Bring In the Right-Hander!

by Jerry Reuss

  Now it was time for business. Because the Dodgers were carrying eleven pitchers, they found themselves short a position player. After the Thursday afternoon home opener in which third baseman Bill Madlock injured his shoulder, Fred had to make a move. He was aware that Mickey Hatcher, who had come up through the Dodger system and played all outfield positions as well as first and third bases, had just been released by the Minnesota Twins. It made perfect sense to sign Hatcher to replace Madlock.

  Fred called me at home around ten that Friday morning and asked me to meet with him before I went to the clubhouse. Instinctively, I knew that this wasn’t a social call. He was ready to make a roster change that involved me. So I asked Fred, “Rather than have me wait for four or five hours wondering what this call is about, would you mind if you told me over the phone?” He hesitated a bit and then said, “Okay, I can understand that. Jerry, we decided to give you your release.”

  After Fred got those words out, my reaction was much like that of a death in the family. I still heard Fred talking through the receiver, but my heart raced and my mind wandered as the reality set in. I heard him say, “If you want, we will be more than happy to arrange a press conference for you . . .” My mind was still elsewhere.

  During the past winter, through the winter workouts at the ballpark, continuing through spring training, I prepared myself for the moment my days as a Dodger were done. I considered the possibility of a trade (I had a no-trade clause—remember how that worked in Pittsburgh?), perhaps a release, which gave me control over choosing my next team, or retirement, which gave me control over the rest of my life. During those moments I could take the probability only so far.

  Until that day of reckoning arrived, I didn’t really know how I’d react. I just didn’t imagine that the reality over my release after all the time I spent considering the various options would hit me like this.

  “Jerry, would you like me to have Steve Brener [the Dodgers’ publicity director] call you?” Fred was still on the line. “Fred,” I said, as I kept my composure and snapped back to the moment, “if you could have Steve call me in a hour or so, I’d appreciate that.” I continued, “Also, thanks for telling me now.” Fred, making his first roster change since becoming general manager, continued, “Jerry, you earned the right to make that choice. If I don’t see you today, I still want to say thank you for all that you’ve done for the Dodgers in the eight years you were part of this club. And I wish you the best in whatever your future holds for you.”

  I hung up the phone and told my wife what had transpired on the other end of the line. We sat quietly for a few minutes as we allowed the news to sink in. Then we got down to business on my first day as an ex-Dodger, calling family members and close friends and telling them what had transpired before they read about it in the newspaper or heard it mentioned on TV.

  When Brener called I told him I’d pass on the press conference. I also told Steve that I wouldn’t come to the park that day. I remembered the three previous times I was traded and how awkward it was walking into the clubhouse, gathering my equipment, and saying the good-byes. I also remembered how painful the interviews were, and I didn’t want a comment made at an emotional time destroying eight great years with the Dodger organization.

  For me, going to the park that day would have been baseball’s equivalent of the corporate ritual of an employee at work called into a superior’s office, fired, told to clean out his office or desk, and then escorted from the premises. No one should ever have to face that indignity. Instead, I told him, “Steve, thanks for your willingness to handle this, but I prefer to take some time to determine my future privately.”

  I called David Wright, the Dodgers’ equipment manager, and asked if I could come into the clubhouse on Saturday morning to clean out my locker and write him a check for his services. I was there before noon, before anyone else showed up. I cleaned out the locker that I used for eight years, grabbed some of my bats and some baseballs, and paused a moment to look around one more time. I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to everybody, so I erased the chalkboard near the coaches’ offices and wrote,

  Guys,

  Thanks for the memories!

  JR

  It was simple, direct, and definitely not awkward. I put everything into a shopping cart and made my way through the tunnel that took me past the bullpen to the parking lot. I returned the cart to a spot near the batting cage, per David’s request.

