Ball Four (RosettaBooks Sports Classics)

by Jim Bouton

  At the park we were refused admission. There was a rule they just made up: no nets. So we retreated to plot strategy. We decided to walk in one behind the other, net at our sides (away from the ticket taker, of course) and coats hiding the net and pole. It worked perfectly. Except for one thing. We didn’t catch a single baseball.

  AUGUST

  8

  Washington

  Possibly because we finally all understood thoroughly by now that this club is going nowhere, the guys are very loose. Today, for example, everybody in the clubhouse is listening to Cal Tjader or somebody like him, keeping time by banging clothes hangers on chairs and John Donaldson, who is so skinny we call him Bones, puts two baseballs under his uniform shirt in order to get a set of shoulders, and towels around his middle so he has a belly, and he pulls his pants up so he looks like an old-time ballplayer, and he goes through the silent-film baseball-player routine in time to the music and everybody is having a great time.

  “Hey, Mike,” I say to Mike Hegan. “I wonder what this club would be like if we were fighting for a pennant.”

  Mike promptly puckers up his lips, sucks his cheeks in, pulls his legs together, presses his buttocks together with his hands and walks around the room as though he had been dipped in concrete. “Very tight,” he says.

  Eddie O’Brien continues working at being one of the boys. He didn’t even call Marty Pattin for reading a magazine in the bullpen. And when I’m warming up in the bullpen he stands about fifteen feet behind the catcher in order to intercept any wayward knuckleballs. Come to think of it, everybody has been nice to me lately. Well, almost everybody. Plaza lets me take new baseballs out of his ballbag. Sal Maglie actually smiles at me. (Shudder. When the friendly undertaker starts smiling he may know more than you do.) I even get the feeling that if I talked to Joe Schultz he’d listen. Maybe (drool) I’ll ask for another start.

  That’s what I say, and sometimes that’s what I feel. Then there’s a game like we had today. We lost it 10–3, which isn’t the point. What is the point is that Brunet, who started, had a 2–0 lead, and as soon as he got into a little trouble, the phone rang in the bullpen. I grabbed my glove because I knew it had to be me. It was for Barber and Pattin.

  They warmed up and Barber got called. Bang, we’re losing 4–2. Then Pattin, and it’s 6–2. Again the phone rang, and again I grabbed my glove. This time they wanted O’Donoghue. He got clobbered too. Now the score is 10–3 in the eighth and the phone rings again. This time I don’t reach for my glove. But it’s for me. So I warm up and pitch the ninth. One guy gets on with a single, another on an error. Nobody hits the ball good and I’m out of the inning. This doesn’t change the score, which remains 10–3.

  I’m saving up all my statistics for my next year’s salary drive. I can just see Marvin Milkes when I whip them out. He’ll say the same thing Charlie Brown said to Lucy.

  “Charlie, I kept statistics on our team last season,” Lucy says, “and they say something. There were 57 ballgames played, 57 ballgames lost; 3,000 runs scored by the opposition, 2 runs scored by our team, 900 walks given up by our team and…”

  And after a while, Charlie Brown says, “Lucy, tell your statistics to shut up.”

  Steve Hovley and I spent the afternoon at the National Gallery of Art. Hovley said he had to check to see if Van Gogh’s paintings were dry yet.

  AUGUST

  9

  Took Hovley to my favorite Washington restaurant after the game, El Bodegon. He’s been hitting the hell out of the ball and I thought we should celebrate. We had margaritas before dinner and Hovley remarked that before this year he’d never had a drink of any kind. But in Louisville he decided to do some testing. So he had a bourbon. Then he tried a Bloody Mary. Then a martini. Then a mint julep. All in the same evening. He said it was very interesting. He also said he had no hangover. I believe most of what Steve Hovley says.

  Hovley was particularly interested in the flamenco guitarist at El Bodegon. He says he can’t decide whether to play winter ball or stay home and learn to play the guitar.

