It took but a minute for Dock to hear my interview request and agree to see me. “One condition though,” he said. “If I’m going to tell you my story, you’re going to tell the inmates of my facility your story.”
I’m always willing to share my experience, strength, and hope with anyone wanting to hear about my recovery, so this was an easy stipulation to accept.
What follows is, in essence, the morning I spent with Dock at the Marantha Correctional Facility, smack dab in the middle of the California high desert.
I showed up early on a typical sun-baked morning, temperatures already pushing triple figures. The reception room is a no-frills deal with security glass protecting the reception desk. Dock took about ten minutes to come for me, and I was getting a bit antsy. Through the glass, I could observe lots of activity, with prisoners in blue overalls coming and going, along with the expected array of uniformed guards. Suddenly the door to the reception room opened and out sauntered Dock, as casual as could be in his Nike warm-up suit, looking more as though he were headed to a fitness club than to work at a prison. His greeting was warm, like that of an old friend. For him, just another day at the office, but for me, it was going to be an experience to remember.
Dock Speaking to Inmates
Marantha Correctional Facility, Adelanto, California
Dock: I signed to play baseball in 1963, right after I was released from jail for stealing a car. I played baseball all over L.A. We used to play out in Glendale, and I thought I was on a road trip to San Francisco or something, because we stopped and ate breakfast. We thought we were going a long ways, but it wasn’t but thirty minutes from home. I played all up and down the West Coast. That’s when I met Bobby Bonds, Dusty Baker, all them guys.
I got involved with drugs when I was young, playing around in the alley on 135th Street. I was a California hot dog, smoking marijuana, talking stuff. I was fortunate enough to be in baseball for twelve years, eleven years more than I was supposed to, because during the first years I was into all kinds of things I shouldn’t have been into. Drugs was taking me to all kinds of places. I had but one good year.
Inmate: I thought you said you had one good ear!
Dock: Oh come on, man, I’m talking about all those Gottis I used to run into. I thought one of them would kill me. I got away with a lot of stuff. I met a lot of crazy people.
Inmate: You played with Babe Ruth, right? [much laughter]
Dock: Naw, I didn’t play with Babe Ruth. I was before him! Did I tell you I got a call yesterday from a reporter wanting to know about Barry Bonds and steroids? I told him if you want to know about some dope, you might have to go into the Hall of Fame from about 1963 till now and take everybody out. So leave Barry alone. The bottom line is they got to get these steroids off the market. If they are around, people are going to buy them. They’re going to use them.
Inmate: You mean some of that over-the-counter shit?
Dock: Right. They got stuff out now that’ll turn you into the Incredible Hulk.… How’d I get onto this?
Inmate: Dock, go outside and come back in and start over! [laughter]
Another Inmate: Hey Dock! If you had to do it all over again, would you?
Third Inmate: He just did! [more laughter]
Dock: I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Now where was I? Nobody’s listening. So let me get back to the drugs. You see, I got involved with drugs real heavy when I got to the major leagues, because when you get to the big leagues, you start getting big league dope.
Inmate: I thought it was because you got a big league check!
Dock: Naw, the only dope I ever bought was some heroin, one time. And I flushed it. I don’t count that as buying it, ’cause I didn’t use it, so I never bought any drugs.
Inmate: Did dope mess up your game?
Dock: Definitely.
Inmate: Hey Dock, did you ever hit a home run?
Dock: Oh come on, man, you know I hit two! One in batting practice, and one in spring training.
Inmate: That’s all Dock ever talks about! [more laughter]
Dock: So here’s what happened to me. I was functioning as a baseball player, but I was addicted to drugs and alcohol. I want you to understand that my life was no different than yours—my arena was just different. I was in baseball, but I was in the streets too. Like I was saying, it’s all the same. We experience the same kind of stuff, some more than others, but it’s all the same.
