Joe, You Coulda Made Us Proud

by Joe Pepitone

  The only problem occurred about ten-thirty the next morning when I awoke. We were supposed to have met the team bus at nine-thirty. I woke up Mickey: “Didn’t you leave a call?”

  “No. I thought you left a call.”

  “Mick, I thought you left a call.”

  “Shit,” he said, “what’re we gonna do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “I guess we’ll have to call a limousine. I don’t know any other way to get all the way up to West Point. My car was repossessed again.”

  Mantle picked up the telephone and called a limousine service. Then he said he wanted to speak to the driver, the guy who would chauffeur us. What the hell’s going on? I wondered.

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” he said to the guy. “Stop someplace and buy us a gallon picnic jug, and fill it half full with ice. That’s right. Then we want you to pick up three quarts of vodka and three quarts of orange juice. Right, quarts of both. And get us some plastic cups. Thank you.”

  About forty minutes later we got a call from the desk that our driver was there. He was driving a twenty-five-foot Cadillac full of our provisions. We climbed in, each carrying our uniforms in a bag, and instantly set about mixing breakfast. In a few moments we were toasting the morning. All that lovely vitamin C. We would not get scurvy on this trip.

  By the time we passed Yankee Stadium on the Major Deegan Expressway, we no longer needed the driver or the limousine. We could have floated to West Point.

  By the time we reached West Point, we were fully, totally, completely bombed out of our trees. As we turned into the academy, we began pulling on our uniforms, it being approximately game time. Amidst a great deal of laughter—I fell off the seat twice trying to get all those stockings over my feet and up to my knees—we finally managed to arrange our uniforms over our bodies as we approached the ball park. We could see people in the stands and our teammates just finishing up infield practice.

  Mickey sat up straight and said to the driver: “Pull ri’ up on the field.”

  “On the field? Are you sure, Mr. Mantle?”

  “Ri’ up on the fieeeld.”

  “Yessir.”

  He drove through the gate and onto the ball field. I leaned out the window and started waving my hat to everyone. I could hear the laughter, and I started laughing.

  The driver stopped the car by the base line, and Mickey yelled, “Let me out—we’re gonna play some baseballll.”

  The driver hopped out and opened his door. Mickey stuck one foot out the door, heaved the rest of his body—and fell right on his face. I staggered around from the other side. Everyone was breaking up. I saw Ralph Houk was trying to hold in his laughter, but not doing a very good job of it.

  Mickey got up off the ground with a silly grin on his face, and the players gave him a tremendous hand and a few words: “Way to stand, Mick.”

  Ralph Houk came over and said, “Very funny—but you’re both playing.”

  In the first inning Mickey got up and took three swings that looked like they’d been grafted onto his body by some Little Leaguer, then sat down. Houk took him out of the game after one inning. Good old Ralph made me play seven innings.

  We still had over half the vodka and orange juice for the ride home, and we finished it just as we pulled up to the St. Moritz. We had planned to change out of our uniforms and back into our clothes, but somehow we forgot. So we made a determined—if not altogether convincing—effort to pull ourselves together as we walked into the St. Moritz lobby. A little old lady who passed us coming out said, “My what nice costumes.”

  “Sank you, mam,” I said, strolling inside.

  It was great fun until we got upstairs and Mickey happened to count the money in his pocket after he’d paid the driver. Instead of giving the guy his fifty-dollar fee plus a fifty-dollar tip, as he’d intended to, Mickey discovered he’d actually handed the chauffeur two hundred-dollar bills. Mickey didn’t get too upset, though.

  “Screw it,” he said. “He was a good driver.”

  He was beautiful, my idol from the day I joined the Yankees. But one day, during one of my extracrazed, extrabad years, I really fucked up with Mantle. If a right-hander was pitching, I usually batted fourth, right behind Mickey. If a lefty was going against us, Ellie Howard batted fourth. On this day we were playing in Minnesota, and the Twins were starting a right-hander, so I was hitting behind Mantle in pregame batting practice. At times Mickey would be late getting out on the field because it took so long to tape up his bad legs. Any time he came down with a new problem, the taping took even longer.