  Perhaps it was the heat. Or maybe just the stage of the season. Or the phase of the moon. No matter the cause, we got into an insane argument in the bullpen. It was a chicken-egg thing and it went like this: Can a pitcher get more strikeouts in a high-scoring game because he faces more hitters?

  I said no. I said it didn’t matter how many hitters you faced, that you could get only 27 outs in a nine-inning ballgame, and that the ratio between strikeouts and other kinds of outs would not change. Brabender and Pagliaroni thought differently. They said if you faced 100 hitters, you had a lot more chances to strike somebody out than if you faced only 27 or 28. And as he talked, Brabender got hot, and Brabender getting hot is like Old Faithful erupting. So I tried to cool him off. “Gene, you’ve got to learn that when you argue with somebody it’s not a personal thing,” I said. “I may disagree with you, but I still like you. I just think you’re wrong. And that’s no reason to get angry.”

  “I’m angry because you won’t accept facts,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s a fact,” I said. “I think what I say is a fact and that you won’t accept it. But I’m not angry at you because of it.”

  “You know something?” Brabender said. “You’re lucky. Where I come from we just talk for a little while. After that we start to hit.”

  I felt lucky indeed.

  The whole argument seemed to irritate Marty Pattin. “Who wants to listen to all that stuff?” he said. “Why can’t we just sit here and watch the ballgame?”

  Poor Marty. It’s not that he has no soul. It’s just that he’s been getting bombed lately.

  Ran into Jack Mann, who is the author of The Decline and Fall of the Yankees. Vic Ziegel of the New York Post had asked me to review the book for his column, and when I did he refused to run it. He said I was so hard on the Yankees it would get me into trouble. As things turned out, it couldn’t have done me any more harm.

  Mann had recently written a piece for the Washington Daily News about being mugged by three young men in a park. He said that he believed he understood what motivated the kids and that he felt no hatred toward them. The young men were black, but Mann revealed this only under pressure. His point was that their color was irrelevant—that is, the point of the story was that it would be a better world if indeed it were.

  I tell this story because it reminded me of something that happened to Mike Marshall in Cleveland. He was roughed up by a pack of about fifteen kids. When it was all over the police had great difficulty dragging out of him the fact that the kids were black. He didn’t think it should make any difference either.

  There was a difference, though—in Mike’s pitching. The injuries he received fighting the kids off seemed superficial. Nevertheless, it was at precisely this point that he went from being our best pitcher to our worst.

  Brant Alyea came up to me today and said that Ted Williams was asking about me.

  “What was he asking?” I said. “About what kind of person I was?”

  “Oh shit no,” Alyea said. “What difference does it make what kind of person you are? We’re all just merchandise anyway. He wanted to know whether you were in tight with the Pilots and whether they considered you in their plans for the future.”

  “It’s obvious from the way they’re using me that they don’t consider me in their plans,” I said. “So tell Williams I can probably be had right now for a song, maybe a short medley.”

  Right after that, Bob Short, the owner of the Washington club, came by and Alyea introduced me to him. I congratulated him on the fine job he was doing in Washington and he said that I was doing a pretty good job myself. I said I was glad he’d noticed.

  What a beautiful day. Imagine playing for Teddy Ballgame. That’s what he calls himself, in his autobiography too. What isn’t generally known, except around the comfortable confines of the ballpark, is that he thinks of himself as “Teddy Ballgame of the MFL.”

 
That’s the Major Fucking Leagues.

  Pagliaroni told a story about Joe Brown, the general manager of the Pittsburgh club. Brown called a meeting of the players and said, “Boys, we’re fighting for the entertainment dollar. We have to learn to get along with the fans and get along with the writers. And we have to be more colorful as ballplayers.”

  That very night the Pirates got into an extra-inning game and Pagliaroni scored the winner in the fifteenth. “I come around and I touch home plate,” Pag said, “and as I run toward our dugout I take a big slide, feet first, all the way into it.”

  The next morning there was a call from Joe Brown. “What the hell were you doing out there?” Brown said. “What are you, some kind of clown?”

