figured I had his blessing.
I went back to my locker and packed my travel bag with towels. Honeycutt asked me what Lasorda said. “He told me to go for it! And he thinks it’s a great idea! Personally, I think he hopes Lou will keep me,” I told Rick. We made our way through the Wrigley faithful, bag full of towels in tow, and jumped into a cab.
Rick’s directions to the visitors’ clubhouse at Comiskey Park were on the mark. As we got out of the cab and I grabbed my overstuffed bag, he told me, “I can’t believe you’re going to do this! This is going to be great,” he said with the excitement of a kid anticipating Christmas morning. I took a deep breath and said, “Show time!”
We walked to the clubhouse door, and I told the guard, “Hi, I’m Jerry Reuss, and I just got traded to the Yankees.” He looked at the Dodger bag draped over my shoulder and said, “Welcome to the American League!”
Rick and I entered the Yankee clubhouse that was full of players, coaches, and reporters, as the team had just come off the field after batting practice. The players were in various stages of undress as I walked in, and I asked in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “Which way is Lou’s office?” As I walked ten to twenty steps to the manager’s office, I saw the looks on the players’ faces that seemed to ask, “Now what the hell is going on? Who the bleep is he and [most important!] who’s gone?” I heard a voice from the coaches’ area, say, “Goddammit! George [Steinbrenner] told me he’d let me know when he made a deal! Look at this shit! No bleepin’ respect!”
Lou’s door was closed. I knocked, and a voice from behind it told me to come in. There was Lou, putting on his underwear, as he was suspended and wouldn’t be dressing for tonight’s game. I approached his desk, held out my free hand, and introduced myself. “Hi, Lou. I’m Jerry Reuss. I can start or pitch relief for you. I’m proud to join the Yankee organization,” I said with such complete earnestness that even I believed it. He shook my hand and said with a puzzled look on his face, “I know who you are. What the hell is this about?” I threw my bag on his desk as papers started flying in every direction. “Well, the Dodgers were in town playing the Cubs, and they told me after the game that the deal was made,” I told him, absolutely loving the exchange.
Lou was getting annoyed. “What the bleep are you talking about? Nobody told me about a deal with the Dodgers!” “Lou, I’m just going by what I was told. I’m shocked that you, the manager of the Yankees, knew nothing about this,” I responded sincerely. “Oh, I’ll find out what this is about, you can bet on that!” he muttered as he continued to dress.
He turned his back and muttered something that sounded like “Bullshit!” and “Dammit!” One look in his eyes as he turned to face me, and I knew that slow burn was turning to a boil. It was time to come clean.
I opened my bag to expose the towels. He looked at me rather confused. So I told him the story, beginning with the trade rumors. When I finished he looked at me, smiled, and shook his head just like Lasorda did.
“You went through all of this as a joke?” he asked. He laughed and said, “You know, you would fit in here.” “I appreciate your sense of humor,” I told him as I stood up and zipped the bag. “You have a game. I better get out of here.” I grabbed the bag and made my way to the door. “Like hell you will!” he barked. “This is the first laugh I had in a while. Sit down. I’m suspended. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll let you know when you can leave,” he told me. (What is this “stay-leave” power trip with managers and umpires?)
When I finally left Lou’s office, there was Honeycutt laughing his ass off. “You wouldn’t believe what happened while you were in there,” he told me with a glimmer in his eye. “I told them what you were doing with Lou, but only after I told them about the deal. You wouldn’t believe the reaction. I couldn’t keep a straight face,” he told me. “Let me tell you about what happened with Lou,” I said with a big smile on my face.
We exchanged our stories as we walked out of the clubhouse, through the gates, and to the curb. We looked at each other and started laughing again as we waited for a cab to take us back to our hotel. I asked Rick, “Are you hungry? Let’s get something to eat.” I paused. �
��I thought that went well!”
1986: The Beginning of the End of My Dodger Days
As I approached my thirty-seventh birthday, my body was in the process of betraying me. Muscle soreness stuck around a few days longer, and I had to back off my training. Because of knee problems, I missed my first start in spring training. I missed another start because of a sore throat.