  Eventually, I spoke to all of the media members who were interested in a conference call on April 22 after I agreed to terms on a Minor League deal with Cincinnati. The first question came from Gordon Verrell of the Long Beach Press-Telegram. “I speak for all of us in this room when I ask you why you didn’t return any of our phone calls since your release,” he said. I responded, “Gordie, in fairness to all of you, I couldn’t return one phone call and not speak to the rest of you. Besides, I needed time to determine my future. I chose not to have a press conference on the day the release was announced because I wanted to forego a media circus.” It was the truth, and I believe they understood.

  Asked if I was disappointed, I answered, “I have no anger, no malice toward the Dodgers whatsoever,” I told them. “It was a great eight years.” To the Los Angeles media, I said, “I consider you guys friends, at least to the extent that I can do so.”23

  10.

  Hits, Misses, and Whistle-Stops

  To this day, I consider Fred Claire a good friend. You might be asking, “Why? Isn’t he the guy who released you?” That’s true. But it’s what he gave me in the process that’s had a huge impact on my life.

  In the early 1990s while working as an analyst for ESPN, I was assigned a Friday-night game with Chris Berman featuring the Dodgers in Atlanta. The next morning I upgraded to a first-class seat on the first flight back to Los Angeles. Stepping onto the plane with just a few minutes to spare, I placed my carry-on in the overhead section, and while looking at my assigned window seat I spotted a familiar face in the seat that was next to mine. It was Fred.

  With newspapers and books spread neatly across his lap, he was jotting notes on a legal pad when he saw me. We exchanged hellos as I got settled. The jet taxied to the takeoff position while Fred continued his work. As I sat there I thought, “This can be a miserable five-hour trip, or I can make it a trip to remember.” So I looked at Fred and said, “I owe you a huge thank-you!” That got his attention.

  He put his pen down, turned to me with a smile on his face, and a perplexed look in his eyes. “How so?” he asked. I told him, “For years after I joined the club, I would introduce myself as Jerry Reuss, pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers. After my release, I introduced myself as Jerry Reuss . . . with no qualifier! It dawned on me that I was Jerry Reuss before I ever played a game of baseball, and I’m still Jerry Reuss now that my playing days are over.” Fred was still with me as I continued, “In effect, when you gave me my release, you also gave me something that I was missing for years. Fred, you gave me . . . ME!”

  Fred had a smile that was wider than that of the Chesire cat from Alice in Wonderland. He looked at me and said, “Then I guess it really was a good deal!” We both laughed. Fred put away his books, turned to me, and said, “So, bring me up to date.” It turned out to be the best trip ever from Atlanta to Los Angeles.

  Whistle-Stops

  April 18, 1987: Signed as a Free Agent with the Cincinnati Reds

  The Reds were willing to give me a shot, but they wanted me to pitch in Triple A Nashville to show if I still had anything left. I pitched well enough at Nashville to warrant a start against the Tigers in Detroit during an exhibition game. I gave up a run in six innings, and the Reds added me to their roster.

  June 14, 1987: Released by the Cincinnati Reds

  The game against the Tigers was the highlight of my time with the Reds. I was 0–5 with an ERA of 7.79 before the Reds released me. When Pete Rose, who managed the Reds that year, called me into his office to tell me the news, he
told me he didn’t want to release me. He thought I needed some time, but the Reds were struggling and needed help with their rotation.

  Back to California

  June 19, 1987: Signed as a Free Agent with the California Angels

  While my wife and I packed our Cincinnati apartment, I got a call from Mike Port, the general manager of the Angels. Mike asked me if I was still interested in playing. After being released twice in two months with a trip to the Minors, I was grateful for any opportunity. So, after I threw in the bullpen for manager Gene Mauch a few days after my release from the Reds, he was satisfied with what he saw, and I signed with the Angels.

  I shut out the Royals on eight hits on June 21 in front of an Old-Timers Day crowd of 47,797 for my first American League win. It was my first complete game since September 21, 1985, and the first shutout since August 11, 1985, against the Reds. It was also my biggest highlight that season.

