by Joe Pepitone
I called the Cubs, who were playing in Cincinnati, and Leo told me to join them there the next day. I checked the papers and saw that the Cubs were right behind the Mets and Pirates in the standings. They had terrific personnel: Ernie Banks, Glenn Beckert, Don Kessinger, Ron Santo, Johnny Callison, Jim Hickman, Billy Williams, Randy Hundley—everything except a center fielder. For Leo, I was going to be one helluva center fielder. As I packed my clothes I began singing, “Chicago, Chicago, that wonderful town . . .”
XIX
“We want Pepi!”
On Friday morning, July 31, I joined the Cubs in Cincinnati, where they were to play a twilight doubleheader that evening. I went directly to Durocher’s suite at the hotel the club was staying at, and we had a good conversation. I was going to room alone, Leo promised not to bug me as long as I was doing the job on the field, and everything looked lovely.
As I put on my Cub uniform for the first time that afternoon, many of the players came over and welcomed me to the team, which was nice. I had expected a certain amount of coolness until I proved myself, considering my recent record. I told a few funny Yankee stories on myself, and everyone laughed. Then I displayed the three hairpieces I had with me. “This one is special,” I said, holding it up. “It’s my Gamer. It fits under my baseball cap.”
“Maybe you can get a couple of those for Santo and Hundley,” said relief pitcher Phil Regan, referring to the most-balding members of the Cubs.
“I was going to send one to Harry Walker for letting me out of his concentration camp,” I said, “until I read in the papers what he said about me.”
That morning I’d read The Hat’s comments on Joe Pepitone: “He can be a good player—when he wants to be. I expect he’ll come into Chicago and hustle. He hustled for us in spring training and for the first month or so of the season. Then he got tired and started coming up with a lot of excuses.” Fuck you, Hat, I thought, you’re not getting one of “Joe Pepitone’s My Place” custom-styled hairpieces.
I overheard Chicago writers asking some of the players about their reactions to my joining the team. “It’s tremendous, just tremendous,” said Santo.
“From what I’ve seen of him,” said pitcher Bill Hands, “he’s a player who can do a lot of things. If he comes here in the right frame of mind, he should help us.”
“He knows what it takes to win a pennant,” said Billy Williams. “He’s been on pennant winners. He’s got to help us.”
I was grooving on the words, totally relaxed. Then the lineup card appeared. I hadn’t figured on doing much more than pinch-hitting for the first few days, because I hadn’t played ball for a month. But I looked at the lineup card and saw I was listed to start in center field. I rushed outside to take outfield practice, see if my arm was in shape to make the long throws after weeks of working out only in a hairstyling salon. Incredibly, my arm felt strong.
Once the game started, I did fine in the outfield, and I singled in the winning run in the first game. I was tired, but Leo started me in the second game, too, and I singled in another run as we swept the doubleheader from the Reds. Leo finally pulled me out in the bottom of the eighth inning. I got a tremendous hand from the group of Cub fans known as the Bleacher Bums who had made the trip from Chicago to root for us. When I trotted into the dugout, all the players and Leo were lined up to shake my hand and slap me on the back. Man, I thought, I am in love with baseball again.
Three days later we went into New York to play the Mets. We were only two and a half games out of first place, and everyone on the Cubs—who had blown a nine-and-a-half-game lead in August the year before as the Mets won the pennant—was ecstatic. Everyone felt we could win it all this season, and there was a jubilant, confident atmosphere in the locker room that reminded me of my first three years with the Yankees. It was sweet.
I told everyone in the dugout before the game, “Wait’ll you hear the fans when they announce my name.” You would have thought some ax murderer had been introduced, the booing was so loud and so long. My new teammates thought it was funny, I thought it was love, the fans thought it was enjoyable, so everyone was happy. We won the game 6-1, and laughed some more in the dressing room afterward.
Santo and Callison tried out my hair dryer, and I offered Ron a hairpiece, which he put on crooked. Then I took one and we ran into Leo’s office. I tried to put the rug on his head.
