by Joe Pepitone
I got in about 11 o’clock, only an hour late, and found the door to our room chained. I started banging on the door: “Moose, open up.” The door was open about four inches and I could see him lying in bed. “C’mon, Moose, open up!”
“Sleep in the hall,” he said. “It’s after ten. Bed check’s at ten.”
“Moose, for Christ’s sake, open this goddamn door.” I started banging on it again.
“Find someplace else to sleep, and stop keeping me awake or I’ll break your damn head,” he said.
“Moose, open this fucking door or I’ll kick it in!” I said angrily.
“Get the fuck out of here!”
I kicked the door open, ran in, and yelled, “Don’t you ever fucking lock me out of my room again!”
He jumped up with his fists balled. “You sonofabitch, I’m gonna punch you right in the face!”
I stepped back in a crouch and said, “Go ahead—and I’ll get my uncle after you! He’s a Mafia leader and he’ll chop off your hands!”
He shook his head and went to bed. I could have told him about the guys who wanted to give him an accident. But I don’t think the Moose was a bad guy, even though I did get fined for missing a curfew—and the Yankees almost never held bed check.
The second time I got caught out late, it was red-handed. We were in Boston for a series in late June, and I was rooming with Phil Linz. He came in about midnight and couldn’t believe it when he saw me lying on the bed watching television. “Are you sick, Joe?” he said. “You break your ankle or something?”
“No, I got a date at two-thirty. She’s a hooker, but she won’t be free till then. A terrific broad.”
“Pepi, now that you explained it, I understand. You’re crazed.”
About one-thirty I shaved, put on cologne, got all dressed up, checked myself carefully in the mirror, found a few hairs out of place, combed them down. Then I went out into the hall and pressed the elevator button. A few seconds later I heard the car coming, straightened my tie, the doors opened—and standing right in front of me were Ralph Houk and general manager Roy Hamey.
A very dark cloud swept over Houk’s face as they stepped out. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going at two o’clock in the morning?”
I just stood there with my mouth open for about fifteen seconds. Then I said, “It’s Linz, Ralph; Phil hasn’t gotten in yet and I’m—I’m going out to look for him.”
“Turn your ass around and get it inside your room—or you’re gonna find it in Richmond.”
“Okay, Ralph, okay!” I began walking toward my room. “But I’m really worried about Phil, Ralph, I mean it.”
“Get in that fucking room and don’t move from it!” he said, following right behind me.
“Ralph, I’m going,” I said, unbuttoning my jacket, my shirt.
“I’m taking you to your room.”
I opened my belt in the hallway, put the key in the lock, opened the door about six inches, and tried to squeeze in quickly and close the door behind me. But Houk shoved it open—and there, asleep in bed, was Linz. “Phil,” I yelled, “how the fuck did you get in the room? How the fuck did you get past me?”
Phil woke up, squinted at us. “I been in since twelve o’clock,” he mumbled, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Two days later I found my ass in Richmond, Virginia.
I wasn’t all that shook up about it. They’d done the same thing to Mickey Mantle during his first season with the Yankees. If they knew you liked to bend the rules, they tried to scare you right away. But at this point I had too much confidence in my ability to be scared. I missed New York, but I sure as hell didn’t miss sitting on the bench. I’d never done that before, and I was far too hyper to live comfortably with that status.
Sheriff Robinson was managing the Yankee team in the International League, and the day I reported to him he called me into his office and inspired the hell out of me. “You know why you’re down here?” he said.
“Yeah, well, Houk caught me out late,” I said. “I guess they sent me here to teach me a lesson.”
“That’s part of it. But they want you to play every day at first base. They think with a little steady work, you can become the best first-baseman in the American League. I’m going to work with you, and you’re going to have a helluva year.”
I batted .315 in forty-six games with Richmond and really sharpened up my moves around first under Robinson’s guidance. And I was a little more careful about observing curfews. I’d always had to use my name to get laid, mention the New York Yankees every other breath. But the girls in Richmond weren’t all that impressed. I couldn’t wait to get back to New York.