I was seen at this time as a militant, a black militant, with braids in my hair. No one knew what that was, so I rolled with that. Then there were curlers. I had curlers in my hair. Some of y’all aren’t old enough to remember Superfly. I was the OG [original gangster] Superfly … on the mound with pink curlers in my hair!
Inmate: Now you got the Shaq look.
Dock: Chemicals killed all my hair. Chemicals and drugs. But I was fortunate to have played ball for twelve years. I played with some great ballplayers. I played in a great era. I met a lot of people, traveled to a lot of places, and I had a chance to do a lot of things.
If you stay clean and sober, you’re going to meet people from all walks of life, so don’t be afraid to get out there. I even got jobs in movies because of baseball. I also met many influential people.
After I got out of baseball, I ended up in treatment. My son had a lot to do with me getting there. When he was a baby, he was playing with some of my jewelry, and I tapped him a few times, tell him, “No.” Then years later I was watching TV and saw this story about a father hitting his kid and breaking his arms, and it flashed in my head, “How hard was I hitting my son, or one day how hard would I hit him?” And that caused me to accept going into treatment. Also my friends were telling me, “Dock, you got a problem with drugs and alcohol.”
I played baseball from 1964 to 1979 [includes time in minor leagues]. I was in two World Series. We won in 1971 against Baltimore, and we lost against Cincinnati in 1976 when I was with the Yankees. People ask me where my rings are? I left one in the bathroom on Highway 10 in Arizona and the other on top of a car that my nephew was washing. I could call the people who make the rings and get new ones to replace those, but I really don’t care. Remember I told you that the materialistic stuff isn’t going to mean that much when we really get clean and sober, ’cause it ain’t about that.
I left a lot of friends in baseball that was all screwed up, and I said, “I’m gonna go to school.” So I went to school, the University of California at Irvine, to become a substance abuse counselor. When I graduated, I went to work in a drug program in Beverly Hills. I soon decided that I liked this kind of stuff. I met this guy named Bill, the head of special education at California Youth Authority [CYA] in Paso Robles. He started calling me and saying, “What are you going to do, Dock? Don’t stay down there in Beverly Hills. Come on up here and start saving some lives.” Every day he would call—same thing. “These guys need you, Dock, they need you.” He said, “Stop fooling around with all those rich people down there. Come on, Dock.” So after about three weeks I gave in, and I went to work with him at the CYA. That was about sixteen or seventeen years ago. Bill and I started a new program there. I continued to work in and out of institutions and juvenile halls. Then I took a job in Texas to get back with my son, who I had lost through a divorce. He was calling for me, so I went down there to Texas. I was there for seven years and finally came back to California with him so he could go to school. We settled here in Victorville, and I got this job at Marantha. I called Bill and told him I was working at a penitentiary called Marantha, and he said, “That’s where I’m at!” So there you go, we were back together again. Now I tell people, “I’m locked up and that’s where I’m supposed to be, and where I want to be.” As long as they’ll let me stay here, this is where I’ll be. I ain’t going nowhere.
Inmate: Hey Dock, you in the Hall of Fame?
Dock: Yeah. You go downstairs, make a left, go all the way to the wall, make another left, and I’m right there. The no-hitt
er section. But I wasn’t voted into the Hall of Fame.
Inmate: You pitched a no-hitter?
Dock: Yeah, I threw a no-hitter for the Pittsburgh Pirates against the San Diego Padres in 1970, under the influence of LSD! Want to hear the story?
Inmate: Yeah Dock, tell it!
Dock: Well, I didn’t know until six hours before the game that I was going to pitch. I was in Los Angeles, and the team was playing in San Diego, but I didn’t know it. I had taken LSD … I thought it was an off-day, that’s how come I had it in me. I took the LSD at noon. At 1 p.m., my girlfriend looked at the newspaper and said, “Dock, you’re pitching today!”
That’s when it was $9.50 to fly to San Diego. She got me to the airport at 3:30. I got there at 4:30, and the game started at 6:05 p.m. It was a twi-night doubleheader.