“He’s my buffoon,” Durocher told the writers who were in talking to him. “But I say that in a complimentary way. He’s the warmest, most sociable guy in the world. The greatest thing about him is that he can laugh at himself.”
My mother, my brothers and my Uncle Louie had all been at the game, naturally, and I met them in the parking lot. I had to sign about twenty-five autographs, and I did the last few walking to the car. I’d taken care of all of them by the time I climbed into Billy’s Pontiac. The windows were up because my brother had the air conditioning on, and just as he started to back out a kid about seven or eight years old suddenly appeared at my window.
“Joe, sign your autograph for me.”
I looked at him and pegged him as one of those snotty kids who likes to screw around with you. I’d learned to read every type of autograph-seeker over the years, and I shook my head and told Billy, who was driving, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Joe,” my mother said, “sign that little boy’s book.”
“Ma, I know these kids, believe me. You open the window and they spit on you. Billy, let’s go.”
“Joe,” my mother said, “Billy’s not going to move this car until you sign for that little boy.”
“Ma, forget it,” I said.
“Joe, please,” the kid said, holding out his book. “Sign for me.”
“You hear, Joe?” my mother said.
“Ma, all right, for Christ’s sake,” I said, rolling down the window.
The kid pulled back his autograph book and yelled, “Your mother sucks!”—then turned and ran.
“Ma, you see now?” I said, laughing.
We had a successful road trip, and there was a lot of kidding around on the flight home to Chicago. When we landed, I was sitting up front behind Leo. The steward came up to me and said, “Mr. Pepitone, your chauffeur is waiting for you when you deplane.”
Leo’s head snapped around. “Your fucking chauffeur? What is this shit?”
“I have no idea,” I said, which was true. Maybe, I thought, it’s a friend playing a gag on me. I went to get my luggage, and standing there was a guy about fifty years old with long gray hair, wearing a black chauffeur’s uniform and cap.
“I’ll take your luggage, Mr. Pepitone,” he said.
“Who sent you here?” I asked him as he picked up my suitcases.
“Follow me, please,” he said, walking toward the door. “Where will you be staying, Mr. Pepitone?”
“The Executive House Hotel,” I said, following him outside to a sparkling new Cadillac limousine that was obviously custom-made, with special chrome work and a superplush interior. I stopped short, staring at it.
“The horn,” said the driver, “plays the theme from ‘The Bridge Over the River Kwai.’”
“Splendid,” I said, getting in and hitting a button to roll down the glass between the driver and the backseat. “But who the hell are you, and who sent you?”
“I’m Fabulous Howard,” he said, smiling, “and I think we can do each other a lot of good.” He went on to tell me that he used to own a limousine service in Hollywood and had driven for many movie stars. He had only recently moved to Chicago and was in the process of building a clientele here. He said he would drive me anyplace, anytime I called, at no charge, as long as he didn’t have another job. He expected to drive me to and from the ball games daily, and anticipated getting a lot of publicity through me.
“Fabulous,” I said, “I like your style. As long as I’m going good on the ball field, this could be a nice arrangement. As soon as I start going bad, we’ll have to end it. I won’t be abl
e to get away with this shit. In the meantime, drive on.”
When we got to the Executive House Hotel, Fabulous opened the door and said, “Just a moment, please, Mr. Pepitone.” He had a long red carpet in a cylinder in back, and he unrolled it on the sidewalk leading into the hotel. At the end of the carpet were the words FABULOUS HOWARD.
It was the first time in my life I had ever gotten anything for nothing, and it turned out to be a great arrangement for over a year. Fabulous would come by, hit the horn, and I’d board my limo to the River Kwai theme. He’d deliver me to the ball park, then pick me up when the game was over late in the afternoon. Every evening was free in Chicago, because there were no lights in Wrigley Field for night games. What could be better? And Fabulous was always available to ferry me around, or to call for chicks and bring them to my place. I’d phone him at three o’clock in the morning and say, “Fabulous, pick up Miss Donna at such and such address in twenty minutes and deposit her on my doorstep.” He’d say, “It’s three in the morning!” “Howard,” I’d say, “now. And use the carpet.”
