Ball Four (RosettaBooks Sports Classics)

by Jim Bouton

  The girl pulled him away, but he must have complained to a cop or somebody, because pretty soon it got back to Lemon that there had been an incident in the bullpen. Between innings he ran out and chewed us all out, not for getting into a fight with a fan just for not paying attention to the game. “You guys are having enough trouble getting anybody out,” he said. He really knows how to hurt a guy.

  When he left there was much consternation over him talking like that to our man Bill Ferrell, who happens to be nineteen years old and has a perfect pitching record, and in his only time at bat he got a base hit. We call him “1 and 0” and “A Thousand,” and what he should have told Lemon is that he’s not having any trouble getting anybody out.

  The reason I suffer from mai tai poisoning so often is that the other guys can drink them with no effect at all while I get drunk. They insist I come along so that they can, as they say, put the hurt on my body. Then in the morning they invite me for breakfast so they can observe the havoc they have wrought. While they gorge themselves on the veranda, I bathe my eyes with Murine.

  All of which decided us on two things about playing baseball in Hawaii: that in addition to the $7.50 meal money, there ought to be a beverage allowance; and that if a guy’s home team was Hawaii and he was called up to the big leagues he might decide he didn’t want to go.

  APRIL

  26

  After seven straight appearances I didn’t get into the game tonight. We lost 5–1, and after the game Lemon called me into his office and said, “You mad at me?”

  “No, why?” I said.

  “Because I wasn’t able to get you into the game tonight.”

  We laughed. A winner’s laugh.

  Dick Bates got called up today. Not me, not Darrell Brandon. Dick Bates. We were sitting around the hotel pool when Sheldon arrived and asked us if we’d heard about Bates. We said no. When he told us, at first I thought he was kidding. Then I got pissed off. I was sure I’d be next. You just can’t tell what goes through their minds up there, though. Like Lemon was telling me that after last night’s game he was talking to Milkes on the phone, giving him the statistics of the ballgame, and when he got to where I came into the game he said, “And guess who relieved?” And Milkes said, “Him again?”

  “Yep,” Lemon said, “and he got a save. And do you know he’s thrown 80 strikes and 47 balls so far?” (This is good even if you’re not throwing the knuckleball.) Milkes was impressed. The point I started to make is that Milkes told Lemon that Edgerton had looked pretty good but that “they’re beginning to get to him.” When Lemon asked how many games Edgerton had pitched in, Milkes said two. Beginning to get to him! For crying out loud.

  At the end of our talk I was going to ask Lemon about the possibility of getting a start or two while I was down here. Just then Bob Lasko came along and asked when he was going to pitch next and I didn’t have the heart to say anything. I was afraid Lemon would give me a start and cut into Lasko’s time. Really.

  A note here about motivation. Marv Stachle has been talking about quitting after this season. He’s been bouncing up and down between Triple-A and the majors for nine years now without getting close to his four years in. Now he says he just wants to have a good year, not because he expects to go anywhere, but for pride.

  My own reaction is that pride counts.

  When I called my wife after my third save, there was a gathering of Vancouver Mounties outside the phone booth. So on the bus today I was asked if I always call home after a save or a win and I said yes, I did. And Greg Goossen said, “Big deal. It means about three phone calls a year.”

  Corky Evans, my catcher, doesn’t drink, smoke or swear. He spends his spare time reading Field and Stream and writing three letters to his girl every day and reading the three letters he gets from her in return. Corky doesn’t even go out for a milkshake. So tonight Bob Lemon said to him, “Hey, Corky, if you go out looking for broads tonight, make sure you take that big glove.”

  I was glad to hear the score of the Seattle game tonight—sort of glad. They lost 14–2. I would rather they won 15–14.

  APRIL

  27

  I was on a radio show after the ballgame last night and today the guys were kidding me about the gift. In the majors it’s usually something worth $25 or $50, but in the minors it’s a choice: You can have a “best wishes for the rest of the year” or an “everybody’s rooting for your comeback.”

  Although I gave up my first earned run tonight, I got my fourth save. Right after the game we catch a midnight flight back to the mainland. I feel like a conquering hero returning.