  We had all taken our first ten swings in batting practice, and I hadn’t noticed that Mickey wasn’t there. There was a lot of kidding by the cage that day. The second time in the batting cage, we only had time for five swings apiece. So Mickey was in the cage, and when he took his fifth swing, I jumped right in there. But he just stood at the plate.

  “Five swings, Slick,” I said.

  “I just got here, man,” he said, annoyed. He gave me one of those looks that said, Don’t you ever run in the cage when I’m in here. When I get out, then you come in.

  I stood there, staring at him. I was embarrassed because all the guys were around the cage, and there was absolute silence, nobody saying a word. I got annoyed, feeling he was making me look like an asshole in front of everyone.

  “Why don’t you get out here on time,” I said, “like the rest of the fucking guys?”

  He turned full around to me, his eyes squinted in anger. “What did you say?” he said.

  “You heard what the fuck I said.” This was the strongest guy on the Yankees, but I was in too deep to back off now. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get here a little early to get your fucking legs taped, then you could get on the field with the rest of us.”

  He was furious. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it?” he said.

  “What the fuck are you gonna do about it?” I said. I thought he was going to kill me, punch me out right there in the batting cage. There were only about three feet separating us.

  Mickey, who had been holding his bat by the knob, slammed it to the ground and walked out of the cage. He walked right to the dugout, went down the steps, and up the ramp into the clubhouse, his eyes straight ahead. He looked like a kid in a schoolyard, which was appropriate because the whole scene had been childish, two kids arguing about bruised feelings.

  Then I really felt bad, like the asshole I hadn’t wanted Mickey to make me seem. I walked out of the batting cage and threw my bat at the netting. I followed him into the clubhouse. He was lying on his stomach on the trainer’s table getting his legs rubbed down. His head, resting on the backs of his hands, was turned to one side.

  I went over and crouched down by his face. “Slick, look, I’m sorry, man,” I said. “I got out of line out there. I’m sorry. I mean it.”

  He stared right through me. Then he turned his head to the other side.

  I stood up. “Man, I’m apologizing. I fucked up. Let’s not hold any grudges, all right?”

  He just lay there with the back of his head to me, not saying a word.

  Mantle didn’t speak to me for three weeks, and it really got heavy for me in the clubhouse. I loved the guy, and I needed his attention, his acceptance. He wouldn’t give an inch. We’d come to the clubhouse in the morning and he’d turn away from me without even a nod. It went on like this, day after day. I said to myself, Shit, is this going to go on all season?

  Then I started wondering, What’s going to happen if he hits a home run and I’m batting behind him? Is he going to embarrass me in front of the crowd the way Lou Gehrig embarrassed Babe Ruth? I remembered reading about a World Series game in which Gehrig got pissed off at Ruth, and when Lou homered and trotted to the plate, he ran right past Ruth’s outstretched hand, left him standing there holding air. Is Mickey going to do that, not shake my hand as he goes by?

  He went into a slump after that scene in Minnesota, though I don’t think that was any kin
d of factor. The whole team was going bad this season, nobody hitting much, driving in runs. Mantle was probably more depressed than the rest of us, because he always felt it was up to him to pick things up when the team fell off.

  Three weeks later we were behind in a game, 3-2, in the ninth inning. We had a man on first when Mickey came up. He hit the second pitch deep into the stands to win the game. I was standing at the plate, waiting, tense as hell. Here he comes, I said to myself, and stuck out my hand. He grabbed it and dragged me toward the dugout.

  “Man,” he said, “I’m sorry, too.”

  I was also in a slump, but after that I didn’t give a shit if it lasted another month. I felt good again.

  Later that season, Mickey went like o-for-25 at one point, and we were in next-to-last place. Before a game in Washington, I saw Mickey sitting in the corner of the dugout with his head down, looking very depressed. I went over and sat next to him.

