by Bruce Nash
One day, after going hitless in five at-bats, he walked out of the clubhouse shower in deep thought. Standing nude and wet in front of his locker, he unthinkingly put on his hat.
His teammates broke out in laughter at the sight of the sopping wet slugger wearing nothing but a fedora. Simmons didn’t find it at all funny. He quickly dressed and left the clubhouse without saying a word.
The next day, Simmons busted out of his batting doldrums by going 4-for-4. After the game, he stepped out of the shower, walked wet and naked to his locker, and put on his hat. And he continued the ritual the rest of the year. Having finally found his “barings,” he finished with a batting average of .322.
WILLIAM “BILLY GOAT” SIANIS
Fan · Chicago, NL · October 6, 1945
No fan has left such a lasting curse on a team as William “Billy Goat” Sianis. Miffed that the Chicago Cubs refused to let his pet goat watch a World Series game at Wrigley Field, Sianis put a hex on the Cubs that they would never win a championship.
The curse has remained ever since (through the 2011 season).
In 1943, Sianis, a Greek immigrant who owned the Lincoln Tavern near Chicago Stadium, rescued a goat that had fallen off a truck. He kept the goat and named him Murphy. Although Murphy lived in a pen behind the tavern, the pet often wandered into the bar, where it begged swigs of beer from the patrons. Meanwhile, Sianis grew a goatee, gave himself the nickname Billy Goat, renamed his bar the Billy Goat Tavern, and took his goat around town for publicity.
As a loyal Cubs fan, Sianis was thrilled when Chicago won the pennant and faced the Detroit Tigers in the 1945 World Series. With the Cubs up two games to one, he paid $7.20 for two tickets to Game 4 at Wrigley Field—one for himself and one for Murphy. Sianis thought the goat would bring his favorite team good luck.
Before the game, Sianis paraded Murphy outside the ballpark with his pet wearing a sign that said, “We Got Detroit’s Goat.” But as game-time neared, the ushers refused to let him take Murphy into the stands because the ballpark banned animals. According to the tavern’s own historical account, this is what happened next:
Outraged by the ban, Sianis appealed to Cubs owner P. K. Wrigley who, after listening to him, told the ushers, “Let Billy in, but not the goat.”
“Why not the goat?” Sianis asked.
“Because the goat stinks,” Wrigley replied.
Sianis’s goat getting the bootChicago Tribune
Sianis was so upset that he threw his arms up and exclaimed, “The Cubs ain’t gonna win no more! The Cubs will never win a World Series so long as the goat is not allowed in Wrigley Field.” Having officially cursed the team, he tied up Murphy to a post in a parking lot and then went into the ballpark to watch Chicago lose 4–1. The Cubs then dropped two of the next three games and lost the Series.
Sianis, according to the tavern’s account, promptly sent Wrigley a telegram that said, “Who stinks now?”
It was the last time the Cubs, who had not won a World Series since 1908, even appeared in the Fall Classic.
UNIFORM NO. 15
Detroit, AL · 1948–1950
Pain and suffering—and near tragedy—plagued any Detroit Tigers player who, between 1948 and 1950, dared to wear No. 15.
Relief pitcher Johnny Gorsica was the first Tiger to fall victim to the uniform number from hell. After compiling a 2–0 record in 1947, the seven-year veteran donned No. 15. He immediately suffered arm problems and was promptly released. Gorsica never pitched in the Majors again.
Before the start of the 1948 season, fellow hurler Art Houtteman was the next Tiger to put on the jinxed number. Houtteman, coming off a fine 7-2 season in 1947, was looking forward to a great year. Instead, he lived a pitcher’s nightmare—by losing his first eight games.
By June, Houtteman was desperate to switch uniform numbers with any willing teammate. At first, he couldn’t find a taker because, as fellow pitcher Dizzy Trout told him, “That number’s no good.”
However, George Kell, Tigers third baseman and team captain, scoffed at the thought the uniform number was jinxed. “I’ll switch numbers with you, Art,” said Kell. “I don’t believe in all that stuff about bad luck numbers.” So Kell swapped his No. 21 for Houtteman’s No. 15.