  And Pagliaroni said, “I was just competing for the entertainment dollar, Joe.”

  AUGUST

  10

  Talking about Yastrzemski not hustling recalled one of the great non-hustlers of all time, Roger Maris. Rodg always went to first base as though he had sore feet. If he hit a home run it didn’t matter, of course. But every time he popped up or hit a routine grounder, it would take him a half-hour to get to first base—if he got there at all. He’d often just peel off halfway down and head for the dugout.

  So Houk would call a meeting and he’d say, “Boys, it doesn’t look good if we don’t run the ball out. I want everybody to show some hustle out there.”

  And Maris would go out there and damned if he wouldn’t do the same thing all over again. I could never believe Ralph’s patience. I know Maris was sensitive to what was written about him in the papers, and I don’t know why Houk didn’t just blast him to the reporters. But he never did. And Maris continued to loaf.

  Johnny Sain quit or was fired today. I’m amazed. Also not surprised.

  Going into the last of the eighth we’re ahead 5–4. O’Donoghue, who has relieved Brabender, has pitched three good innings. Now they get a couple of hits off him and he’s lifted for John Gelnar. This isn’t too bad a choice. Gelnar was knocked out in his last start, but his relief pitching hasn’t been bad. Except he’s hit this time and now the score is 5–5 and Gelnar’s out.

  Who comes in, Bouton? Nope. Steve Barber. We lose 7–5.

  Because I have nobody else to talk to I ask Eddie O’Brien, “Eddie, what the hell is going on out there?”

  “I don’t know,” Eddie O’Brien says. “I can’t figure it out either.”

  Well, maybe I can. Maybe I’m about to be traded to the Senators. They can’t finish first, but they can finish second. I still think I have a chance to be a hero someplace.

  I try, but it remains most difficult to convey the quality of the banter in the back of the bus. There is zaniness to it, and earthiness, and often a quality of non sequitur that I find hilarious. Have an example from our trip to the Washington airport.

  Greg Goossen: “Hey, does anybody here have any Aqua Velva?”

  Fred Talbot: “No, but I gotta take a shit, if that’ll help.”

  I’ve had some thoughts on what separates a professional athlete from other mortals. In a tight situation the amateur says, “I’ve failed in this situation many times. I’ll probably do so again.” In a tight situation the professional says (and means it), “I’ve failed in this situation and I’ve succeeded. Since each situation is a separate test of my abilities, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t succeed this time.”

  Then there is also the case of the professional player who is not professional enough. He goes on a fifteen-game hitting streak and says, “Nobody can keep this up.” And as the streak progresses, his belief in his ability to keep it alive decreases to the point where it’s almost impossible for him to get a hit.

  The real professional—and by that I suppose I mean the exceptional professional—can convince himself that each time at bat is an individual performance and that there is no reason he can’t go on hitting forever.

  Is that clear? If it is, perhaps you ought to check with your doctor.

  AUGUST

  11

  Cleveland

  I’m still trying to decide why I haven’t been in more ballgames in crucial situations and all I can do is agree with Hovley that it’s because they think I’m weird and throw a weird pitch. I need a new image. What I ought to do is take up chewing tobacco and let the dark brown run down the front of my uniform and walk up and down the dugout with a slight, brave limp and tape on my wrist and say things like, “goddammit” and “shit” and “let’s get these guys.” Then, instead of being weird, I’d be rough and tough.

  I think I’d do it, except I can’t stand the thought of all that brown down the front of my uniform.

  We may not be winning a lot of ballgames, but we’ve got a lot of spirit. In fact we might have the best “around the horn” in the league. You throw the ball around the horn—catcher to first baseman to shortstop to second baseman to third baseman—after an infield out, and you do it with a lot of élan. We get better at it all the time.