  APRIL

  28

  Seattle

  I bummed a ride to Vancouver with Lemon rather than fly up with the team so I could have an afternoon at home. Lemon had to stop off for a conference with Milkes and Schultz. At three in the afternoon he called me. “You don’t have to come back with me,” he said. “Enjoy the day with your family and call Milkes tomorrow.”

  “What does that mean, Bob?”

  “I don’t know, Meat. Just call Marvin tomorrow.”

  My wife and I spent the rest of the day trying to figure the percentages. First, of course, it could mean I was being called up by the Pilots, and since they’re home, I could join them tomorrow. It could also be that the Pilots are trying to make a trade and if it goes through there’ll be an opening on the staff. If the trade doesn’t go through, I’ll be heading back to Vancouver. On the other hand, they may be trying to get a pitcher in a trade and if they do, it’s also back to Vancouver for me. But if they don’t get the pitcher, then I’ll be called up. Finally, it could be that I may be involved in a trade.

  We’re covered for houses here and in Vancouver. But suppose I’m traded. I don’t think I can afford any more deposits. And another thing. My wife just got through buying a bunch of beach toys for the kids. And this afternoon, before the phone call from Lemon, the kids ran around the neighborhood saying goodbye to their friends of two weeks. Tomorrow morning they may be saying hello again.

  Part 5

  The Yanks Are Coming, The Yanks Are Coming

  APRIL

  29

  Hello again.

  The news came this morning. “Hrrrmph,” Marvin Milkes said, or words to that effect. I was back with the Seattle Pilots. Not only that, but I had an hour-and-a-half to get my ass to the clubhouse and into uniform. Not only that, right after the game we’re going on a road trip, first stop Minneapolis. Not only that, my suitcase has gone on ahead to Vancouver. Not only that, my hang-up suit bag is up there too and doesn’t even have my name on it. Not only that, I’m inordinately happy.

  I’m so happy I wasn’t able to sleep last night, just thinking about being happy. So I got out of bed at four in the morning and spent two hours writing notes for a speech I’d like to deliver to Sal Maglie and/or Joe Schultz.

  This is what I decided to say:

  “I’ve given a lot of thought to this. In fact it’s all I’ve thought about for weeks. Number one, the knuckleball. I’d like you to understand it takes a feel to throw it, not strength. So I think I have to throw fifteen minutes on the sidelines to a catcher every single day, no matter how many days in a row I’ve pitched, or how many innings I might be expected to go that night.

  “Number two, we have to adjust our thinking on walks. Walks are inevitable with a pitch that jumps around so much. What’s more important, when you’re a knuckleball pitcher, is the total number of walks and hits. For instance, for Vancouver I pitched eleven innings and gave up four hits and seven walks, a total of eleven base runners. If this were three walks and eight hits it wouldn’t be as good because runners move faster and farther on base hits than they do on walks. Also I think it’s wrong to throw a fastball to a good hitter with a 3-and-2 count unless I’ve got a big lead, and I think it’s wrong to throw a fastball 3 and 1 in a close game, and it’s wrong to throw a fastball 3 and 0 when a home run or hit would beat me. In every case I’d rather walk the guy w
ith my best pitch than let him beat me with one swing at my worst.

  “I’d also like to say that I don’t mind talking about the mistakes I’ve made in certain situations. Some people call it second-guessing, but I don’t. It’s good to go over mistakes—after the game. What I want to eliminate is too many hollered instructions during the game. For example, if somebody hollers out to me, ‘Make him hit the ball,’ I think he means I should throw a fastball or slider, since I’m always trying to throw every knuckleball right down the middle anyway. I have to choose my own pitch, and chances are it’s the knuckleball.

  “Now, about that start. I think it’s possible that someday I could pitch every three days with only two days of rest, or every four days, and relieve in between. I know I did it last year and Marvin Milkes can be a witness to that. The only other knuckleballer who is as young and strong as I am is Niekro, and he’s starting every four days now. It’s taken the Braves a long time to come around to the idea that a knuckleball pitcher can be a starter, but they have and the results are great. I’m so convinced this could be done that I’d be willing to go to the minors and prove it. In fact, the very nature of the pitch is such that it’s more adaptable to starting than relieving. A starting pitcher doesn’t have to worry about coming in with men on base.

