by Bob Gibson
I always believed I did. People say you shouldn’t ever go to the plate trying to hit the ball over the fence, but that’s bull. I’ve done it. Sometimes the situation calls for it.
Bear in mind, I don’t recommend it for a kid, because it could lead to bad habits. It could make you open up your shoulder trying to pull the ball, jerk your head out of the strike zone, get your hips moving too soon—all the things that constitute bad mechanics. But at the major-league level, in a home-run situation, an accomplished power hitter not only can try to hit one, but he should. I won’t say for sure that I hit home runs at a higher percentage when I went up there gunning for one, but there were times when I owed it to my pitcher and to my team to try. There were times when I ended ballgames that way.
For me, that’s the ultimate. With one swing, you get the results that you play for and the gratification that you live for. Hit a home run to win a ballgame and you own the world. At least until tomorrow.
There are games, also, when you can just feel, from the beginning, that a home run will do the trick. When Mike Norris made his first start in the big leagues I told him to take it easy, just pitch like he did in spring training, and I’d get him a tater. I hit a three-run shot in the third inning and he shut out the White Sox.
If you caught one early with Guidry on the mound, you could practically take the rest of the day off. Sometimes he’d walk over in the first or second inning and tell me, “I’ve got it today. Just give me one.”
Catfish would say, “If you can just get me one, we’re going to be all right today. Gimme a shot, Buck.” (That was my nickname when I was with the A’s.)
Bob Gibson
That’s what I always wanted. We had some great teams with the Cardinals, and we were loaded with winning ballplayers, but it seemed like we never hit a home run. In 1967 we got Roger Maris, who had set the record with sixty-one for the Yankees, and he hit nine for us. The next year, he hit five. Orlando Cepeda led us with sixteen. The next year, Joe Torre led us with eighteen.
Guys on the Cardinals told me I was grumpy all the time. Grumpy? The score’s 1–0, for crying out loud. With our team, it seemed like you had to grunt your way to the ninth inning every single time. That’s as hard on you mentally as it is physically, knowing that if you give up a run, you lose. I’d leave the ballpark and have to go lie down. I always wondered what it would be like to get seven or eight runs now and then.
In 1970, we traded for Dick Allen and he hit thirty-four home runs and we thought we had Babe Ruth. He always seemed to come up with them at just the right time, too. It’s no coincidence that I won twenty-three games that season, my highest total ever.
So yeah, hit me one, big fella. Win me a ballgame.
Reggie Jackson
In 1977, my first year with the Yankees, we were playing the Red Sox in mid-September and trying to hold on to first place. It was a 0–0 game going into the bottom of the ninth inning, Ed Figueroa for us and Reggie Cleveland for Boston.
Thurman Munson led off, and before he went up to hit he told me he was going to single between third and short and it would be up to me to get him home. I told him I would. He did his part, just like he said. But when I got to the plate, Dick Howser, our third-base coach, called me down and told me I might get the bunt sign. I got it on one-and-one, but the pitch was ball two and they took the sign off. Then Cleveland left a slider over the plate a little bit. That was his out pitch, but not in that spot.
It went out, all right.
Bob Gibson
That should not have happened. If Willie Randolph beats you with a ninth-inning home run, hats off to him. But in that situation, Reggie Cleveland had no business leaving a slider over the plate for Reggie Jackson.
Reggie Jackson
For a hitter, there’s a big difference between a tight spot and a tough spot. In fact, I’m not sure there’s such a thing as a tough spot for a hitter, other than facing a guy with a hot hand and too much stuff. In terms of circumstances, the hairier it gets, the easier it ought to be. Bases loaded—the pressure’s on the pitcher. He’s the one who has to throw a strike.
When I was fortunate enough to find myself in that situation, the game would heighten. It would come to me.
A hitter should be in his element when the game is close. That includes the first inning. In the early going, I was always sharp and bright-eyed, bearing down to see what the pitcher had and trying to set a tone—maybe take advantage of him right off the bat, before he could find his rhythm. And late in the game, when the action had built to a crescendo and the crowd was screaming, I’d be in a zone. In those moments, all the distractions would fade away and the task would become more distinct. It would come into focus.
What’s hard is concentrating in the fourth inning when the score is 7–1.
Bob Gibson
A six-run lead should be a weapon for a pitcher. The other team is just trying to get baserunners on, trying to work walks, not trying to hit the ball seven hundred feet. The pitcher can, and should, take full advantage of the situation. He does that by challenging every hitter. He does it, basically, by throwing strikes.
But it’s not as simple as it sounds. He can get in trouble if he takes too much advantage. A lot of pitchers confuse throwing strikes with just throwing the ball over the plate. They think it means throwing safe pitches. Well, there’s no such thing. That’s a bad way to go about your business.
I’d pitch just as hard with a six-run lead as I would in an even ballgame. I’d be less likely to pitch around the Aarons and the Reggies, because you don’t want to extend innings and pile up baserunners in that circumstance; but that would be about the only difference in my approach. I’m going to challenge them by throwing strikes, but not with anything less than my best stuff. I know what’ll happen if I let up. One of the surest ways to lose a lead is to change your way of pitching.
