If These Walls Could Talk

by Jerry Remy

  I’ll never forget that. I didn’t know it at the time but the farm director, Tom Sommers, told me when I made the big leagues: “You were on your way home because nobody was behind you. We saw you, you were well behind. We didn’t think you had the tools.” I finally got to talk to Kenny—well, you didn’t talk much to Kenny. Kenny did a lot of talking to you. He was like a roving instructor so if we had a 7:00 pm game he had me out there at 10:00 in the morning just working on hitting, working on everything. He was tough but he was a great teacher. He did teach me how to play professional baseball. It was tough, but it made me tough.

  I was on the Idaho Falls team and they optioned me to a team in Twin Falls, Idaho. That was one of my first real challenges, being on a team my first year with a bunch of guys who got optioned off their teams. I almost quit during the season and then after the season when I went back to Somerset. I told my father, “This is not for me. I’m going with a bunch of optioned players on some shit team.”

  He talked me out of quitting. He said, “Well, try to hang in there for a couple more months.” Things started turning around for me a little bit.

  I was way off everybody’s radar screen. I didn’t know at the end of that season whether I’d be back or not. I had no clue, but I made it through. I started in Stockton, California, and I did not have a good year. I struck out more than 100 times. I couldn’t believe I struck out that much. I wasn’t a swing-and-miss guy. The only fun part about playing in that league was my roommate, Danny Briggs, and I were also the clubhouse managers. We’d stay after the game and drink a few beers. We’d clean the clubhouse, clean the spikes, get the uniforms washed, and we’d pick up a few extra bucks from the players to do that. I think meal money in those days was like $5 a day or something. We had one trip when we missed the team bus but we had the uniforms. We were going to Bakersfield and we had to jump in Danny’s car and drive and we were well behind the time we’re supposed to be there. We had all the uniforms in the back of a Volkswagen. We pull into the ballpark in Bakersfield and the manager, Mike Stubbins, was standing out there in his underwear with his arms folded as we pull up in this VW bug. And we just handed out the uniforms and oh, was he pissed. We played that night but it wasn’t a good all-around year for me.

  The next year they sent me to Davenport, Iowa, which was A-ball. And that’s where things started to take off for me. That’s the year that I led the league in hitting with a .335 average and I caught the attention of the minor league organization. Davenport was right on the Mississippi. Early in the season the river would flood so the ballpark would get half-flooded in right field. And they used to put a rope up and anything over the rope was a ground-rule double if it landed in the water. If it went over the fence it was a home run. We even had games moved to a high school field because of the flooding. But that’s where I ran into Dave Collins, who was my roommate and always remained a good friend of mine, and we played together and made the big leagues together. We had an absolute ball. Collins and I used to get up in the morning and we’d call the ballpark to ask whether the game was going to be rained out. If they weren’t going to play, we were going to have a hell of a day.

  In addition to leading the league in hitting, my other skills started to develop, too. I became a decent second baseman. I could always run. It finally felt like they thought they had a real prospect. At least a player who could play Triple-A or Double-A. I’m not sure they were even thinking of the big leagues at that time. I was never a real smart base runner as far as being able to pick up stuff from pitchers. I got more experience as I got older, but at that particular time I just relied on flat-out speed. We had a lot of fast guys in the Angels organization. Collins was another guy who could fly. We kind of all gravitated toward that style of play. And I think the more that we did, the more we all learned and actually got better. That helped get me to the big leagues.

  My parents and my girlfriend, Phoebe, came to Davenport to watch me play for the first time in the minors. Back then there was no Internet, so other than me telling them how I was doing, there was no easy access to my stats. In those days you had to get The Sporting News to see what the players were doing. My grandfather was so tough that every time I’d call him I told him I had a great week. I’d never tell him how bad things might have been. As far as he knew, I hit 1.000 and never made an error. I was more honest with my parents but my calls home were always upbeat and positive about the way things were going no matter how they were going.

  The next year they moved me to El Paso, which was Double-A. I had Dave Garcia as a manager there. I was also leading that league in hitting and then about the last six weeks they called me to Triple-A. I didn’t have enough at-bats to win the Double-A batting title. But Garcia is the first guy who made me believe that I was going to be a big-leaguer. This all happened pretty quickly, from going to almost released to all of a sudden having Garcia say, “You’re going to be a big-leaguer.”

  I remember him coming up to me one day and saying, “Let me ask you a question. Who runs better, you or Denny Doyle?” Denny was a second baseman for the Angels.

  “I do.”

  “Who’s got more range, you or Denny Doyle?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Who hits better, you or Denny Doyle?”

  “Well, I led a couple of leagues in hitting. I think I do.”

  “Well, what makes you think you’re not going to be in the big leagues?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  In those days in Double-A, you couldn’t see the big leagues. It’s not like today where you have a bunch of guys in spring training camp and where you at least get a taste of what the big leagues are like. We didn’t know any of the big-leaguers. It was all minor league. You never smelled anything that had to do with major league baseball. But there was a lot more teaching and time spent learning the game.