  I won my next two starts against the White Sox and Cleveland, but it was a struggle after that. My elbow was slow responding to the 1986 elbow surgery, and the arm strength just wasn’t there. I ended up 4–5 with a 5.25 ERA at thirty-eight years old. The Angels were 75–87 and looked to move in a different direction without a number of veteran players. I was one of them.

  How miserable was 1987? Let’s see. I was released twice, spent time in the Minor Leagues for the first time since 1970, told no thanks by the Angels after the season, and, for good measure, released by Adidas, the shoe manufacturer with whom I had an exclusive contract since 1979, because I missed time on a Major League roster. My confidence took a beating, but I believed I could help some team if my arm strength returned.

  Retooling

  November 9, 1987: Granted Free Agency

  During the off-season I contacted Ken Ravizza, a sports psychologist at Cal State—Fullerton, to help rebuild my mental approach. I met Ken during my time with the Angels, and we went to work immediately. I drove to Fullerton once a week for sessions that began in his office and, later in the winter, ended on the ball field. Gradually, my confidence returned, and I was able to focus on my work, specifically on the part that I could control, locating my pitches. Between the time on campus, pitching a few innings in Sunday league games for the Pasadena Redbirds, and altering my off-season workouts (I was no longer able to work out in the winter at Dodger Stadium as I had since 1980), once again I was a man on a mission. All that remained was to find a team that would give me a shot.

  Another Change in Status

  March 29, 1988: Signed as a Free Agent with the Chicago White Sox

  In early February my agent, Jack Sands, was able to secure an invitation for me to attend the Chicago White Sox spring-training camp. My status was nonroster invitee. That simply meant there were no promises made and I could be released at any time without any financial consideration. All that concerned me was a chance to show I could still pitch.

  It took some work on Jack’s part because Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf was a force in the ongoing battle with the Major League Players Association and was aware of my involvement with the association over the years. Once Jerry was convinced those days were over, he had a plan in mind that could benefit both of us . . . if I could still pitch.

  Jerry, my wife, and I discussed my future with the White Sox in the early part of spring training during dinner at a Sox function. Anytime a person came to our table with a bottle of champagne, it definitely got our attention. This was how he laid out the Sox future. “We’re rebuilding here. Our plan is to sign the best amateur players we can through the draft and scouting in Latin America and bring them through our system. If and when they make it to our Major League club, we’ll build a club around them with players from other organizations until we find a winning combination. A few years ago we picked up Tom Seaver,1 who was in a situation much like yours,” Jerry explained.

  Seaver was 5–13 with a 5.50 ERA in 1982 with the Reds and 9–14, 3.55, with an encore stop with the Mets in 1983. At that point in his career, he had 266 wins. After a pair of unimpressive seasons, he was made available in the free-agent compensation draft. The Sox believed he still had something to offer and picked him up.2

  “Before Seaver signed with us, I told him what I’m about to tell you. We’re not going to win with you or without you. We’re rebuilding, and I believe that having a veteran presence with your stature would be invaluable to the development of our younger players,” Jerry said.

  Jerry turned his focus on me. “My people tell me you have a makeup similar to Seaver, and we’re willing to repeat this scenario with you.” Jerry waited for my response. “Jerry, I’ve been in this game for over twenty years, and no general manager, or owner, for that matter, ever laid it out as honestly as you just did. Thank you for your candor, and I accept,” I answered. “Good. I hope it works out,” Jerry said. “Because if you make the club and do well, I plan to trade you to a contender for more prospects. It’s win-win, as you’ll have another chance to play in the postseason.” After Jerry said good-bye, I told my wife, “That’s a class act. If I make this club, this will be a fun year.”

  I had to sacrifice salary arbitration, a hard-fought right negotiated during my years as a player representative, for a chance to play. Had I pressed the issue with Reinsdorf or notified the Players Association about losing the right, my career would have been over then.