I had this discussion with Tony La Russa. Of course, Tony was never a pitcher, but he has a lot of ideas about how to win ball-games, and he’s won a lot of them in ways that I wouldn’t. He was talking about those get-me-over pitches when you have a nice lead and fall behind in the count.
To me, get-me-over implies two things I don’t like. It suggests that you’re unconcerned with your location within the strike zone. And it suggests that you’re holding back on your stuff in the interest of getting the ball over the plate.
Anyway, Tony asked me if I ever threw a get-me-over pitch, and I said no.
He said, “Never?”
I said, “Never.”
He said, “You don’t believe in that?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why? Why risk walking a batter in that situation?”
“For one thing, I don’t consider it a risk because I’m pretty sure I can get my best fastball over the plate. And for another thing, I know that if I throw Barry Bonds a get-me-over fastball on two-and-oh, he’s going to hit it into McCovey Cove.”
Then I don’t have a six-run lead anymore.
Reggie Jackson
In 1987, my last year with Oakland, we were in a hitters meeting and Tony La Russa was talking about the proper approach with a runner on second or third. Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco were in the room, among others, and Tony wanted them to hear my perspective on the subject. So he asked me, in Tony’s serious style, “Reggie, what are your thoughts when you’re at home plate and there’s a man in scoring position?”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Skip,” I said, “I feel that when I’m hitting and there’s no one on base, there’s still a man in scoring position.” Everyone roared laughing—even Tony. But that was pretty much the way I saw it.
Since I believed so fervently that I could bring home any runner from anywhere, including myself, my preference was not to have a base stealer on first when I was doing my thing. I mean, I appreciated Bert Campaneris and Billy North and all the speedy guys I played with. They won games for us. All the same, I didn’t want them running when I was hitting.
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bsp; In fact, when they were dancing around off first base, stretching their leads and scheming to steal second, there were times when I stepped out of the batter’s box and gestured to them not to do that. I don’t need you on second to drive you in. And it certainly wasn’t that I wanted that hole to hit through—the hole created by the first baseman holding on the baserunner. I wasn’t thinking about hitting the ball in the hole. I was thinking about squaring the ball on the barrel, and I didn’t want anything to divert my attention from that. I was going to make a hole. So I don’t want you jitterbugging around out there. And when you’re on second base, I don’t want you stealing third, either.
Just stay where you are. If you don’t distract me, I can drive you home.
Bob Gibson
But a fast runner works to the hitter’s advantage. I’ve seen Lou Brock distract a lot of pitchers, and I’ve had to pitch to Tommy Davis and Frank Howard and Ron Fairly with Maury Wills in the starting block over at first. It can disrupt a guy’s rhythm and throw him off his game. You might forget where you were with the hitter; you might quicken your motion to the plate; you might lose something on the ball.
So keep those guys off the bases. If you’re pitching to Maury Wills, for heaven’s sake don’t walk him. I learned to not be too fancy with the little guys who couldn’t hit home runs. Make them take their cuts. Here’s a high fastball—have at it. If they can hit their way to first base, congratulations. But don’t give it to them.
Honestly, though, when Wills was on base it didn’t bother me as much as you might think, because I was resigned to the fact that Tim McCarver, my good buddy and catcher, wasn’t going to throw him out. I loved pitching to McCarver, but we both know that he wasn’t about to throw out Maury Wills. What I did was hold the ball when Wills was on. I’d bring it to my stretch position and just wait there. He’d be inching away trying to get a good jump, and a lot of times he’d get impatient and start running while I was still standing there holding the ball. I’d just turn around and throw him out at second. I had him all screwed up. I never picked anybody off, but I successfully messed with a few guys.
Looking back on it, though, maybe my attention to Wills explains why a guy like Fairly could knock me around the way he did. Fairly was a professional at the plate, but even so, I could never understand why he should have more base hits off me than anybody else. Maybe I was preoccupied. Maybe I was just pitching from the stretch a lot when he came up. He usually batted behind both Wills and Willie Davis, who was faster than Wills and hit me a lot better. Every time I looked over, Willie Davis was on base.
I don’t advise pitching that way. When you’re throwing out of the stretch, you don’t have all those arms and legs working for you; but that’s not necessarily the biggest problem. Your concentration might be compromised, but that’s not necessarily the biggest problem either. If there’s a fast man on first, the biggest problem is that the hitter is probably going to see more fastballs, and they’re not going to be your best ones.
I’m sure Reggie is in favor of that.
Reggie Jackson
I would rather hit with a man on base, as long as he stays where he is. Let’s take the pitcher out of the windup and split his focus. Maybe he’ll neglect the fact that I can hit the ball out of the ballpark.
Bring that fastball in here.
Bob Gibson
There is a flip side that works to the pitcher’s advantage. If Brock or Wills or Rickey Henderson is on first, I can pour strike one right down the middle because the hitter is more than likely going to take it and see if the runner can steal.
Most hitters, anyway.
