by Jim Bouton
Just then Wayne Comer breaks in with his loud, “Get him the fuck out of here.”
Somehow, at this moment, in this place, in front of this nice old gentleman, that seems obscene to me. So I say, “Hey, Wayne, knock it off. That’s a friend of Locker’s.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Comer says, with flashing wit.
“Take it easy,” I say. “It’s only a game, you know.”
“Only a game, huh? Well, you want to do something about it?”
“Yeah, I do. I want you to knock it off.”
“Why don’t you do something about it with your fists then, instead of your mouth?”
“Just knock it off. You were wrong and you know it.”
“Why don’t you crawl all over my ass then? Jump up and crawl all over me.”
“Yeah. That will solve it.”
And it ends with that.
Except Comer keeps muttering, “Just a game, huh? Just a game.”
After the bus left for the airport I was making notes on this brilliant repartee and Ray Oyler looked over my shoulder and tried to read them. “What are you writing?” he said as I covered the notes with my hand.
“None of your business,” I answered, sweetly.
“Well, just keep my name out of it,” he said.
Can’t promise, kid. But it’s tempting.
While we were losing the first game of the doubleheader—we were down 5–1 and it was going to be our third straight here—Joe Schultz called to John Gelnar, who was keeping the pitching chart. “C’mere a minute,” he said, motioning Gelnar down to the other end of the dugout. Gelnar was sure he was going to get a big tip on pitching. And Joe Schultz, pointing up into the stands, said, “Up there near the Section 23 sign. Check the rack on that broad.”
In the eighth inning, Joe Schultz said, “Well, boys, between games today we have a choice of roast beef, baked ham or tuna salad.”
We were winning the second game 4–0 in the eighth when Fred Talbot, who had a beautiful three-hitter going, got tired. He came out with a runner on base and none out. Disaster set in promptly. First Joe Schultz used Locker. Then O’Donoghue, then Segui. Everybody in the Minnesota lineup got a hit. Rod Carew, just off the bus after coming back from his weekend in the army, ran into the stadium, threw on his uniform and, with his fly still unbuttoned, got a hit. I swear they pulled an usher out of the stands and he got a hit. We lost 5–4.
JULY
14
Seattle
I called Bud Furillo in Los Angeles today and asked him if he would tell me the name of his source for the bellhop-uniform story. Reporters, he told me, never disclose their sources. Too bad, I told him, because it was a lousy source. The story wasn’t true. That shook him up nicely.
I explained to him that it was something we’d kidded about but hadn’t actually done, and it turned out he got the story “from a very reliable Los Angeles writer,” who got it from one of the Angels, which is about the way I figured it happened.
He said he’d call Milkes and apologize for printing an erroneous story. I also came away with the impression that he’d let Milkes know that no one on our club had given him the story. Not that I think Milkes doesn’t know that. I think the whole point of that little meeting was to intimidate us into not telling things to the press in the future. Sneaky.
Jerry Stephenson was outrighted to Vancouver today just as he was moving into his new apartment. I know he lost a deposit and some rent money when he was called up from Vancouver, and I’m sure it will cost him again. Stephenson was here for seventeen days and pitched a total of three innings. He was on the road most of the time, and while he was away his wife had a miscarriage. Stephenson is all shook up. Now wait a minute. Bob Lasko lives in Vancouver and he’s spending the summer in Toledo. Mike Marshall had to fight to get sent to Toledo instead of Vancouver. Why couldn’t they just have been switched around? Because nobody thought of it. Because nobody cared. I agree with the title of a paper Mike Marshall wrote in college: “Baseball Is An Ass.”
JULY
15
We have dropped out of third place into a tie for fifth with Chicago. And Kansas City, the other expansion team, is now ahead of us.
When I got to the clubhouse tonight, I found that my two pairs of new baseball shoes had been nailed to the clubhouse floor. Used for the operation were square cement nails. They tore huge ugly holes in the soles. Also the buttons were torn off my sweatshirts, my Yoo-Hoo T-shirts were ripped to shreds and several jockstraps were pulled permanently out of stretch. Talbot’s revenge, I thought immediately. But he swore it was not him, and he convinced me. Ray Oyler and Gene Brabender admitted they were eyewitnesses, but they wouldn’t tell me who did it. They assured me, though, that it wasn’t Fred Talbot.
I asked Steve Hovley to find out for me, and he said, “If I can I will, but I doubt if they’ll tell me.”
The only other guy with a possible motive is Wayne Comer. Somehow I doubt it was him. In fact I can’t imagine why anybody would want to do that. I think it was a prank. I think it was funny when I tried to pick up the shoes that were nailed down. I think it was supposed to be funny. I think.
Besides, I can still wear the shoes—as long as it doesn’t rain.
Made my thirty-seventh appearance of the season tonight against Oakland and my super knuckleball showed up. I struck out the first three guys I faced. The third strike to Rick Monday broke so sharply McNertney never got a glove on it. It rolled between his legs to the backstop and Monday got to first base. Of course, this was after Diego Segui had come into the game at a crucial moment and given up a three-run homer and the game. Pitching in lost causes, my ERA is back down to 3.50. I still can’t see how they can keep from starting me.
