Bring In the Right-Hander!

by Jerry Reuss

  Jim retired as an active player on June 1, 1978, as the Angels offered him the manager’s job. He managed the Angels until 1981. After a five-year absence from the field, he managed the White Sox from 1986 to 1988. Once I made the club I was looking forward to the opportunity to play for him.

  I made two starts to begin the season. Because the schedule had some off-days, I made my next appearance in relief against Oakland on April 22 in Chicago. Starter Jack McDowell allowed a leadoff double and a walk, as the A’s led 4–3 in the eighth inning. With lefty Dave Parker the next batter, Jim came to the mound and called me into the game. I retired Parker on a weak grounder back to the mound. With Mark McGwire the next hitter and a right-hander warming up in the bullpen, Fregosi came out to make a pitching change.

  When he got to the mound, I handed him the ball. He looked at me and said, “Now it’s my mound!” I looked at him and said somewhat befuddled, “What?” “You heard me. Now it’s my bleepin’ mound!” he said defiantly. Suddenly, I remembered our Pittsburgh blowup and started laughing. Catcher Mark Salas looked at both of us like we were nuts. “What the hell,” I said. “Jim, that happened eleven years ago. You told me to forget about it,” I reminded him. “Yeah, I told you to forget it, but I didn’t,” he responded.

  Because Jim hadn’t signaled for the righty, Larry Barnett, the home-plate umpire, came to the mound and asked him what he wanted to do. “I want the right-hander, Larry,” Fregosi told him. Larry called in the reliever from our bullpen located in center field. Now it was a party of four. Salas asked Fregosi, “What’s this about?”

  As we had some time, Jim told him the story. “We played together in Pittsburgh, and one game, I came in from first base to talk to him while he’s struggling, and he tells me to get off his bleepin’ mound.”

  So Barnett asked me, “Did you really say that?” I answered him somewhat sheepishly, “Yeah, I did.” Wanting this meeting to end, I looked at Fregosi and asked if I could leave. Fregosi looked at me and said, “Oh, no, I waited all this time, so you just wait here until I tell you to go.” So, there I stood, as Jim paused to relish the moment. “You can’t believe how I prayed that you had something left and could make the club. I dreamed of having to make this pitching change. If nothing else happens this season, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of finally getting your ass!” he said.

  By this time Salas and Barnett were laughing their asses off. John Pawlowski, the right-handed reliever who arrived from the bullpen, stood right beside me and wondered what the hell was going on. Fregosi gave the ball to Pawlowski, looked at me, and said, only as a man who finally got his revenge could, “Now, you can leave.” I swear I remember Barnett, who couldn’t resist, adding, “Will ya get off his bleepin’ mound, for chrissakes! We got a game to finish!”

  I went 13–9 with a 3.44 ERA for a Fregosi-led team that had a record of 71–90 and finished fifth, thirty-two and a half games behind the division-winning Oakland A’s. Considering all that happened in 1987 and what I had to do to get this job, 1988 was one of the most satisfying years in my career.4

  Where’s the Sammy Doll?

  The Sox didn’t rehire Fregosi, and Jeff Torborg took over as manager in 1989. Jeff had spent the previous ten years with the Yankees, and our paths crossed briefly during the 1981 World Series. Jeff told Jerome Holtzman of the Chicago Tribune one of the reasons he wanted to join the Sox is because of “the focus on the young arms. I’m intrigued by the young pitching staff and by the direction Larry Himes has taken the club. It’s not an easy course, building from the bottom, but that’s the way you have to do it.”5

  Jeff was right about the course not being easy. At the All-Star break, the Sox were 32–56, in last place, twenty-one and a half games out of first place, and we just lost our last six games. We opened the second half of the season at Comiskey against the Brewers. On my way to the clubhouse, I spotted a concessionaire setting up a display of bobblehead dolls. When the heads moved, it reminded me of the neck twitches of our pitching coach, Sammy Ellis.

  So I bought one of them, but it wasn’t ready for the clubhouse. I had one of the clubhouse attendants purchase some white paint and proceeded to match the hair color of Sammy. Of course, the pitchers loved it! Sammy sneered when he saw it and said, “You oughtta be concerned with getting opposing hitters out!”