The hurler finally recorded his first victory of the season after the number switch. But Kell wasn’t so fortunate. During a game against the New York Yankees, a line drive off the bat of Joe DiMaggio smashed into Kell’s jaw and sidelined the Tiger for the final month of the season. The skeptic turned into a believer in the black-cloud powers of No. 15 and refused to wear it again. “Too much tough luck goes with it,” said Kell. “I don’t want any part of it.”
At spring training the following year, Houtteman gave Kell back his old uniform number and put in a request for a new number. To his shock, the pitcher was handed his old No. 15. He put up a tremendous howl until the club offered to give him a different number. But because new uniforms weren’t going to be ready for two weeks, he reluctantly agreed to wear No. 15 temporarily.
Nine days later, Houtteman lay close to death in a Florida hospital with a fractured skull after a collision between his convertible and a tractor-trailer. He survived the near fatal accident and returned to the mound two months later—but with a different uniform number.
Tigers first baseman Paul Campbell, a five-year Major Leaguer, was the next player foolish enough to wear No. 15. Campbell didn’t have it long. He was sold to a minor league club early in the season and never played in the bigs again.
To end the curse of No 15, team trainer Jack Homel packed the uniform in an old trunk. By the time the number was worn again years later, its alleged evil powers had vanished.
KEVIN RHOMBERG
Outfielder · Cleveland, AL · 1982–1984
Superstition was literally a touchy subject for Cleveland Indians reserve outfielder Kevin Rhomberg.
He believed that if anyone touched him, he had to touch that person back—a peculiarity that some would say was a compulsion that made him a favorite target for practical jokes.
“He wouldn’t let anyone touch him last,” said Milt Thompson, a 13-year National League veteran who played against Rhomberg in winter ball. “Sometimes his teammates would gang up on him and then run in different directions. He’d go crazy trying to touch them all back.”
Cleveland teammate Rick Sutcliffe once reached under a bathroom stall to touch Rhomberg on the toe. Not knowing whom the culprit was, Rhomberg went around the clubhouse and touched each player.
Another teammate, pitcher Bert Blyleven, once touched Rhomberg while they were together in a car. Then at the next stoplight, Blyleven bolted from the car and ran off. According to the Associated Press, Rhomberg’s wife, Denise, pleaded with Blyleven. “Let him touch you or he won’t sleep all night.” Blyleven did.
Rhomberg, a player with a touchy superstitionNational Baseball
Hall of Fame Library
If Rhomberg was tagged out while running the bases, he’ d wait until the end of the inning and then, as the teams were trading sides, he would chase down the player who’ d touched him.
As word spread in the Majors about his weird superstition, “it seemed like half the American League tried to touch him,” said former teammate Rick Manning. An umpire once halted play during a game in New York to tell Yankees players to stop touching Rhomberg.
“The fans got into the act too,” Manning recalled. “They sent Rhomberg letters saying, ‘You touched my letter—I got you last.’ So he’d write back so he could be last.” Rhomberg would write, “This constitutes a touch.”
In the minor leagues, Brook Jacoby once tagged Rhomberg with a ball and threw it out of the stadium. Rhomberg spent two hours looking for the ball before finding it.
During a winter game in Venezuela, Rhomberg was at bat whe
n his teammate, Chicago Cubs infielder Danny Rohn, ran up behind him, touched him on the back, and dashed into the clubhouse to hide. “He looked for me for two hours,” Rohn recalled in the Seattle Times. “I was hiding under desks, in the shower, the bathroom. He couldn’t find me.”
But Rhomberg had a plan for the touch-back. He was staying in the same hotel as Rohn. So Rhomberg got up at 3:30 a.m. and knocked on Rohn’s door. When the sleepy player opened it, Rhomberg touched Rohn’s hand and ran off.
Asked to explain his superstition, Rhomberg said at the time, “I don’t know why I do it. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”
MIKE CUELLAR
Pitcher · Baltimore, AL · 1969–1976
When Mike Cuellar pitched for the Baltimore Orioles, he was the most superstitious pitcher in baseball.