JULY
16
I should say something about all the injuries we’ve had. It will explain, at least to some extent, why we’ve been going so poorly. John Donaldson, our second baseman, has a fractured toe. John Kennedy wrenched his knee and is in a cast. Rich Rollins is having a knee operation that finishes him for the year. Steve Barber is still on the disabled list (his arm doesn’t hurt, it’s just a little stiff). Tommy Harper has a pulled thigh muscle and a bad sliding strawberry. Ray Oyler has been out with a hamstring pull. So has Mike Hegan.
You will also notice that while our infielders are dropping like flies, our starting pitchers remain disgustingly healthy, if not particularly effective.
I was chatting with Fred Talbot about contracts and keeping statistics to use as negotiating arguments and he said, “Aw hell, I don’t keep statistics. Whatever they send me, I just sign and send it back. Of course, I call them a few names first.”
JULY
17
Out for a most pleasant afternoon on my neighbor’s boat, cruising through the locks from Lake Washington into Puget Sound with my wife and kids. Also Garry Roggenburk, Gordie Lund, utility infielder, and Steve Hovley, whom I invited along. Hovley wound up stealing my pants.
It was my fault. He was wearing Bermudas, and on the way into the ballpark I suggested he switch, that I’d get less static than he walking into the park in Bermudas. He agreed. But when he got out of the car, running, he had his Bermudas and my pants. So I had to walk into the clubhouse, late, wearing my bathing suit. And naturally Hovley was one of the people who said, “A bathing suit!?”
Tomorrow Diego Segui leaves the bullpen for a start. So I went over to Sal Maglie to chew on his leg for a while.
“Sal, what’s the story?”
“About what?”
“About the fact that I’m not starting and Diego Segui is.”
“Well, it has nothing to do with personalities.”
Never occurred to me that it had. Well, hardly ever.
“You know something, Jim?” Pagliaroni said to me today. “I’m convinced that they think you’re a character.”
“What kind, Pag?” I said.
“Not your personality or anything,” he said. “But that pitch. And th
e fact that you throw it all the time. As recently as two days ago I heard Sal telling Joe that he’s told you time and time again that you’re throwing too much in the outfield. I think Joe likes your knuckleball, I really do, but I don’t think Sal does, and they think it’s a little weird that you do all that throwing.”
Jim Pagliaroni is one of the most perceptive Italian catchers in the big leagues.
Joe Schultz called a morale meeting tonight and did a good job of it. He said that we were losing because of injuries and that we shouldn’t begin pressing to try to make up for them. He said that if we weren’t big-league ballplayers we wouldn’t be playing in the big leagues, and that we were just as good as any other club. “Sometimes things turn around all of a sudden and you start winning a whole lot of games. You can win them just as easy as lose them.”
It was a good speech and made us all feel better, and I agreed with all of it. Except one small part. Minnesota is better.
JULY
18
Diego Segui pitched a marvelous ballgame. He was magnificent throughout and won it 2–1. As I watched the game I was torn between wanting him to get bombed and wanting him to do well, because we could use a win and because he’s a good fellow. So there I was torn, and warming up in almost every inning. In the second game, same thing. And I never got into either game.
“You know something?” said Pagliaroni. “You looked great warming up.”
I told him thanks.
Even winning we didn’t do much to stop Rod Carew, who is now leading the league. He’s the kind of hitter who puts the ball into a hole someplace, or bloops one, every time. “He can’t miss,” McNertney said. “If I were him I’d go looking for wallets.”
Steve Hovley won the first game for us. It was a 1–1 tie in the last of the ninth, bases loaded, Hovley up and Ron Perranoski, the old pro, pitching. It was a classic confrontation: the graybeard, wily pitcher against the upstart young slugger. In the end, Hovley beat the old man at his own game. He worked the count to 3 and 2 and then fouled off a couple of borderline pitches. It was exciting. Me, I ran all the way down to the dugout so I could be closer to what was happening. And as I watched Hovley struggling out there against the best reliever in the league, I thought, how can a guy with friends like Dostoyevsky be scared in this kind of situation? He wasn’t. He hung in for another foul ball and then got the base on balls, forcing in the run.
As we walked down to the clubhouse I heard John Gelnar say, “You know, one good thing about having Hovley up there, he’s too goony to be scared.”
In the second game Hovley hit his second home run of the season. I’m the proud owner of the first ball he hit out. I bought it from the kid who caught it. Hovley said he didn’t want it. He said he didn’t think it was particularly important. The year he hits 62 it may be my most valuable possession.
I think the world should know that a girl one of my teammates goes out with is called “Rotorooter.” Around the clubhouse, guys sing, “Tell Rotorooter I love her.”
When I came in from the bullpen after we won the second game, Joe was patting everybody on the back, saying “Attaway to go” and “Nice job.” When he got to me I said, “Joe, I really had it out there tonight in the bullpen.”
“You did?” Joe said.
“Yup. Great knuckleball. Hellacious.”