  I brought it to the bench before the game with the Brewers and placed it between Jeff and me on the dugout steps during the national anthem. The doll had its place of honor on the bench, as we beat the Brewers to end the losing streak.

  As luck would have it, we swept the four-game series against Milwaukee and won the two games against the Yankees for a sweep of the home stand and a six-game winning streak. Standing between Jeff and me during the anthem and observing from his dugout perch during the six games was the Sammy doll.

  I packed the doll carefully for the three-game series in Boston, but a piece broken from the head needed repair. We won the first game against the Red Sox on a brilliant effort by Melido Perez and Bobby Thigpen to run our winning streak to seven games. Sammy watched from the bench, as a Band-Aid held the broken piece in place. I bought some glue the next day and repaired the broken doll, but kept it in the clubhouse as the game started.

  Boston was leading 6–4 at the end of six innings when Jeff, standing at the home-plate side of dugout, suddenly turned and scanned the dugout. He immediately stood in front of me and asked, “Where’s the doll?” Surprised, I answered, “It’s in my locker.” Jeff looked at me and said, “It doesn’t belong there. That doll belongs here during the game. Go get it!”

  There’s a long tunnel that separates the dugouts from the clubhouse at Fenway. I was on my way when Jeff shouted into the tunnel, “Hurry up!” So I ran to my locker, grabbed Sammy, and returned to the bench just as the seventh inning began. As soon as the doll was in its place, Dave Gallagher singled, Steve Lyons doubled him to third, and after a strikeout by Harold Baines, Ivan Calderon homered to give us the lead. We scored three more runs in the eighth and eventually won the game 10–6.

  Walking off the field after I congratulated my teammates, Jeff grabbed my arm and told me, “The doll stands between us during the anthem and stays on the bench until I say it goes.” I started laughing. “I’m serious. You’re responsible for it,” Jeff said sternly.

  Jeff knew a good thing when he saw it. With the Sammy doll becoming a part of the team, we won eleven of twelve games. It was our best run of the 1989 season. But all good things must come to an end. We lost four of our next five games, and on July 31 I was traded to Milwaukee.6

  Déjà Vu All Over Again

  July 31, 1989: Traded by the White Sox to the Brewers for Brian Drahman

  I didn’t pitch anywhere near as well in 1989 as I did in 1988. After winning opening day in Anaheim, the wheels again fell off the wagon. By the end of May, I was 3–2 with a 6.94 ERA.

  After a four-game stint in the bullpen, I came back to the starting rotation and sported a 5–3 record with a respectable ERA of 3.53. It was good enough for the Brewers, whom I’d beaten earlier in the year, to pick me up in a deal for Minor Leaguer Brian Drahman, who eventually pitched parts of four years in the Majors.

  November 8, 1989: Released by the Milwaukee Brewers

  I couldn’t get on track with the Brewers. I pitched well in a game at Detroit but was removed because I pulled my right hamstring. While rehabbing the injury in Milwaukee, I pulled the other hamstring. I came back too early and had to be removed from a game twelve days later in the first inning. Then there was an eighteen-day trip to the disabled list.

  When the smoke cleared, I ended up 1–4 for the Brewers. My time in Milwaukee was like Cincinnati and Anaheim two years earlier: it showed some promise but ended in disaster.7

  Sarasota Stopover

  March 1, 1990: Signed as a Free Agent with the Chicago White Sox

  With another bad taste in my mouth, I still wanted to finish my career on my terms. I still believed there was som
ething in the tank and I could help somebody. Now that I was forty years old with injuries that led to trips on the disabled list and a poor 1989, Jack called the White Sox, who issued another invitation as a nonroster player. The agreement was that I was an insurance policy for any of their five starters (Melido Perez, Eric King, Jack McDowell, Greg Hibbard, and Jerry Kutzler) if they couldn’t start the season, and I would be given enough innings to land a job elsewhere if their starters were healthy.

  I pitched well in one start and stunk up the place in my next start. With teams trying to pare their rosters and an unimpressive showing, no one was interested, However, I heard there was an opening with Houston in their bullpen.