I was recalled for the last few weeks in September, when the Yankees were trying to clinch another pennant. I walked into the clubhouse amid a lot of greetings that made me feel good, and went to my cubicle. It was empty. I looked around the room, checked all the cubicles, and my name wasn’t on any of them, my gear wasn’t in any of them.
“Hey, where the hell’s my locker?” I yelled.
“It’s in back, Joe,” someone said.
“Yeah, way in back,” Mantle said, giggling.
I figured I got it. They’d put my stuff in the trainer’s room, a good gag. I smiled as Mantle came over and put his arm around my shoulders and started walking me toward the back. But he didn’t take me into the trainer’s room—he turned me into the john. There, on one of the stalls, was a strip of wide adhesive tape like they used over the cubicles, and neatly printed on the tape in indelible ink was: JOE PEPITONE. I swung open the door, and hanging inside were all my uniforms. On the floor were my skivvies, my sanitary socks, my spikes, and a toy telephone in honor of the fact that I had made and received so many clubhouse calls before I was sent down.
“Raise the toilet seat cover, Joe,” Mantle said.
I tipped it up, and taped under the seat was a huge picture of Yogi Berra’s face. I roared. Everyone roared. The Yankees were not known for this kind of foolishness, and I felt it was good for a team, helped keep everyone loose. I’d made a contribution in this area.
I also contributed on the field. Houk played me almost every day, and in the last fifteen games I drove in the winning run seven times. We won the pennant, but I was ineligible for the World Series, because I hadn’t been on the roster on September I. Yet the guys voted me a full World Series share, over $10,000.
I needed that extra money. I was paid the major-league minimum salary in ’62, which was about $7,000. At the Copa alone my bill was over $3,000. I had become such a regular customer there that Jules Podell, the owner, had presented me with a gold credit card. That was lovely. All I had to do was keep signing. I didn’t worry about paying. I figured I’d pay when I got the money, and that I’d get it eventually. I charged everything, never worried about money. Just give me the bill, waiter: “Sincerely yours, Joe Pepitone.”
I remember stopping by the Copa early one evening, on my way to someplace else. The day’s ball game had been rained out, we’d been paid, and I wanted to cash my check. It was for about 500 dollars and I asked Carmine, the maitre d’, if he’d cash it for me. “Let me take it to Jules,” he said. “I don’t think there’ll be any problem.”
A few minutes later he came back and handed me 50 dollars. “Carmine, don’t fool around like that,” I said. “That five hundred’s all I have to live on for two weeks. Give me the other four hundred and fifty.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, Joe. Jules says you’ve got to cut down your bill.”
I didn’t go near the Copa with a check after that. But I did keep signing tabs. The racket guys never let me pay for anything when I was with them. I was out all the time, though, and I enjoyed picking up checks. It made me feel good. And feeling good was the most important thing in the world for me. I tried to be happy all the time, to shove aside any worries, fears, bad feelings. Just have fun, Joe, I kept telling myself.
I know now, looking back, that I repressed a lot of things,
as many of the negatives as I could. I was disappointed that the Yankees were in the World Series and I wasn’t with them, wasn’t a part of it. I try to recollect today what I did during that Series, and I think I saw the games, either at the stadium or on television. But I can’t remember which, and I can’t recall a single moment of what happened on the field.
A couple of months later, I was watching the news on television one night, lying on the couch. Suddenly, I jerked up to a sitting position. The announcer said that Bill Skowron had been traded to the Los Angeles Dodgers. “His replacement at first base”—my picture came on the screen—“will be rookie Joe Pepitone.”
Goddamn! I thought. Unless I foul up, I’ve got the first-base job! I called Mickey Mantle in Dallas. He’d heard me kidding Skowron all the time: “I’ll have your job next year, Moose.” And I’d told Mickey if it happened I was going to send Skowron a telegram. “All right, Joe, now send Moose that telegram,” Mantle said. I did: “DEAR MOOSE: TOLD YOU SO. JOE PEP.”
Barbara and I rented an apartment in Fort Lauderdale for spring training. She was pregnant again, and my son, Joe Junior, would arrive early in the season. My daughter, Eileen, was eighteen months old now, and I got a tremendous kick out of playing with her on the beach. But I was still doing so much fooling around that my marriage was an up-and-down thing.