  “Cheer up, Slick,” I said. “We’ll bounce back.”

  He just kept staring down at his feet. His arms were on his thighs and he was leaning forward, motionless, expressionless, just staring down. “I ain’t helping the club, Joe,” he said quietly. “I just can’t do it any more.”

  “Cut the shit, man,” I said.

  He jumped up, ran past me, and turned down the stairs. I went after him, thinking he’d headed for the clubhouse. But when I went down the stairs, I heard him in the bathroom on the left. Bang, bang, bang! I ran in and saw him punching the door on one of the stalls, pounding his fists into the metal. He was crying like a baby.

  I grabbed him around the chest from behind, pinning his arms. “Slick, knock it off, for God’s sake!”

  “I can’t hit the fucking ball. . . . I haven’t got it any more. . . . I’m just letting them use me. . . .” He broke away from me and punched the door again.

  I ran up to the clubhouse and went into Houk’s office. “Ralph, Mickey’s going wild down in the bathroom . . . crying, punching a door.”

  “Leave him alone,” Ralph said. “He’s done it before. He’ll come out of it.”

  I hurried back to the bathroom. Mantle was gone. I walked into the dugout. Mickey was sitting on the steps with a couple of the guys, listening to some anecdote. The knuckles on both of his hands were pink, but he was sitting there enjoying whatever was being said.

  It was very hard for Mickey in his last few years with the Yankees. He’d always played with outstanding ball clubs, was used to winning. He was a fierce competitor and wanted so much to keep on winning, to end his fantastic career at the top. But suddenly the Yankees were at the bottom. The team got old, and Mickey’s body abruptly deserted him. During the last year or so, he could barely pivot on his right knee batting left-handed. He never knew when it might buckle under him. But the front office pressed him to keep playing, he needed the money, and he did his best, never stopped trying.

  They were real down times, and Mickey seldom came out of his room. On road trips, he’d play a game, then come back to his hotel room, order dinner and drinks sent up, and just stay in all evening. Whitey Ford would stop by and have a couple of drinks with him, and that would be it. Mickey was tired of the traveling after all those years, tired of all the hassles every time he went out for dinner. So he stopped going out.

  He couldn’t go any place without being recognized, bugged. In New York, he’d order his meals from room service at the St. Moritz and relax by himself. It bothered the hell out of me when I was staying with him. He was a thirty-six-year-old man, finishing up one of the greatest careers in baseball history, and he couldn’t leave his room to get a decent meal because people wouldn’t leave him alone in restaurants, wouldn’t let him eat in peace. I saw this and said to myself, Fuck that kind of recognition. It ain’t worth it, being a prisoner of fame.

  I got Mickey out to a few restaurants that last year. Little places with good food that were out of the way. I called the owners in advance to tell them I was coming with Mickey Mantle, that we wanted a table off in a corner, and that nobody was to bother Mickey while he was eating. “Sure, Joe,” they’d say. “I guarantee no one will come near Mr. Mantle.” Then we’d go there, and the owner himself or the maitre d’ would come over and want to talk while we were eating. It was difficult; Mickey was such a star that people couldn’t help themselves when he was around.

  I remember in one restaurant we were having a great meal, really digging it. Mickey commented on how good it was, and he had a forkful of food by his mouth when a kid came up behind him and grabbed his elbow, asking for an autograph. Mickey instantly tensed up as the food spilled off his fork. But he didn’t show he was upset.

  “If you’ll come back when we finish eating, son,” he said politely, “I’ll sign for you.”

  The kid went back to his table and the next thing we knew his father was standing over us. “Who the hell do you think you are, Mantle,” he said, “sending a kid away without signing his autograph book? That kid and thousands more like him pay your salary, Mr. Star. And don’t you forget it.”

  I started to tell the guy off, which is not the smart thing to do in a public restaurant, but I was mad as hell. Fortunately, he turned and walked away. Mickey just shook his head and ordered another bottle of wine.