  Two More Minor League Stops

  April 3, 1990: Released by the Chicago White Sox

  April 14, 1990: Signed as a Free Agent with the Houston Astros

  I met the Astros before a game in Lakeland, Florida, and threw in the bullpen. Art Howe, the manager and a former roommate with the Pirates, and Bob Cluck, the pitching coach, watched the session. They liked what they saw well enough to recommend signing me to a Minor League contract. Because there were no open spots in Triple AAA Tucson, they asked me to go to Double A ball in Columbus, Georgia. I made the commitment over the winter to give this one last chance all I had.

  May 14, 1990: Released by the Houston Astros

  I did well in Columbus, so the Astros sent me to Tucson. Instead of kids in their early twenties and a manager and pitching coach younger than I was, I joined a team of veteran guys like myself, who were just looking for one last chance. I wouldn’t find it in Tucson. I was released after ten days.

  One Last Chance

  July 7, 1990: Signed as a Free Agent with the Pittsburgh Pirates

  Still determined to find a spot, I returned home and continued workouts. I did my weight work at the La Canada YMCA, played catch and threw off the mound at Glendale City College, and did my cardio work on the Versa-Climber I had at home. Also, I played first base on Wednesdays and pitched on Sundays for the Pasadena Redbirds.

  Ed Roebuck, a former Dodger reliever and then a scout for the Pirates, watched me work one Sunday and sent in a recommendation to sign me. I threw in the bullpen for Pirates general manager Larry Doughty and Pirates manager Jim Leyland when they were in Los Angeles in early July. Once again, an impressive effort in a bullpen session got me signed to a Minor League contract. This time, my destination was Buffalo, New York.

  The Pirates were in the process of winning the National League East when I joined Buffalo in mid-July. Once again, I was an insurance policy if the Pirates needed a pitcher and no one in the farm system was ready. Healthwise, I was in great shape. My arm was 100 percent, and the leg injuries from 1989 were gone. It showed when I arrived in Buffalo.

  I pitched in ten games for the Bison and had a 4–4 record with a respectable ERA of 3.52. There was also a streak of twenty-four consecutive scoreless innings,8 and there was a start in which I went seven innings using seventy-four pitches, sixty-two of which were strikes. The command that was absent since 1988 finally returned.9

  While pitching this well, I knew there would be an opportunity for a call-up to Pittsburgh. It came on August 6. The Pirates needed a starter for a game in Philadelphia. I pitched eight innings two days earlier, so the timing wasn’t right. The Pirates called up Randy Tomlin from Double A Harrisburg. Tomlin, in his Major League debut, threw a complete game, giving up a run on five hits. This game earned him a spot in the Pirates’ rotation for the rest of the year.

  On August 8 the Pirates traded for left-hander Zane Smith in a four-player deal with Montreal. The reason they went after Smith was because of his record against the Mets, who were battling the Pirates for the National League East championship. It turned out to be a great deal for the Bucs, as Smith was 6–2 with a 1.30 ERA in eleven games during the stretch run.

  The next chance was August 17 in Cincinnati for a split doubleheader. The Pirates’ plan was to call up a pitcher and send him back the next day. They chose another rookie, Mike York, who pitched seven shutout innings in this game, his Major League debut. York was on the Major League roster, which made the move routine. If Pittsburgh had called me up, someone would’ve been removed from the roster, and I would’ve had to clear waivers to return to Buffalo.10

  Touching the Brass Ring One More Time

  There wasn’t a need for another pitcher in Pittsburgh as the season in Buffalo came to an end. Chuck LaMar, the Pirates’ farm director, was in town to see the club and make selections for the September call-ups. Initially, I wasn’t on the list. So I had a meeting with Chuck to find out why. “Chuck, when I signed with the club, I was told I would get a chance at the Majors if I could still do the job. Well, I did the job. There were two times that I could’ve been called up to pitch in a doubleheader but wasn’t. I can accept that. I can understand why the club dealt for Smith. What I can’t understand is why I won’t be given a shot during the stretch run.”

  Chuck was willing to look at my situation. He called Terry Collins (yep, the same Terry Collins from my years with the Dodgers), then the Buffalo manager, into the office and asked for his opinion. “He did the job here and earned a call-up,” Terry said frankly.