Probably what mattered most was that I couldn’t fully straighten my left elbow because of a bone spur that developed after the bone-chip surgery of 1984. That caused a lack of feel in my fingertips when I released a pitch, which affected the movement and command of my pitches. Although I pitched some good games, I struggled through the All-Star break. I tried everything to get the finish on my pitches, but nothing seemed to work. So Dr. Jobe and I decided the bone spur had to go. I had surgery on July 22. The estimated time for return to action was five weeks. As that five-week period came to an end, my elbow still wouldn’t straighten, and I was nowhere near ready to return.
I was in the training room before a night game at Dodger Stadium when Al Campanis called and wanted to talk to me. This was the only time I can remember Al wanting to talk to a player in the training room. If Al wanted to meet with a player, coach, or manager, he would hold the meeting in the manager’s office.
He got right to the point. “Jobe told me you’d be ready in five weeks, and the trainers tell me that won’t happen. What gives?” Calmly, I told Al, “I’ve been in the training room every day since I was released from the hospital doing everything the trainers tell me to do. But you already know that, Al, because you read their daily reports.” That’s not what he wanted to hear. Al, with frustration in his voice, said, “This is what I know! Jobe said five weeks. The trainers said they’re doing everything they can possibly do, and you’re still not ready.” He paused as if to carefully measure what he wanted to say next. I wouldn’t let him speak because I knew where he was going. He wanted to pin the blame on me.
Choosing my words carefully, I responded to Al, “I’m here every day before any of the other players get here and begin the work prescribed for me by the trainers. I precisely complete every set of exercises while they watch. I ask every day if there’s any more that I can do, and every day they tell me not to overdo it. When I finish my work in the training room, I’m on the field, keeping my legs in shape. Now, if you have anything in mind that would get me back into action any quicker, I’d like to hear it.” With his frustration turning to anger, Al told me, “I’ll get to the bottom of this!” And with that he hung up.
When Dr. Jobe arrived at the park before the game, I gave him a heads-up regarding my conversation with Al. With the patience of Job, he explained that the five-week recovery period was just an estimate and he would tell that to Al later that evening. I never heard from Campanis again on the matter.
I had two more appearances in 1986. One was in relief on September 12, and the other was a start against San Diego on the twenty-fifth. I took myself out of the game after giving up just a run in four innings because of the pain in my left elbow. It was a fitting end to a most disappointing season. At the start of the year, I envisioned winning fifteen to eighteen games. By the end of the season, my concern was if my elbow would heal well enough to continue pitching. I would get my answer in the spring of 1987.
Cast from the Garden of Eden
After my first tosses during the Dodgers’ winter workouts in January 1987, I knew the inflammation was absent from my left elbow. After elbow pain in 1984 and 1986, I renewed my appreciation of throwing without pain. There were still adjustments to be made in my workout regimen. Running on hard surfaces caused lower-back stiffness and pulled calf muscles. The Dodgers purchased a device called a Versa-Climber that was featured in one of the Rocky movies. Using the climber, I could control my cardio output at varying resistance without stressing my legs and lower back. I liked it so much I bought one for my personal use.
On December 10, 1986, the Dodgers traded first baseman du jour Greg Brock to Milwaukee for Tim Leary and Tim Crews. Leary, who would turn twenty-eight years old in March, was 12–12 in thirty starts in 1986 and was immediately plugged in as the Dodgers’ fifth starter going into 1987. Returning from shoulder surgery after nearly two years of rehab was Alejandro Pena, who would turn twenty-eight in June. Pena was also being considered for that fifth starter spot. That put me, at age thirty-seven and coming off a disappointing 1986, into the position of fighting for a spot on the roster.
That wasn’t a problem for me. After eighteen years in the Majors, I knew that one day I would be in this situation, so I was prepared for it. Heading to Vero Beach, my concern was the same as always, getting ready for the season. I had no control over the decision-making process. Determining the roster was the job of both Campanis and Lasorda. Keeping this focus also kept me from looking over my shoulder at both Leary and Pena. I never wanted to be in a position of wishing ill will on a teammate to improve my status. I wanted the job because I earned it.