  In another restaurant one night we were sitting in a corner and Mickey had his back to the crowd. Nobody recognized him. Some kid spotted me, because I was facing the other tables. He came over with an autograph book in his hand, and when he was about five feet from us I said, “Would you mind coming back after we’ve eaten, son?” His face fell as he turned away. Then I said, “Aw, come on back here. I was only kidding.” I seldom refused autograph-seekers, unless they were old enough to look like collection agents. I guess I needed the attention too much.

  When I stayed with him, Mickey picked up so many checks that it got embarrassing. He wasn’t in really great financial shape, either, but he wouldn’t allow me to pay for anything. I remember one evening Mickey was in the shower when the guy from room service came to the door.

  “I have Mr. Mantle’s order,” the guy said.

  “Oh, bring it right in,” I said. “I’ll pay for it.” I figured I finally had my chance to grab a check. I looked in my wallet and I had forty dollars. That would cover dinner.

  The guy carried in a tray of food. He carried in a second tray of food. He carried in a third tray of food. Then he rolled in a cart that was loaded with booze, ice, mixers. He handed me the check. The total was $332.75.

  “He’s in the shower,” I said to the guy, handing back the check. “You can catch him later. Thank you.”

  Mickey walked out of the shower a moment later with a towel tied around his waist and another one rubbing at his hair. “Oh, the stuffs here,” he said. “Good. Did I tell you I’m having a little party tonight, Joe?”

  Mickey and I were sitting around the St. Moritz one afternoon, and I was cleaning a new batch of grass I’d just gotten. Mickey never smoked marijuana, refused to even try it, saying Scotch whisky was plenty good enough for him. I’d been after him to just take a toke or two, told him it wasn’t as harmful to your body as booze, and that it made you feel a lot better. The guy who’d gotten me this batch had told me it was super-good. I kept after Mickey, told him he really ought to give grass a shot, but he declined.

  I finished cleaning the grass, rolled a joint, and lit up. “Wow!” I said. It tasted different from anything I’d ever smoked before. In seconds I was up, and a second toke delivered me to the following Tuesday. “This is sensational, Mick,” I said. I was beaming, couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Shit, let me have that thing,” he said. “I just hold the smoke in?”

  “Just draw it into your lungs and lean back,” I said, feeling like my lips were spread so wide they were going to split. Very pleasantly.

  He took a toke, sat back, waited a minute, and a smile came to his face. He took another. “Kinda nice, Joe.”

  This was over three hours before game ti
me, and I knew the stuff would wear off way before we had to play. It always wore off within a couple of hours. We finished the joint and drove to the stadium, giggling all the way. But instead of wearing off, this dope seemed to get stronger. I found out later that it was Colombian, which I had never used before. Two tokes of it will keep you aloft for hours.

  Mickey went to bat in the bottom of the first inning. I watched him swing from my seat in the dugout, and I had to hold back the laughter. His swing was perfectly level, but it was so relaxed it looked like he was swinging under water. Mickey, of course, was notorious, after he struck out, for slamming his bat into the ground, throwing his batting helmet in anger. This day when he took his third slow-motion swing, he turned around, very carefully placed his bat on the ground, and carried his batting helmet back to the dugout tenderly. I had to cover my mouth with my hand. Everyone was looking at him strangely as he walked back with the tiniest little grin on his face.

  He struck out twice in that game, and I struck out three times. The dope still seemed to be getting stronger. I finally took myself out of the game in the eight inning. I was afraid I would get killed by a fly ball. I don’t know how, but Mickey played perfectly at first base. If I’d had to handle the throws there, I think I would have taken myself out in the fifth. Incredibly, Mickey came up in the ninth with a man on second, and singled in the winning run.

  He still had that little smile on his face when he walked into the clubhouse. But he came right over to me and whispered, “Don’t ever give me any of that shit again.”

  “I didn’t know it was that strong, Mick.”

  The next time I rolled a joint at his place, Mickey got up and left the room. I never smoked before another baseball game. Ever.