I met this girl I’ll call Rachelle the second night I was at the Executive House Hotel, and she was an unbelievable piece of ass. She was barely five feet tall with a perfectly proportioned body and she did it all. She was so small I could throw her up in the air and spin her on one finger.
Rachelle was very pretty and very hip. The first time I was balling her, we were really going at it, and suddenly I felt my wig begin to slip. I stopped, reached up, patted it, then resumed. Within two minutes it was slipping again. Again I fixed it. This happened two more times. Finally Rachelle looked up at me and said, “Hold it, you motherfucker. Take off your hat and fuck me right.”
I fell off her, roaring, tears running down my cheeks. I thought it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said to me. I saw quite a bit of Rachelle after that. There were some girls who didn’t read the sports pages and didn’t know I wore a hairpiece. Somehow, I didn’t want them to know. I’d go down on them and they’d grab for my head. I was always alert. I’d reach up and hold their hands. But with Rachelle it didn’t matter. She knew how to deal with my hat.
Chicago was the best thing that ever happened to me. The first time I went to bat at Wrigley Field, the fans gave me a standing ovation. I’d been averaging an RBI per game since I joined the Cubs, but I had yet to hit a home run for the club and I still got a standing ovation. Sinatra was right: it was my kind of town.
Within a month I was getting mentions in Irv Kupcinet’s column: “Joe Pepitone, one of the new darlings of the Cubs, dining in elegance at the 95 in the John Hancock Center.” I’d always suspected I was one of the beautiful people, but it was nice to see it written down in public.
I dug reading the Chicago papers because I was getting all kinds of good notices. “I don’t care what people say about Pepitone,” Leo Durocher said for publication, “all I know is what I see. And from what I’ve seen, he’s one helluva ballplayer. As a matter of fact, he’s an even better ballplayer than I thought he was.”
“He’s been a great influence on our club,” said Don Kessinger. “He keeps the guys laughing and relaxed. But I’ll tell you one thing—every time he’s walked on that field, he’s given us a hundred percent.”
I liked to keep them laughing because I wanted them to like me. I’d always wanted people to like me, to enjoy being around me. I didn’t pal out with any of the guys in particular, but I always had a lot of foolishness going in the locker room. I took to using the telephone in Durocher’s office to make personal calls; you can get away with that—and just about anything else—when you’re going well. I was going well, and the Cubs were going well. Leo told the press he didn’t mind all that much that I used the phone in his office. “Pepi thinks it’s his office,” he said.
“Pepi is beautiful,” said Ernie Banks, whose skills had faded somewhat, but who was still the spiritual leader of the Cubs. “Do you see all those banners hanging from the stands? ‘We Want Pepi.’ Everyone, wants Pepi and we have him. He’s an inspiration to us all. I even feel like singing my part today.”
Ernie was one of the most amazing people I ever met in baseball. The ‘70 season was his seventeenth with the Cubs, he’d hit over five hundred home runs in his major-league career, had been named the National League’s Most Valuable Player twice, but he’d never played on a pennant winner. And it didn’t diminish his enthusiasm one bit. He was always bubbling over, “singing his part,” as he said.
There were mornings when I’d come dragging into the clubhouse, hung over, still half asleep. Ernie would be sitting there and he’d burst into a loud announcer’s voice, “Here comes Pepi! What’s happening, man? Oh, look at those eyes! Open those eyes, Pepi, and see what a beautiful day it is to play baseball in beautiful, ivy-covered Wrigley Field. It’s a great day to win two, Pepi! And we’re gonna win two with you, Pepi! Two for the Cubs! We’re gonna win two because we love baseball, don’t we, Pepi? Now isn’t this a great day to win two for the Cubs, Pepi?”
“Ernie,” I’d say, peeling open my eyes with a tongue depressor, “it’s a great day for two more hours’ fucking sleep!”
“Oh, Pepi’s got his eyes open! He is ready!”