His every move on and off the diamond involved a series of never-changing rituals. The four-time 20-game winner was convinced that his strange routines had given him a special, favorable rapport with Lady Luck.
On his way to the mound, he leaped over the top dugout step and avoided the foul line—a superstition practiced by many players. But after each inning, he walked into the dugout, placed his glove on the “lucky end” of the bench, stopped at the water cooler for a drink, then retreated to the runway for a cigarette. He kept smoking until the first Orioles hitter was retired—whether it was 30 seconds or 30 minutes later. Then he tossed the cigarette away, returned to the dugout, picked up his glove, and sat down in a special place on the bench. If Baltimore manager Earl Weaver inadvertently was sitting on that spot, Cuellar would make him move.
Whenever the Orioles catcher made the last out of the inning, Cuellar wouldn’t budge from the bench until the catcher had put on his shin guards. Once on the mound, the pitcher wouldn’t allow anybody to throw him the ball to start his warm-up tosses. He had to pick it up off the ground, circle the mound, and then walk up to it from the second base side before he was ready to warm up.
Long aware of Cuellar’s eccentricities, Cleveland Indians outfielder Alex Johnson devilishly tried to disrupt the hurler’s rigid routine during a game on May 26, 1972, in Baltimore. After catching a fly for the last out of the third inning, Johnson slowly carried the ball back to the infield. Timing his arrival with Cuellar’s approach to the mound, Johnson tossed the ball to the Orioles pitcher. Cuellar ducked just in time and let the ball roll free. Helpfully, the bat boy retrieved it and threw it to the pitcher. Once more, Cuellar dodged the tossed ball, which dribbled toward first base. Momentarily forgetting his teammate’s superstition, Orioles first baseman Boog Powell threw the ball squarely at Cuellar, who was forced to catch it in self-defense.
Convinced the ball had been tainted, Cuellar flipped it to plate umpire Bill Haller and asked for a new one. The ump obliged and threw the desired replacement to the mound. Again, Cuellar sidestepped the toss. The new baseball trickled dead near second baseman Bobby Grich, who finally showed the proper respect for his pitcher’s superstitious beliefs. Gently, Grich rolled the ball to the mound. After it came to a complete rest, Cuellar picked it up, satisfied now that no evil spirits had invaded his place of business.
In the next inning, Alex Johnson again caught a third-out fly ball and sought a repeat performance as he returned to the infield, ball in hand. Johnson’s intended victim would have no part of it, however, and remained in the Baltimore dugout until his Cleveland tormentor lobbed the ball to Powell. This time Powell rolled the ball to the mound. Only then did the hurler walk back onto the field.
Cuellar had a few other rituals. The night before he pitched, he always ate Chinese food. On days he was slated to start, he arrived in the clubhouse dressed from head to toe in blue—blue shirt, blue tie, blue suit, blue socks, and blue shoes. He also drove to the ballpark in a blue car.
He always wore the same Orioles cap when he pitched. On the morning of September 6, 1974, hours before he was scheduled to start in Cleveland, Cuellar realized he had left his lucky hat back in Baltimore and refused to pitch without it. So the team secretary arranged for a courier to put it on the next flight to Cleveland. The hat arrived just minutes before game time.
Feeling confident now that he had his lucky hat, Cuellar threw a complete-game five-hit shutout.
MATT ANDERSON BOBBLEHEAD
Detroit, AL · 2002
When Detroit completed a three-game sweep of the Texas Rangers on Matt Anderson Bobblehead Day on May 19, 2002, the Tigers bullpen crew came to the conclusion that the doll of their fellow reliever possessed some sort of supernatural power that would bring them good fortune.
That’s because during the series, they had placed the bobblehead between the team’s two bullpen mounds at Detroit’s Comerica Park. The relievers had done their part to preserve the three victories against the team that had swept them a week earlier.
So with their good luck charm in place, the Tigers went on and took three straight from the visiting Cleveland Indians.
After a disappointing road trip—in which the bobblehead had been left behind—the Tigers returned home. On June 3, they faced the first-place Boston Red Sox. With their treasured Matt Anderson bobblehead doll to inspire them, three Detroit relievers combined to shut out Boston for six and a third innings in a 7–6 come-from-behind victory.