Reggie Jackson
If I’ve got Rickey Henderson on first, or Vince Coleman—guys who stole huge numbers of bases—my thinking’s not going to be any different. I was trying to drive him in from there. I was trying to square the ball and hit it on a line. I wanted the ball in the air for three and a half seconds. Then it’s a souvenir.
Bob Gibson
Unless it’s an awfully high pop-up.
Reggie Jackson
Of course, with two strikes it all changes. Then I’m playing defense. My order of business is to become a baserunner myself.
Bob Gibson
There are some hitters who go to the plate playing defense, and I hated it. I’m talking about the guys who take you deep in the count and foul pitches off and hang in there and hang in there and make a general nuisance of themselves. I’d much rather a batter hit the first or second pitch. I don’t want to use up fifteen pitches on one little guy who can’t hit the ball to the warning track.
The worst was Richie Ashburn. What a pain. He’s a Hall of Famer and I salute him for that, but I couldn’t stand to pitch to that guy. He couldn’t put the ball in play off of me—he only had two hits against me his whole career—but he’d stand in there and foul off ten pitches and I’d end up walking him. I walked him ten times. These days the announcers would drool all over themselves telling everybody what a great at-bat that was, and maybe they’re right. But I never thought of it as a great battle. I thought of it as a pain in the butt.
Whether I give him credit for that, I don’t know. I probably should, but I’d rather not. The way the game is played today, that sort of thing has a lot more value because it runs up the pitch count and gets the starting pitcher out of the game quicker. But back then, we weren’t taken out based on a pitch count. Richie Ashburn wasn’t going to get me out of the game. He was just going to tick me off.
Reggie Jackson
It takes some skill to stay alive like that in the batter’s box. I wish I’d been better at it. But when a guy hangs in there with two strikes and fouls off pitch after pitch, he’s not doing it on purpose. I don’t know of anybody who can do that on command—stand at the plate and make up his mind to foul the ball off. Maybe a contact hitter like Luke Appling or Rod Carew or Nellie Fox could handle the bat well enough to do it if he tried, but that’s not the plan. The plan is to put the ball in play. A foul ball means he couldn’t do it.
It’s possible that a great all-around hitter like Aaron could foul the ball deliberately, but it’s not likely that he’d try. He was about hitting the ball hard somewhere. You think Willie McCovey went to the plate to foul the ball off?
Bob Gibson
The only guy I’ve seen do it deliberately was Jose Cardenal. He did it just to mess with Brock. Brock would be halfway to second base and Jose would just slap the ball in the direction of the dugout. You need talent to do that, and Jose had the talent.
One night I told him that I knew he was doing it on purpose. He just smiled and said, “Did you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw that. Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t know.”
Who knows why people do certain things? Maybe he wanted to steal more bases than Lou. We all dance to different tunes.
Reggie Jackson
The World Series was everything I wanted it to be. Come October, it was all you heard or read about. That put it front and center in my world. It was innate for me to be a hundred percent zoned in and primed for the World Series. I wish I could have done it during the regular season.
The postseason became practically a part of my life cycle. I played in eleven playoffs and six World Series. That is, our team played in six World Series. I played in five.
Oakland went to its first Series in 1972, but to get there we had to make it through a tough playoff against the Tigers. It went to the fifth game, with Blue Moon Odom pitching for us against Woodie Fryman. We were down a run when I came up in the second inning. I walked, stole second, went to third on a fly ball, and then stole home to tie it on the back end of a double steal with Mike Epstein. But in the process I tore my left hamstring, kept running, and ruptured it.
I was so distraught over having to miss the World Series that I cried, and my friends Dave Duncan and Joe Rudi cried with me. When we beat the Reds, it should have been the happiest moment of my career to that point. But I couldn’t even
run out onto the field and dive on the pile and jump around with my teammates. It was a sick, horrible feeling, and that feeling stuck with me. I wanted to be out there!
The next spring, I kept telling everybody on the team that we were going back to the World Series. I felt like I had to play in it. I honestly believe that sitting out the ’72 Series was the thing that pushed me to win the MVP Award in 1973. I also believe that it had at least something to do with us repeating as champions of the American League.
The ’73 World Series went seven games. We were forced to win the last two to pull it out. In game six, the Mets had Tom Seaver going, and he’d fanned me three times in game three with the best combination of stuff and location I’d ever faced. This time, though, I caught up with Seaver for three base hits, two of them RBI doubles into the gaps. That’s a badge I wear on my heart to this day. That was Tom Seaver, dude—an all-timer! But Catfish Hunter beat him 3–1. Then, in Game Seven, Bert Campaneris, of all people, gave us the lead with a two-run homer. I hit another one a few batters later, and that was enough for another great pitcher on our team, Ken Holtzman.
I was named the MVP of the Series. Nobody had yet called me Mr. October, but that was the start of it. Let it be known, though, that Campaneris could just as easily have been the MVP.
The next year we beat the Dodgers, which grew into a habit when I went to the Yankees in 1977.
Bob Gibson
As much success as I had in the World Series, I have to say that it comes down to the hitter more than to the pitcher. I’m going to make my share of mistakes in the World Series, just like I do in the regular season. It’s a matter of whether the hitters are on their game enough to take advantage of those mistakes.