I was ready once the game began, no matter how much partying I did—and I held that down quite a bit—because I had Ernie Banks’s kind of enthusiasm for baseball again for the first time in many years. It was really fun.
I batted over .300 through my first five weeks with the Cubs. Then my average plummeted, but not my RBIs. I had 57 hits in 56 games and drove in 44 runs, including 12 homers, and a .268 average. The last home run came on the final day of the season and made us all some money. We were tied with the Mets for second place. That homer won the game and we had second place all to ourselves, which meant we didn’t have to split the runner-up money. We finished five games out of first, because we just couldn’t keep pace with the Pirates down the stretch. That was a shame.
I really wanted to win a pennant with that great bunch of guys, and for those great Cub fans. So what had started off as a hateful season ended up good, if not good enough. But I personally had no complaints.
XX
“Did she say I was good?”
I went back to Brooklyn after the season and discovered that “Joe Pepitone’s My Place” was going bad. Like under. I’d had no inkling. It was as if someone had thrown a light switch, and the bright, shiny salon had gone dark. The sudden death did not smell right to me, but I never found out exactly what had gone wrong. All I knew was that another dream had died.
The hell with it, I said to myself. I’m big in Chicago now and I can live there and get something going that I can keep a closer eye on. I definitely wanted to have a business working for me on the side. I was thirty years old now and I had to think about my future. A business would also help keep me from thinking about my past, which would be nice.
I visited my family, went to see Diane and Lisa, then went out with Dominic for an evening on the town before flying back to Chicago. Dominic Morello had become my best friend in the few years I’d known him. I had more laughs with him than anyone else I knew, and the more I laughed, the better I felt.
Dominic took me to see his father, who had been asking him to bring me by for some time. When I walked in, Mr. Morello yelled, “Giuseppi, Giuseppi! You know my son three year and you no come to meet his father till now. Why you make me wait? You Italian and you no come see your friend’s father.” Like Dominic, he was a very funny man. “I watch you play ball all the time on the TV,” said Mr. Morello. “Sometimes you strike out, and I go to the TV and spit on the screen. But when you make a home run, I wipe it off.”
Another close friend with whom I did a lot of partying was named Alfred. He may be the only man I ever met who was more interested in balling than I was. He was always bragging about the size of his dick—which was rather stupendous—and saying he was a better ball than 1 was. “Who cares?” I’d say. Of course, I might have cared
a little.
I remember one time we had a couple of chicks at my place. We smoked some dope, stripped down, paired off, and started balling on the king-size bed. The girl I was with, whom I’ll call Jenny, started groaning and sighing and yipping and screaming. Wow, I said to myself, I must be really great tonight.
“Alfred, you hear her?” I said, glancing over at him.
“Yeah, brother, you really got her going,” he said as he started working faster.
Jenny’s breathing was becoming heavier and heavier, her groans quicker, deeper, and her head was tossing from side to side. I was really turned on, and I saw that the girl under Alfred wasn’t reacting at all no matter how hard he worked.
“Ohhhhh!” Jenny groaned, “Ohohohohhhhhh!” Suddenly her head stopped waggling, she opened her eyes and said, “Joe, would you mind getting off for a minute? I have to take a pee.”
Alfred let out a roar and collapsed on his girl. “Oh, you’re good,” he said. “You’re so good tonight! She’s been putting on an act all this time—and you’ve been digging it.” He rolled off his girl and just lay there, laughing.
I flew back to Chicago and took an apartment in a building a friend of mine owned, the Astor House. It was across the street from the Playboy Mansion, where most of the girls who worked in the Playboy Club lived. I had been dating several of the Bunnies, so my new location figured to be convenient.
Early in November I met another Bunny, Stephanie “Stevie” Deeker, who eventually became my present wife. I totally flipped over her. I asked her for a date, and she said, “Call me at the Mansion.” I called the next day. She said she was busy. I called again the day after that, and she was still busy. On my sixth call, Stevie finally said, “Listen, Joe, I’ve heard about you, and I don’t think we’d get along. We have different ideas about things.”