The sportswriters who followed the club on a daily basis didn’t quite see it that way. The competition for the fifth starter job became a subplot for the spring of 1987, and Leary, Pena, and myself had to answer questions about it on a daily basis. I explained to everyone who asked that my performance spoke for itself. After a good outing I told reporters that everything was heading in the right direction. After a struggle I told them it was part of spring training. When speculation of a possible trade was brought up or the possibility of pitching in relief, I said that decision was above my pay grade. I said, “I’m not going to deal with what-ifs. I’d rather deal with what is.”19
All spring both Campanis and Lasorda were noncommittal about the fifth starter spot. If believing what one read in the sports section carried any weight, consider what Al said in early March. “When the club acquired Leary from Milwaukee, Al said that Leary and Pena would battle for the final spot. What about Reuss? Campanis now says he considered Reuss a candidate all along. And Campanis said Reuss is looking the best he has seen him in more than a year.”20
With two weeks remaining in spring training, Campanis was quoted again: “Right now, we’re disappointed in Reuss. His stock is pretty low. There has been little trade interest, but it’ll probably cost us some money if we make a deal.” The story, reported in the Los Angeles Times, went on to mention Al’s trip to the pressroom at Dodgertown to deny the quotes. “Why would I say this?” an angry Campanis said. “I’ve been in the game too long to do that. That would be a ridiculous statement to make, especially if we’re trying to trade him.” Responded Matt McHale, the Star-News reporter who wrote the original story, “I had my pen out and was writing down every word.” Later in the article, both Lasorda and Campanis agreed that I was pitching well, allowing just four earned runs in eleven innings.21
After pitching the equivalent of eight innings in a loosely constructed intrasquad game due to a rainout of the scheduled game, I was asked to evaluate my performance. “It’s a good question—but to the wrong person,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Ask Al or Tom—their opinions are the ones that matter.”
When pressed with a follow-up question of what I thought they thought, I responded, “I can’t read their [Lasorda’s and Campanis’s] minds. Ask them.” So the reporters did just that. Al, still stinging from his remarks of the previous week, simply stated, “He threw better today.” Lasorda told them, “I thought he pitched good.”
Continuing the he said, she said drama, I was asked what I wished for (more of the same old shit, asked a different way), I told them, growing weary of this game for the past six weeks, “I tell you what I wish: I wish I could go out there and pitch without worrying about my job or the supposed competition with my teammates. But it hasn’t been that way. I’m not thinking about my situation out on the mound or in the clubhouse. I only think about it when somebody brings it up.” I built up a nice head of controlled steam. “You have to keep in mind that spring training is preparing yourself
for the season,” I said. “It shouldn’t be for me to pass judgment. The way it’s been presented to me—and the way you guys [reporters] see it—is that every time I put on a uniform I have to prove myself. All of that [evaluation] is subjective [and others will determine] whatever decision will be made. It’s not my decision.”22
As was the custom during my days with the Dodgers, spring training ended with the Freeway Series against the crosstown Angels back in Southern California. The Dodgers usually waited until the completion of these exhibition games before announcing the opening-day roster. As the script of this drama would have it, both Leary and I pitched against the Angels on that final Sunday, April 5. Tim pitched quite well, allowing no runs and no hits in four innings of work. I gave up a run on two hits in four innings.
As a result, the Dodgers optioned outfielder Reggie Williams to Albuquerque and kept all three of us (Leary, Pena, and myself) and a rookie pitcher by the name of Brian Holton. Eleven pitchers on a roster of twenty-four players (from 1986 to 1989 teams had the option of keeping a roster of twenty-four or twenty-five players) meant little room for maneuvering by a manager who loved to make numerous changes. The opening-day roster was a temporary solution. A permanent solution would come only after a bombshell interview would cost a respected member of the Dodger front office his job and his career.
The Nightline Interview and My Release from the Dodgers
On April 6 Al Campanis appeared on ABC’s Nightline. The club opened in Houston, and Al, who had been traveling all day, agreed to appear on the show, coinciding with the fortieth anniversary of Jackie Robinson’s debut with the Dodgers. It was the exchange with show host Ted Koppel regarding the lack of blacks in significant positions in baseball that led to Al’s ultimate dismissal. Once the story of Al’s comments reached the newspapers, it became evident that he would be asked to resign his position of general manager.
Peter O’Malley asked Fred Claire, then the club’s executive vice president, to take over the duties of the general manager. Fred wanted full authority of the baseball operations, and Peter gave it to him. Fred immediately made his presence known. First he addressed the players to let us know that he was in charge. Then he met with the press for the first time as GM.