  Also, I could have a single room on the road, but I had to pay the difference from the double-room rate. I asked Jerry why he insisted on players sharing a room on the road. He was willing to give me bonuses that were in the six-figure range but wouldn’t pay a few thousand a year for a single room. Reinsdorf answered this way: “It’s not about the money. I believe it’s beneficial for players to room together.” I thought for a second and asked, “Okay. How about if we do this? Let’s rewrite that clause and say, if you trade me, that the receiving club will give me a single room on the road.” He paused, looked to the ceiling, and said, “Yeah, I like that. We can do that. In fact, I’ll use that for other contracts,” he said with a smile.

  I Tell Ya, I Get No Respect!

  As spring training approached the last week, my status was undetermined when I was scheduled to pitch against Toronto in Dunedin on March 27. While standing behind the protective screen in the outfield and talking to catcher Carlton Fisk, a ball thrown in from right field smoked me in the back. Fisk saw who threw the ball and yelled out to right field, where Ken Patterson, a rookie left-hander who came over from the Yankees in a trade in August 1987, stood by himself.

  “Watch where you throw the ball!” Fisk yelled. Patterson answered, “Tell that white-haired asshole to get out of the way!” Fisk and I looked at one another in disbelief. “Did he just call me an asshole?” I asked. “That’s what I heard. That’s no respect,” the future Hall of Famer replied. “You know, I got more years in the big leagues than he has days. I earned that respect,” I said with a laugh. So we called out to Patterson and asked him to join us for some veteran advice. Once he arrived Fisk told him, “Hey, you can’t call another player an asshole unless you’re prepared to fight. More important than that, you can’t ever talk to a veteran player with that lack of respect.” Patterson, nodding his head during Fisk’s lecture, finally spoke. “You’re right. That definitely was a lack of respect. What I should have said was, ‘Watch out, Mr. Asshole!’” He then ran back to his spot in right field as Fisk and I stood there in disbelief.

  Even with the exchange with Patterson, I did pitch well that day. I went six innings, allowing a run on four hits. My performance convinced the White Sox to sign me to a Major League contract the next day.

  The manager, a former teammate from Pittsburgh, Jim Fregosi, called me into his office the next morning to tell me I made the club. “Congratulations and welcome to the club!” he said with a smile. “At this point, you’re the fifth starter, so when I skip your turn when we have an off day in the schedule, I can use you in relief.” I didn’t care how he used me. I made the club, and
I had the chance to purge 1987 from my life.

  Get Off My Mound

  Not many people are aware that Jim Fregosi was a six-time All-Star from 1964 to 1970 before he was traded in December 1971 to the Mets for four players, one of whom happened to be a pitcher by the name of Nolan Ryan. After two and a half years in New York, he was sold to the Rangers. The Pirates picked him up in June 1977 for Ed Kirkpatrick. That’s where I first met him.

  The Pirates used him to spell an aging Willie Stargell at first base and to pinch-hit. Jim saw a lot of action after joining the club, as the Pirates played seven doubleheaders from June 19 to July 17. I started the game versus the Cardinals’ left-hander, Pete Falcone, as did Jim on July 6 in Pittsburgh.

  I was struggling early that season, losing my first five decisions, and was 3–9 with a 4.13 ERA going into this game. Add my antisocial disposition on days I pitched to my season-long frustration, and you know something was going to spill over.

  I had a 6–1 lead going into the seventh inning. A ground out, two singles, and two walks preceded my exit.3 Somewhere between the hits and walks Jim, who was playing first base, came over to the mound and tried to be the calming veteran influence and help me get through the inning. I was in no mood to hear common sense. I looked at him and said, “Get the hell off my mound! If I wanted to hear your shit, I’d invite you here. Besides, have I ever called time out during one of your at bats, come out of the dugout, and talked to you? Hell, no!” Jim looked at me and, with his calm demeanor, said, “Seems like you got everything under control,” and went back to his position.

  Surprisingly, we were still on speaking terms after the game. He told me to forget about it when I later apologized for my behavior. He was the bigger man, as I forgot about it. He didn’t.