“Did you throw too much?”
“Hell no.”
“Good. You’re starting tomorrow night. Feel up to it?”
“Hell yes.”
Well, what do you know? It’s “put-up-or-shut-up” time for Jim Bouton.
Before I left the ballpark tonight, Sal Maglie said, “Get your sleep, Bouton.”
And I said, “Right, Sal. And I want to have a catcher out there five hours before game time so I can start warming up.”
Driving home I found myself doing a lot of worrying. Should I take a sleeping pill tonight? Should I sleep late or get up early and take a nap later? What should I eat? At what time? Then I thought, “What the hell am I worried about all this crap for? I’ve started a lot more important games. World Series games, pennant-race games. And here I am acting like a kid.” Foolishness. I’m just going to be normal. I’m going to sleep tonight and not even think about it. When I start the game I’m going to pretend that I’m in there for relief, that I’m just going to pitch a few innings the way I do almost every day.
Look at it this way. In a couple of days two men are going to land on the moon. How the hell can I be nervous about starting a baseball game? Even if it is against the Fat Kid and his wrecking crew.
Part 6
Shut Up
JULY
19
I went over the hitters with McNertney before the game. For me the only thing this involves is deciding which hitters we’re going to throw fastballs to on what particular count. We know we’re going to start everyone off with a knuckleball and we’re going with it until 3 and 0. On the big hitters, like Killebrew, we decided to throw the knuckleball even on 3 and 0. We’d also throw the 3-and-0 knuckleball to any guy who was hitting in a game-winning situation, even if we walked him. I mean, I’d rather give up a base on balls than a three-run homer.
My main concern was that Carew and Tovar would be stealing on my knuckleball, so we went over the pick-off signs carefully and hoped for the best.
It wasn’t good enough.
In my first start of the year, on this day of July 19, 1969, A.D., I, James Alan Bouton, was creamed.
Five runs were scored off me before I was mercifully taken out of the game with two out in the fourth. There were two home runs, by Leo Cardenas and Ted Uhlaender. When Joe Schultz came out to get me I could only think of a line Fred Talbot delivered in similar circumstances: “What kept you?”
Not more than one out of every three knuckleballs I threw was doing its proper thing. Besides, my control was way off and I was behind on the hitters.
I started out in trouble and recovered. With two out, the Fat Kid got on base because of an error. A single and a walk loaded the bases, but I struck out Bob Allison on a 3-and-2 knuckleball.
After that, oblivion. I blocked it all almost as quickly as I could shower, dress and join my family in the stands. That’s the easiest way for me to forget. I crawl back to my family and use them for a crutch. Some guys drink. I talk about the kids needing new shoes.
I was glad to have the chance to start, of course. Yet now that I’ve fouled everything up so royally I’m thinking of excuses. Why did they have to start me against Minnesota? Maybe if I knew a few days in advance I could have prepared myself better. Maybe I should have taken a greenie. That’s just kidding myself, of course. I had a start and I didn’t win, and now I can look forward to the All-Star break.
Now that I think of it, I didn’t lose either. We were losing 5–0 when I left the game. We tied the game at 7–7 and went sixteen innings before stopping on account of curfew. I think I’ll remind Sal and Joe that I’m still undefeated as a starter.
And I just remembered something else. When my boy Mike was still a baby and he cried, I’d say to him, “Harmon Killebrew’s little boy doesn’t cry.” Now I wonder if Harmon Killebrew ever thinks of crying.
JULY
20
Poor John Gelnar. The game was picked up today in the seventeenth inning and he promptly lost it. Then he lost the regular game, which is two in one day and not, under most circumstances, easy to do.
And my record, as we go into the All-Star break, is 1–0. Not much to show for a half-season’s work. Still, it’s better than 1–1… or 1–2, not to mention 1–3.
JULY
21
Kyong Jo has been with us for almost a year now and the rapidity with which he’s learned English is amazing. Today he came to me with a complaint. “Dad, the kids call me John Jo, or King Jo,” he said. “Why don’t they call me Kyong Jo?”
I explained that Kyong Jo was a Korean name and difficult for American children to pronounce. And I asked him if he would li
ke to have an American name.
This is something Bobbie and I had been talking about for some time. We didn’t want to change his name right away. It was difficult enough for him to make the adjustment to a new country and new parents without, at the same time, robbing him of the only familiar thing he had left, his name. So we called him Kyong Jo. But we thought he’d want to change it eventually, and now was the time.
He said yes, he’d like an American name.
“How about David?” I said.
He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Yeah.”
“Okay, we’ll call you David. You’ll be David Kyong Jo Bouton.”
“Okay,” he said.
And he ran out the front door shouting to the neighborhood kids, “Hey, everybody. I’m David. I’m David!”
JULY
22
I take this opportunity to present a lexicon of words and phrases encountered around baseball that are, more or less, unique to the game. There are a great many phrases having to do with a pitcher throwing at a batter. Among them are:
Chin music, as in “Let’s hear a little chin music out there,” this being a suggestion that the pitcher throw the baseball near the hitter’s chin.