I can only remember bits and pieces of the game. I was psyched. I had a feeling of euphoria. I was zeroed in on the catcher’s glove, but I didn’t hit the glove too much. I remember hitting a couple of batters, and the bases were loaded two or three times.
The ball was small sometimes, the ball was large sometimes. Sometimes I saw the catcher, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I tried to stare the hitter down and throw while I was looking at him. I chewed my gum until it turned to powder. They say I had about three to four fielding chances. I remember diving out of the way of a ball I thought was a line drive. I jumped, but the ball wasn’t hit hard and never reached me.
The Pirates won the game 2-0, although I walked eight batters. It was the high point of my baseball career.
Inmate: Man, sounds like you was going faster than your pitches. [laughter]
Dock: Let’s settle down. I’d like to talk a little about my father. Remember that I once told you about how if I lost a game, my father was there to pick me up, and if I won a game, we would celebrate together? But when he died, I got mad at God, because I had just started letting my dad into my life again. Even today, I can’t remember my father being at my early baseball games, yet I’ve seen film of some of my old games and there he is. But I still can’t picture it. I’ve blotted it out. Something happened when I was a little boy. My father was taken from me, and I blotted it out. To keep him alive, I blotted out all of my early memories.
Inmate: So how does that affect you with your son?
Dock: I came and got my son when he was fourteen, and he stayed with me until now.
Inmate: He still with you?
Dock: Yeah, he ain’t going nowhere.
Inmate: How old is he, Dock?
Dock: Twenty-four! But I spoiled him like my father spoiled me. I’ve gone to every one of his games. He’d say, “Why you here?” And I’d say, “’Cause I want to be, now get out of my face.” Even when he got into college in Bakersfield, I’d fly to every game. You see, where I was missing my father, I won’t allow me to be missing his life. But I sure do spoil him. I’m trying to break that spoil cycle, but my son is still messing around. Failing to pay his child support. I told him, “You do that and you’ll be over here [prison] with me!”
But I’m trying to be there for him when my father wasn’t there for me. You see, my father was in the hospital a lot, and I hate hospitals. My friend Big Daddy went to see my father more than I did. He had a good relationship with my father. He was there with my father more than I was. He brought that to my attention when I got out of treatment.
But anyway, here I am … where I’m supposed to be.
Inmate: Hey Dock, you originally from Pittsburgh?
Dock: No man, I’m originally from Beverly Hills. My father lost an $800,000 bet and we had to move to Watts! [laughter]
Inmate: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything?
Dock: No, I wouldn’t. ’Cause I wouldn’t be the person I am today. Coming to this place is a blessing. A godsend.
Interview with Dock Ellis at Marantha Correctional Facility
Lets see … my first memory of drinking was when I was three years old, drinking vodka, thinking it was water. My parents were looking for me, and I was down in the basement, drunk. They thought I was asleep, but I was drunk. I was just three. I can go that far back. I can remember my grandfather drank Boilermakers: Brew 102 beer and vodka. I thought it was water. He caught me a couple of times and told me, “Boy, don’t drink that water,” so I thought it was water. That’s my earliest recollection of drinking.
My father didn’t drink. My mother didn’t drink. I might have seen my father take two sips of beer when I was a kid, so I didn’t have no influence for drinking from my parents. It was in the streets, trying to belong, being part of the group, in the alley on 135th Street. That’s where it started.
Growing up, I graduated into drugs, smoking dope. We used to use bean shooters. Kids don’t even know what those are, so I tell them straws. We used to put cigarettes in them so we didn’t get the smell on our hands. Tricking our parents. We also used those bean shooters with weed. And always drinking alcohol. I always talk about Harvey Wilson started me drinking rum. Rum and coke. I found out I needed drugs to do certain things and alcohol to do other things.