  “Finally, I don’t think it’s fair to compare me right away with guys like Niekro, Wood, Fisher and Wilhelm. They’re top pitchers and I think I should be allowed to be only fair or even mediocre for a while—say, a month or six weeks. After all, the other guys have had years.”

  That’s my speech. Now I wonder if I can pry anybody away from his liverwurst sandwich long enough to hear it.

  When I got to the clubhouse today it was as though I’d never left. It was fun being back with all the guys again, and I really laid my week in Hawaii on them.

  Sal and I had our big conversation.

  Sal: “Hi, what time’d you get in?”

  Me: “Eight yesterday morning. From Hawaii.”

  Sal: “Humglmpf.”

  That was it.

  Marty Pattin won the game for us tonight with a two-hitter. He had a no-hitter going into the eighth and I thought, how could anybody not know he’s pitching a no-hitter. The fans were cheering while Pattin was picking up the resin bag. We won 2–0, and I walked into the clubhouse feeling happy with myself for having given the ballclub such a tremendous lift that Pattin went out and pitched a two-hitter.

  I was also gratified that Joe Schultz had me warming up, along with Jack Aker, in the ninth. This was a close game and he had me warming up. L’il old me.

  MAY

  1

  Minneapolis

  I started warming up before the game today in Minnesota and it was so damn cold—and the American League ball is definitely bigger than the Pacific Coast League ball—that I couldn’t get the damn thing to break at all. Every single knuckleball I threw was rolling over, or spinning sideways, and I started to panic. I could feel the sweat break out on me, and I was cold and sweaty at the same time. Here was Lemon sending in good reports on me, I thought, and here I was letting him down. Not only that. When they get a look at this junk they’re going to think all I have is a minor-league knuckleball. Baseball people think like that. And I thought if I didn’t have a good knuckleball right now they’d send me down again and I’d never come back up.

  Of course, when I got in the game my knuckleball was great. I came in with the bases loaded and promptly went to 3 and 1 on the hitter. What do I do now? Fastball or knuckleball? Before I was sent down it probably would have been the fastball. I threw the knuckleball and got a grounder to first base for the out at the plate. Then I struck out the next hitter to end the inning. I saved all three runs from being charged to my roomie.

  I pitched two more innings, throwing only one fastball. Not a ball was hit out of the infield. We lost, 4–1.

  Dick Bates was sent back down to make room for Darrell Brandon. I’m not sure what they think they’re doing, but at a guess front offices are more interested in players who are far than those who are near. They were more interested in Bates than Brandon and Bouton, but only until they saw Bates up close.

  We also just bought John O’Donoghue and when Gary Bell and I walked into the coffee shop this morning he was sitting there. Gary said that when ballplayers get up in the morning and go into the coffee shop and see a player from a different organization sitting there, “Everybody starts stepping lightly.”

  Gary has come up with a good nickname for Freddy Velazquez. Freddy just sits there in the bullpen, warming up pitchers, and he never gets into a game and just looks sad. So Gary calls him Poor Devil.

  Last night Gary and I stayed up late talking about real estate and what future there might be in it for him as investor or salesman or broker and I suggested he might get involved by reading some real-estate books. Gary is a typical ballplayer in some ways in that he doesn’t seem to have any plan for himself, nothing to fall back on. The day he’s out of baseball is the day he’ll start thinking about earning a living. And then it could be too late.

  We stayed up so late talking that I needed a nap in the bullpen. Fortunately the Minnesota bullpen is out of sight. So I slept four solid innings before going into the game. There may be better ways to earn a living, but I can’t think of one.

  Gary wasn’t very happy, of course, after being knocked out in the fifth. He had a couple of beers and said, “Maybe we ought to break out those real-estate books pretty soon.” Then he had a better idea. He suggested that tonight the two of us go out and see what we could do about restructuring parts of San Francisco (we were to leave for Oakland after the game).