  Chuck called general manager Larry Doughty and went to bat for me. “I want to ask you about Reuss. He’s done a helluva job here,” Chuck told him. Sitting next to Chuck and not hearing Larry’s side of the conversation, I can only assume the questions he asked by hearing Chuck’s answers. “Yes, sir, Terry thinks he can help us,” Chuck said. There was a pause for Larry’s question. “Based on our reports, I think he can help us,” Chuck replied. There was another pause, and this one would determine if my baseball career was over or if it would continue in Pittsburgh. “Yes, sir, I’ll tell him,” Chuck said and hung up. “Larry said to add your name to the list of call-ups. Congratulations!”

  With a smile on my face, I told Chuck, “We only met for the first time today, yet you went the extra mile for me. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate it!” I turned to Collins and said, “Thanks for everything.” Terry looked at me and said, “Hell, you deserve it with the way you worked and performed here.” I gave Terry a hug and a few back slaps before heading for the locker room to pack my equipment.

  I was part of a group of six or seven players who made the one-hour flight from Buffalo to Pittsburgh the next morning, September 7, to join the Pirates in Pittsburgh. It rained the whole trip, and when we landed in Pittsburgh I had doubts if we would play that night, the series opener against Montreal.

  We went from the airport to the Pittsburgh Hilton to check into our rooms. I had a quick lunch and walked to the ballpark. I worked my ass off to get back to the big leagues, and I didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

  Walking from the opening in center field toward the dugout, I noticed the turf had been updated and the walls were painted a blue color, as the park looked the best I’d ever seen it. When I arrived in the home clubhouse, I noticed some of my Buffalo teammates were already there, unpacking their gear and hanging their clothes on laundry racks in the middle of the clubhouse as space was at a premium. I guess I wasn’t the only one who wanted that taste of the big leagues.

  I didn’t see my name above any of the lockers, and as I grabbed my equipment bag a voice from the past approached from behind me. “Jerry, step into my office!” It was Hoolie, who was still handling the chores as the clubhouse manager.

  We walked into the laundry room, and I told him, “Hoolie, always good to see you.” “How long has it been since you’ve been in this clubhouse?” Hoolie asked. “Spring of ’79. That was a lifetime ago,” I answered. “Look, I don’t want you dressing in the middle of the clubhouse with the kids. There’s a spot in the corner to hang your stuff, if you don’t have a lot of it,” Hoolie said. “Hey, I’m glad to be here. And I appreciate the thought. I’ll take the spot. Just point me to it,” I said. “It’s right there,” he said as we walked out of the laundry room. “
Right there between Bonds and Bonilla!” he pointed. It was a pie-shaped area, with the opening maybe a foot wide. I looked at him as he looked at me. We both started laughing. “I’m gonna love this. Hope they have a sense of humor!” I said. His face suddenly was serious. “They don’t,” he said with some resignation as he lit a cigarette and walked away.

  I grabbed my bag and walked across the locker room to my hole in the wall, while Barry and Bobby were having a deep conversation. They looked up as I approached. “Guys, I’m Jerry Reuss. The space between your lockers will be my home for the next month,” I said as I held my hand out. They had a confused look on their faces and broke out in big smiles as they put their hands out. We shook the handshake of players who never met but had a mutual respect for one another.

  “We were just talking about you. We thought you were with ESPN. We had no idea you were still playing!” Barry laughed. They couldn’t have been nicer. They cleared the area, and Bobby said, “If you need anything, let me know.” I imagined many different scenarios for this moment, but I would’ve never dreamed that two of the game’s biggest stars would welcome me to their corner!

  There was no batting practice because of the rainy weather, but the pitchers still had their work to do. I changed clothes, put on a Major League uniform once again, and made my way down a path that was familiar territory more than eleven years ago. Just walking down the same hallway to the field brought back a number of memories. This time, they were all good. I even passed the spot I kicked that damn bucket. I would have never guessed back in 1979 that I’d make this walk in 1990.

  A Four-Decade Player

  A sidelight to finishing my career on my terms was adding my name to the list of players playing in four decades. Four contemporaries of mine accomplished the feat earlier in 1990: Carlton Fisk, Nolan Ryan, Rick Dempsey, and Bill Buckner. It’s an asterisk beside our names that said we played at the Major League level for at least twenty-two years.11