At Lauderdale I hung out with a guy who lived in the next apartment. One day when there was no practice, the two of us were out driving along the beach looking for girls. We picked up a couple and headed for their place. What we didn’t notice was that our wives—who were out shopping together—had come back by way of the beach and were two cars behind us. We were in a convertible with the top down. Late that afternoon, we drove back home and walked into his apartment. Both our wives had very unfriendly looks on their faces.
“You do the shopping, hon?” I asked Barbara.
She didn’t say a word, just walked into the kitchen. I sat on the sofa and picked up the newspaper. I glanced over at my friend who was sitting across the room and his eyes were bulging out of his head. “Joe!” he yelled. But before I could turn around, Barbara had brought a big steel frying pan crashing down on my head. My brains felt like they were going to spill out of my mouth. I pitched off the sofa onto the floor, my head spinning psychedelically. Then I saw her coming at me again, swinging that frying pan. I rolled over, managed to get to my feet, and hit her a glancing blow. She bounced off the wall and came right back at me, the frying pan raised over her head, total rage in her eyes. I ran out of the apartment, jumped in my car, and drove to a motel near the ball park, feeling a lump get bigger and bigger on top of my head.
I went back to her the next day and apologized, swore I’d never fool around like that again. Of course, that’s what I always did, mess up and then apologize to her. It wasn’t until years later that I realized I was following the same pattern my father had set with me, which I hated so much.
During the exhibition season I really began to feel like one of the Yankees. I was in there every day at first base, a regular, and I started putting a little flair into my play around the bag, catching throws with a downward snap of the mitt that suggested a kind of ease and confidence. I even scooped up hard-hit grounders with a flick of the mitt. Vic Power, who for years had been the best-fielding first-baseman in the American League, flicked his mitt in a similar way. While I didn’t consciously copy him, I had always admired Power’s style. I developed a style of my own that not only came naturally to me and got the job done efficiently, but it looked good. Obviously, I had nothing against looking good on the field. I soon heard a number of opposing players call me a hot dog, which means showoff. But once I heard that, I knew I looked good playing the position, that I was showing something extra. And, hell, I was covering more ground, making more plays than any other first-baseman around.
Manager Ralph Houk seemed to like my style and announced that a bit of color wouldn’t hurt the Yankees. “Baseball needs new, exciting guys,” Houk told a writer. “Ted Williams drew fans. So did Yogi Berra and Early Wynn and Whitey Ford. But we need a new appeal now—and I think Pepitone has everything to make it big.”
Yankee general manager Roy Hamey seemed to think so, too, with perhaps a small reservation. Mickey Mantle had bad knees, and writers were always asking who would take his place when he retired. One day I heard Hamey being asked that question, and Roy said, “Joe Pepitone. If his head stays the same size.” I gave Roy a big wink.
Another day, as we were taking batting practice before an exhibition game, a writer asked Mantle if he thought the Yankees would win another pennant in 1963. “Well, the only change we’ve made was trading Bill Skowron and putting Joe Pepitone at first base,” Mickey said. “If we blow it, it’s Pepitone’s fault. But the more I look at him,” he stared at my face, “I figure we’ll win by a nose.” I broke up.
It was lovely to be loved. I didn’t fully realize it then, but that was the thing I was most trying to earn playing baseball. Not money. Not glory. Love.
X
“Ok, KO.”
We opened the ’63 season in Kansas City, and when I ran out to take infield practice I suddenly got so nervous I could hardly get my breath. I couldn’t believe it. Joe Pepitone—the loose, fun-loving kid from Brooklyn who had started quite a few games for the Yankees in ’62, and who now was a regular—was opening the season as a nervous wreck. I couldn’t hold on to any throws during practice. Every time I stretched for the ball, it popped out of my glove. I wanted to quit, run into the dugout, and get a drink . . . do anything to get off the field.
Once the game started, the tension ended. I hit two home runs and a double. As I trotted off the field, I said to myself, Shit, I hope I can think of a way to tense up before every game.