When I began competing in sports, we drank wine and took Seconal. We called them Red Devils. To dunk a basketball or to run with a football. I remember my sisters telling mother, “Junior’s high, he’s fooling with drugs.” My cover was always to act crazy. “Junior’s crazy, Momma. Look at him. He’s on drugs. Look at him. He’s eating his beans and rice off the floor.” I had dropped the plate, so I just sat there and ate off the floor. I was loaded, so I didn’t care. My sisters were aware of what was happening but not my mother. My father was always gone. My mother never knew. Even up until I went through treatment. She just thought I drank a lot. I remember lifting up the mattress and puking once and then just putting the mattress back down, rather than go to the bathroom. I told my mother I was sick, but I was just drunk.
Once my mother had a doctor come to the house. My friend and I had drunk a half-gallon of scotch and taken some Dexamil. We wanted to stay up all night. Dr. Murakami came to the house and he tells my mother, “Oh, Mrs. Ellis, don’t worry, he’s just got a hangover.” I thought I was dying.
I was into alcohol pretty good until I really got into baseball. Then I started with cocaine. That was around 1965 in New York. From there I was off and flying. By 1968, I was gone. A lot of things were happening. My father wasn’t around, and I was going through a period of hating God. I learned in treatment that I had a built-in excuse for my using. I always had my father patting me on my back when I won or lost, and he was gone, so I had my excuse. When other guys’ fathers would visit me when I was in baseball is when I went on some terrible runs. I was mad, ’cause my father wasn’t there. I was really hurting.
Drugs got me in a lot of trouble in baseball and in the press. Having to deal with them every day. They would pick at me, and I would pick at them. Many people in Pittsburgh took a liking to me when I played there, and if it wasn’t for them, I’d be dead because I went to places I was not supposed to be. See, I had never run in the streets of California like I was in Pittsburgh. I had never been in a club. These streets became my stomping ground.
The turnaround came for me when I left Pittsburgh. That’s when I went into treatment. I had hit my bottom, because I didn’t know what to do. Baseball was over. Cocaine was over. But I kept drinking, trying to reach that high. I went into treatment because this woman kept telling me I had a drug problem. That, and the scenario with my son. So I said, “It’s time to go.” This was September 30, 1980, which is my sobriety date.
The first person I met in treatment was Dr. Hernandez, a psychologist who told me I was suicidal. I told him he was a damn fool. But then he handed me back a piece of paper that I had given him listing all the drugs I had put in my system. He told me that anyone that would take all of this stuff is trying to kill themselves. Right then I said, “You don’t ever have to worry about me and drugs and alcohol again, ’cause I ain’t no damn fool.” That’s all it too
k for me to get it. That was it!
And in more than twenty-three years of sobriety, I never looked back. I’m not suicidal. I know that if I ever use again, I’ll kill myself, and that’s the bottom line.
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.
—William Cowper
Anne Lamott
(writer)
* * *
I WAS INTRODUCED TO ANNIE Lamott in the late eighties by my friend John. I was told that Annie was down in Los Angeles from her home in San Francisco to write a review for California Magazine of a new restaurant in West Hollywood called Chaya Brasserie. An extra body was needed to order additional food to be sampled by Annie. I readily agreed, loving new culinary experiences. I was curious to meet Annie, whose writing I admired. I also heard she had incredible blond dreadlocks.
Annie and John were fairly new in sobriety, and the conversation, as it often is among recovering people, focused on war stories about our days of uncontrolled consumption. I knew John’s history as a drunk matched mine, and I had heard that Annie had done a bit of drinking and using in her day as well. We had some good laughs and conversation. The only other part of the experience I remember was Annie continually sampling food off our plates, for her review.
Over the years, I’ve followed her writing closely. I’ve become a fan. When I asked her to contribute to this book, she didn’t hesitate. Listening to her share her story with me over the telephone, I could just picture those creative wheels spinning in her extraordinary head. I wondered whether she still has those dreadlocks.
The Harder They Fall Page 7