  “San Francisco,” Gary said, “is absolutely going to catch hell.”

  I was sitting in front of my locker this afternoon and suddenly someone walked over to me and there was a shadow on the newspaper I was reading. My heart started thumping. I could almost hear Sal Maglie say, “Joe wants to see you in his office.” That’s what insecurity is.

  Today Joe Schultz said, “Hey, I want to see some el strikos thrown around here.”

  I’m always fascinated by what people say during infield practice. It’s a true nonlanguage, specifically created not to say anything. This one today from Frank Crosetti as he hit grounders: “Hey, the old shillelagh!”

  Had a big talk with Sal Maglie today. Not the big talk, with note cards and all that, which I carry around waiting for the right, quintessentially right, moment. It went about like this.

  Me: “Sal, I’ve made some decisions about my knuckleball and I’d like to talk them over with you.”

  Sal: “Mblvckd?”

  Me: “Yes. Well, I think I’ve got to throw the knuckleball all the time and forget about my other pitches.”

  Sal: “Of course. Christ, if you don’t do that you won’t get anybody out. That’s your bread and butter.”

  Me: “Another thing. I’ve got to throw the ball for about fifteen minutes before the game to get the feel of it. I don’t worry about tiring my arm. Strength means nothing to me.”

  Sal: “Certainly. Absolutely. Otherwise you can’t stay sharp with it.”

  So I went back to my locker and tore up my index cards. Well, the truth of it is I tried to talk to Joe Schultz on the airplane, but every time I checked he was asleep. When he was awake, I had some second thoughts. Translation: I didn’t have the nerve. I decided he would take it as me, Jim Bouton, trying to give orders to him, Joe Schultz. So I, Jim Bouton, said “Aw, the hell with it.”

  Now I’ve got permission to do it my way anyway. Sal Maglie. Love that man.

  The man I love had quite an adventure tonight. Darrell Brandon pitching, and with Rod Carew on third base he’s using a full wind-up. At the last moment he decides to take a look over at Carew, who’s taking a pretty good lead. So he backs off the rubber and Sal yells at him, “For crissakes, get the hitter. The runner isn’t going anyplace.”

  So Darrell winds up and lets fly. And Carew steals home.r />
  When Darrell comes into the dugout at the end of the inning, Maglie lets him have it. “Dammit,” he says. “You know you’ve got to pitch from the stretch in that situation.”

  Eddie O’Brien has finally been nicknamed. “Mr. Small Stuff.” It’s because of his attention to detail. Says Mr. Small Stuff, “Put your hat on.” He said that to me today. Also to Mike Hegan. We were both running laps at the time.

  Another thing Eddie O’Brien does is stand next to you when you’re warming up. I think he does it so he can be near the phone when it rings. He has to answer it. One of these days I’ll beat him to it and when Schultz asks for O’Brien I’ll say, “He ain’t here,” and hang up. Add dreams of glory.

  Oh yes. As I went out to pitch he said, “Throw strikes.”

  I don’t think Eddie O’Brien understands this game.

  Maybe nobody does. Like when I went out to do some throwing on the sidelines before the game Sal Maglie said, “Do your running before you throw.”

  “Gee, Sal,” I said agreeably, “I don’t like to throw when I’m plumb tuckered out from running. I’d rather throw first, then run.”

  So Sal said, triumphantly, “What if it rains?”

  “If it rains, then I’d rather have had my throwing in than my running.”

  At which point Ron Plaza said, to no one in particular, “Aw, c’mon, let’s go.”

  I went. But first I did my throwing. And it didn’t rain.

  MAY

  2

  Oakland

  Talked to my wife and she said there were some interesting things in the Seattle paper about my knuckleball. The quotes from Joe and Sal were that, well, it was better than it was before. Then there was a quote from Billy Martin, the bold and brash (as they say) manager of the Twins, which said it was a “helluva” knuckleball. The thought naturally occurred that Sal and Joe are not yet willing to make that kind of commitment to my knuckleball.