As it turned out, it didn’t matter. I went into a slump after the first game, but remained cool because I knew that I had a sweet stroke at the plate and that the balls would start falling in if I kept swinging. I burst out of it, started coming up with some big hits, and—shock of shocks—at midseason made the American League All-Star team. Mickey Mantle was the only other member of the Yankees who was voted by the league’s players to start. I realized there was a certain amount of happenstance involved in my selection, that Vic Power of the Twins and Jim Gentile of the Orioles—the main competition for the first-base position—had started the season badly. Yet I had so much self-esteem, so much confidence in my ability to outhit and outplay everyone I’d seen in the field, that I felt I could have beaten them at their best. There just wasn’t anything I couldn’t do on a ball field. I was consistently making good contact at bat. Even when I struck out on three pitches, I at least took my cuts—went up there playing my game, going with my strength. When I went down swinging, I always felt, Up yours, man. Next time I’m gonna beat you, because I’m better than you—I can do you no matter what you throw me!
Shit, I felt like I owned New York, and I was determined to ball every chick that ran in it. I got right back into the Copa scene, and the sex took me outside myself. Now I not only had my name and my affiliation with the perennial world champions of baseball—I had the bat and the glove on the field. I was barely a second-year man and I was already an All-Star. With Mantle hurt, sidelined prior to the game, I was the only Yankee, other than manager Ralph Houk, to make the trip to Cleveland.
I went o-for-4 at bat, but I was introduced to the crowd on national television before the game, and I knew my mother and my Uncle Louie and my grandfather Caiazzo and Lemon and all my friends were watching Joe Pep, age twenty-three, the baby robin who had grown up to become the best first-baseman in the American League. In Cleveland I got to meet a lot of stars I’d been reading about for years, meeting them close up, as an equal. I also got laid three times.
It was a super trip because, while I had a ball in New York, the balling on the road usually took a certain amount of effort to arrange, and I wasn’t really interested in courting, even though I was passionately interes
ted in its end result. What I most admired were the friendly “automatics” that occasionally occurred out of town.
Like on our first trip to Minnesota in 1963. A teammate, whom I’ll call Bob, and I stowed our gear in the hotel and went right downstairs and out the door to look for girls. We were standing under the marquee like in the movie Marty: “What’re we gonna do tonight?” Then I saw this neat-looking girl—about thirty, lots of breast, sexy eyes and mouth—walking toward us.
“Hey, where are you going?” I said to her. “What are you doing out on these mean streets in Minneapolis alone? Why don’t you come along with a nice couple of guys, and we’ll have a drink, something to eat?”
She walked right over to us and looked at me like a dance-hall girl from an old movie, knowing but nice. “Who are you,” she said, “some ballplayers?”
“Yeah, we’re with the Yankees,” I said. “I’m Joe Pepitone and this is Bob.”
She threw back her head and laughed, in a nice, enjoying way. “Where would you like to go? You two look like fun.” I told her we’d go up to our room for a while, order from room service, relax and get to know one another, then go out. So we went to our room, and the girl walked in ahead of us, both of us eyeing her tail wiggle.
“We’d better call room service,” Bob whispered. “I’ll see what she wants to order. Jane,” he called to her from the foyer, “would you like us to order something to drink?”
“Don’t bother,” she said, pulling a bottle of vodka out of the huge handbag she was carrying. “They have ice in the rooms here.” She went over to the radio, turned it on loud to some rock station, and began making half-time dance moves to the sounds.
“Jesus Christ!” I whispered to Bob, “this is too easy. She must be a pro. We better get us some rubbers. We might catch some diseases or something.”
“Joe, I’m not into rubbers,” Bob said. “Where you gonna get ’em?”
“I’ll call room service,” I said. “You occupy her.” Bob walked over and started dancing with her. She had opened the top two buttons of her blouse and melted right into him. I called room service. “This is Joe Pepitone of the New York Yankees,” I said. “Let me speak to the bell captain.” He came on. “Look,” I said, “I’m in room seven fifty-six, and I need some rubbers.”