  Garcia worked me pretty hard. He would take me to the outfield and make me throw long to strengthen my arm to help me on pivots to get a little more on my throws. He was the best. He was a pure backer of mine. Kenny Myers continued to do his thing when he’d come into town. And so, I started to gather some people behind me who were pushing me. I eventually got called up to Triple-A Salt Lake City with about four to six weeks left in the season. Norm Sherry was the manager there. I found Triple-A so different because the attitude was terrible. It was like a collection of the players who had been in big leagues but had been demoted. They were all pissed off because they weren’t in the big leagues. It seemed like most of the prospects were in Double-A and then they needed a second baseman, so they called me up. I really wasn’t crazy about it. It was like I missed my friends. I missed Dave Collins a lot. And these guys were just playing out the string. I hit a combined .323 between El Paso and Salt Lake City so I proved I could hit. I think I proved to myself that I was ready for the big leagues. I can’t say it was a great experience at Triple-A, but it was one I didn’t have to experience again because the next year I made the big leagues.

  Before that, however, they sent me to winter ball in Mexico, and lucky for me, Garcia managed the Yaquis de Obregon. We were in Ciudad Obregon in Sonora. I remember they were allowed like six American players per team so Dave took me, Jerry Turner—who used to play for the Padres—Don Kirkwood, Dany Briggs, and a couple more guys. But we got off to a horrible start. In winter ball, when you get off to a bad start, they just want to get rid of all the Americans they can and bring in some other guys. But Dave fought for us and we were kind of hoping that he wouldn’t because, honestly, none of us liked it. We wanted to go home.

  The Mexico experience was like something I’d never seen in my life. The fans bet like crazy on the games in the stands. Sometimes I’d be playing second base and would see the people in the stands just separate, and the next thing you know there were real live snakes flying across the stands. There were beer bottles flying across. This would go on every night. It was dangerous. The
n after the games, you’d have to walk through the crowd because there was no clubhouse. You didn’t know what was going to happen because they were betting on you and betting against you. Even when I got six hits in a game to tie the record, it was one of those weird days. People were going nuts about it. I said, “What’s going on? What are they doing?” I tied some guy named Diablo Montoya. All of a sudden, the fans loved me.

  I had one other big reason for not wanting to be there: I had just married my fiancée, Phoebe. We thought it was going to be a three-month honeymoon to Mexico. Well, it wasn’t quite like that. It wasn’t the honeymoon that we expected. We weren’t on the beach. We were living right in the middle of Mexico and it was a culture shock to say the least. Phoebe was sick the whole time down there and I figured if we can make it through this, we can make it through anything. Of course, our team got hot. We ended up in the playoffs!

  I had met Phoebe at Empire’s Men Shop in Fall River where I sold clothing in the off-season. Phoebe was hired as seasonal help at Christmas, wrapping presents. When we first got married, we lived with her parents in their basement during the off-season. We actually did that until I got traded to the Red Sox in the winter of 1977. During the three years I played with the Angels, we had a place out there that we rented in California. Then we bought a place in Mission Viejo, and of course that year was the year I got traded to the Red Sox.

  The Show

  When I got to the big leagues, my god, it was amazing. My dad was at my first big-league game with the Angels. I was playing for Dick Williams, who had been the manager of the ’67 Red Sox team that we all loved so much. Dad saw my first at-bat, which was a base hit to left field over Kansas City righty Steve Busby on April 7, 1975. I was batting eighth in the lineup that day. And I got a base hit to left field that drove in a run. But on the very next play Busby pulled the old fake to third and throw to first, and he picked me off first.

  I knew I screwed up. My first at-bat, I get a hit and get picked off! And I knew I really screwed up when Williams called me over as soon as I got in the dugout. My legs were still shaking from getting a hit. He made me sit right down next to him and he said, “If that fucking happens one more time, your ass is going to be back in Salt Lake City quicker than you can snap your fingers.” And I’ll never forget it because it was Dick Williams. But I never told my father that.

  Grover Resinger, who was Dick Williams’ right-hand man, came to Triple-A when I was there. He was another crusty old baseball guy. He was a third-base coach for the White Sox for many years. He came up to me one day and he said he was watching me play and he’d seen me in uniform. He told me he thought I was going to be in the big leagues next year. I said to myself, “Who is this guy?” I’d never met him in my life. So, I went up to Norm Sherry and I said, “Who’s the old guy over here? The bald-headed guy. He just told me I’m going to be in the big leagues next year.”

  He said, “Oh, that’s Dick Williams’ lieutenant.”

  I said, “Wow!” I took his word for it, but I truly expected to go back to Triple-A and play a full season. I didn’t expect to go to the big leagues.

  But when I got to spring training camp, I was in a lucky position because they were going with youth. Denny Doyle was the second baseman. A real class act, too. He knew he was on his way out. That year he went to Boston and they went to the World Series. Later, I replaced him in Boston, too. When I got to spring training, they kept playing me with the shortstop I’d been with in Single-A and Double-A, Orlando Ramirez. They’d always put us in as a combination. And I remember with about probably a week and a half left in spring training, Dick called me in and told me I’d made the team. I couldn’t believe it.