In the bottom of the first inning the following day, Tigers leadoff batter Ramon Santiago blasted a home run over the wall in right-center field to tie the game at 1-all. That should have been a good thing. But it wasn’t—at least not to the Detroit bullpen corps. The ball landed right on top of their favorite bobblehead and broke it.
According to Danny Knobler of Booth Newspapers, the relievers went into a panic. “They called the dugout and asked for a trainer,” Knobler was told by Tigers manager Luis Pujols.
Horrified that their lucky bobblehead was seriously injured, the relievers fell apart. Four of them combined to give up six runs on eight hits in six and a third innings in a 10–5 beating. After the game, Detroit’s bullpen coach, Todd Maulding, told Knobler that the bobblehead was given some ice to treat the injury. Declared Maulding, “He’s okay.”
But the Matt Anderson bobblehead doll wasn’t okay . . . and neither were the Detroit Tigers. They dropped the next six games. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Matt Anderson—the pitcher, not the bobblehead—ended up on the 60-day disabled list.
ANGER
MISMANAGEMENT
For the Most Hotheaded Meltdowns of All Time,
The Baseball Hall of Shame™ Inducts:
BURLEIGH GRIMES
Pitcher · New York, AL · June 18, 1934
New York Yankees hurler Burleigh Grimes was such a hothead that he once threw a beanball at the on-deck hitter!
Batters trembled just looking at Grimes. Nicknamed “Ol’ Stubblebeard,” he didn’t shave before games because his thick whiskers blackened his glowering face, which he felt made him look more intimidating. But he didn’t need facial hair to strike fear into batters.
The menacing right-hander believed he owned the inside part of the plate and any hitter foolish enough to trespass in his space would face a duster. Grimes, who hit 101 batters in his 19-year career (mostly with Brooklyn and Pittsburgh), once nailed six batters in a two-inning span.
One hit batsman who doesn’t show up in the stats is fellow Hall of Famer Goose Goslin.
In a game against the visiting Detroit Tigers, Grimes came on to pitch in the sixth inning with the Yankees ahead 5–4. He gave up a screaming line drive single to Goslin but otherwise held the Tigers in check until the ninth inning when they scored two runs to win 6–5.
Ol’ Stubblebeard pitching a fitNational Baseball Hall of Fame Library
While warming up in the final frame, the volatile pitcher noticed that Goslin was swinging his bat in the on-deck circle while intently watching Grimes’s delivery—much too inte
ntly as far as the hurler was concerned. On his next warm-up throw, the terrible-tempered Grimes low-bridged the Tigers slugger with a fastball.
“Goose was so eager to get back up there and bat that he was inching out of the batter’s circle,” Grimes explained after the game. “So I let him have it.”
FRANK LACORTE
Pitcher · Houston, NL · May 26, 1982
Burned up over a lousy pitching performance, Frank LaCorte stalked off the mound and into the clubhouse and torched his uniform.
In a home game against the Montreal Expos, the Houston Astros relief pitcher came on to start the 10th inning of a scoreless tie. But after a groundout, he loaded the bases on three walks. LaCorte, who had yet to win a game that year, was summarily yanked. By the time LaCorte plopped down in front of his locker, his reliever, George Cappuzzello, gave up a run-producing sacrifice fly and a three-run home run for a 4–0 Astros defeat.
Because LaCorte was charged with the loss, he was flaming mad and had to do something to vent his rage. After several previous poor outings, he had destroyed the clubhouse trash cans and broken teammates’ bats. This time he stripped off his uniform, pulled out a book of matches, and set fire to his jersey.
Slumped over the charred remains, LaCorte told reporters, “That jersey took a long time to burn. It took a lot of matches. It doesn’t burn easily but it burns long.”
Then he requested a new number from the club. He didn’t want number 31 anymore because he was tired of running up so many 3-and-1 counts. He received a new number, 27, and a new jersey—along with a $250 fine for burning his old uniform.
The new number didn’t help much. LaCorte won only once all year.