  I remember asking Grover, “How did this happen so quickly?”

  He said, “Williams looked into your eyes and he saw no fear.”

  And I said, “Okay, but there’s got to be more to it.”

  Grover said, “You can play a little bit, too.”

  I was 22 and the first calls I made were to Phoebe and then my parents. There was definitely some disbelief. They had known that the last few years in the minor leagues had gone pretty well. They knew there was a chance I’d make it to the majors. But that step to the next level…all of a sudden you’re in camp and you see Nolan Ryan throwing on the side. And I looked and I said, “Oh, man. If everybody throws like this, I got no chance.”

  Bobby Bonds, Don Baylor, and me in the Angels dugout. I got traded to my hometown Red Sox in late 1977. (Getty Images)

  And then I saw Frank Tanana, and man, could he throw back then. We had great pitching, but we had no offense at all. Mickey Rivers was on that team. I think Dave Collins made that team, too. But we just had guys who could run. That’s the same year that Bill Lee said that if we took batting practice in a hotel lobby we wouldn’t break any lights or something like that. Then he went out and stuck it to us that day. Dick Williams was so pissed because Dick loved to go in and play the Red Sox. He just wanted to beat them so bad.

  My first major league salary was $16,500. Phoebe and I bought a big station wagon and we drove cross-country from Anaheim to Boston and back. But then we still lived with my wife’s parents down in their basement in the off-season. Harry Dalton, who was the Angels’ general manager, gave me a bonus of $500 a month during the off-season after my rookie season because I made the All-Rookie team. In my second year, I went up to $22,500. It doesn’t sound like much, but it was big-league money and I knew if I kept improving I’d have a chance to make a nice living at it.

  I hired Jerry Kapstein as my agent after my second year. Jerry was the best agent in baseball at the time. He had so many big names and he was the agent everyone wanted to have negotiate for them. He remained a lifelong friend, and later helped me land the broadcasting job. I met him in Baltimore. He represented Andy Etchebarren. Jerry was standing in the dugout one day before a game and introduced himself and said he was from Rhode Island. And I had heard of him, obviously, so I was ecstatic that he wanted me as a client. He had friggin’ 80 percent of baseball at that time.

  I loved the fact that we were building something with the Angels and a lot of guys I came up with were on the major league team with me. Dick Williams was fired during my second year and Sherry took over, which was fine since I had played for Norm at Triple-A Salt Lake City. Norm kind of shocked the world out there when he named me the captain during the 1976 season. I was pretty shocked, too. Norm was looking for a young leader to reflect the team and he thought I had leadership skills and he respected the way I played the game. People questioned why he would name a 24-year-old player with 2½ years’ experience the captain, but he had his reasons. He told Ross Newhan, who was the top baseball writer out in Los Angeles at the time, “We’ve been so up and down that maybe Jerry can help stabilize it. I know he’s young, but he plays hard and he had his teammates’ respect in that he’s not afraid to speak out, to assert himself. I told him to be himself and say whatever he feels he needs to say.”

  I think at the time we were starting to turn the corner. I thought our attitude was improving as a team. The year before, I had won the Owner’s Trophy as the team’s most valuable player. So, I guess I had asserted myself in a positive way. Of course, Norm was fired and replaced with Garcia not long afterward. We finished 74–88, fifth in the AL West. My captaincy was short-lived. It was my last season with the Angels as well.

  Traded to My Hometown

  The winter meetings were in Hawaii in December of 1977. My agent, Jerry Kapstein, was one of the most influential people in baseball and he knew how much I wanted to come home and play for the Red Sox. I really believe that he was the guy who got me to Boston. The Angels were talking about two places, San Diego and Boston. I told Jerry, “I’ve got to get home.” I had already played three years on the West Coast. It was great because it was my introduction to the big leagues. I was playing with all the kids I’d played with in the minor league
s. And my wife loved it out there. I don’t know how much Jerry had to do with it, but there was a lot of tugging and pulling to get me to Boston, I think.

  When I got that phone call, I couldn’t believe it. My wife was not happy, but I was ecstatic to play alongside Yaz and Dwight Evans and Jim Rice, Carlton Fisk, Fred Lynn, Butch Hobson, and Rick Burleson. I was going back home. I was going to play at Fenway Park.

  The first call I got was from Fisk, who called me from New Hampshire and welcomed me to the team. Really nice thing for him to do. He was also a Jerry client. And I heard from Don Zimmer and Haywood Sullivan, who called from Hawaii and said they’d completed the trade and welcome to the Red Sox and all that. And I was out of my mind.

  My whole family was really excited. Whenever the Angels were in town to play at Fenway, all the guys would come up. They’d get a little rambunctious and were escorted out of the stadium. My wife was a little apprehensive about how this Boston gig would turn out. It ended up being the best thing that could’ve happened. It set up our future.