  AUGUST

  12

  Pitched two more innings in another losing cause. We were down three runs when I came in and down three when I came out. The only problem I had was with Home Run Baker, a new Cleveland kid who’s been hitting vicious line drives all over the place. This time he hit one right back at me and the only way I was able to avoid certain death was to perform a perfect veronica. Olé.

  I also struck out Hawk Harrelson and Duke Sims. Double olé.

  Called Mike Marshall. He’s alive and well and pitching in Toledo. He’s 3–1 and sticking to his no-plan plan, the one Sal Maglie said wouldn’t do. Mike said that Bennie Borgmann, the scout, asked him what the problem was, that he had heard there was some personality difficulty. Mike said he didn’t know of any. The next day Borgmann talked to Jack Tighe, the manager, and was told “Mike’s fine. Gives me 100 percent. You just leave him alone and let him do it his way and he’ll be all right.”

  Borgmann was impressed and asked Marshall if he wanted to go back with Seattle. He said no, not as long as there was no change in the situation there.

  We go home after tomorrow night’s game. It’s commercial all the way with a layover in Chicago. Which means we’ll get home at four-thirty in the morning local time, but actually about seven-thirty body time. This is done so we can spend all day with our families. It’s also done to save a night of hotel expenses. Me, I’ll be home with my family, but I’ll be in bed all day, sleeping.

  Steve Barber suggested to Sal Maglie that he send Brabender home a day early so that he wouldn’t miss a night’s sleep. Brabender opens for us against Baltimore. And Sal said, “The last time we did that the guy went only two-and-two-thirds innings. So we’re not going to do it anymore.”

  I don’t remember what that’s called in logic, but the fallacy is: B follows A. Therefore A caused B.

  Steve Hovley went down with an inside pitch tonight and took first base. I asked where the ball hit him and he said it didn’t hit him at all.

  “You sure went down to first like you’d been hit,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s what you have to do,” Steve said. “You have to jump up, throw your bat aside and start down to first as if everybody in the ballpark could see the ball hit you. This intimidates the umpire.”

  Ray Oyler in the back of the bus: “Boys, I had all the ingredients for a great piece of ass last night—plenty of time, and a hard-on. All I lacked was a broad.”

  AUGUST

  13

  Beat Cleveland 5–3 and it was a struggle all the way. Brunet fell three runs behind early but managed to hold on. The reason he was able to hold on is that every time he had a couple of men on base, Fred Talbot yelled at him, “C’mon, fat boy, regroup out there.”

  There was a lot of grousing about the flight home. We had a three-hour wait after the game was over and then an hour-and-a-half wait in Chicago. If we had a charter flight we could have gotten in to Seattle at about twelve-thirty instead of four-thirty. The ballclub argues that it costs too muc
h money to charter a plane and generally we just shrug and figure, well, it probably does.

  There was a United Airlines man along on the trip, so I said to him, “Just out of curiosity, what does it cost to fly a team like this from Cleveland to Seattle on regularly scheduled flights?”

  He said he couldn’t give me an exact figure, but if he had to approximate, he’d say $5,200, give or take a few hundred. And what, I asked, would it cost to charter a jet to fly from Cleveland to Seattle?

  “I couldn’t give you an exact figure,” he said. “But I can tell you that it costs $6,200 to charter a plane from New York to Seattle. So if you could get a plane out of Cleveland, it would be a little bit less, probably around $5,900.”

  Naturally I promptly told Mincher that the only difference between a charter flight and commercial was $700. Just as naturally, Mincher goes to Gabe Paul and says, “What’s the story, Gabe? We found out that there’s only a $700 difference between charter and commercial. And we don’t think the ballclub should be stingy with that kind of money. They should get the guys home at a decent hour.”

  “I don’t know where you got your figures,” Paul said.

  “Bouton got them from the United Airlines man,” Mincher said. Just then the man came along down the aisle, and when Minch told him what the argument was about, he backed off. “I didn’t give any exact figures,” he said.

  “You tell Mincher that there’s a hell of a difference,” Paul said. “Tell him.”

  “Oh yeah,” the guy said. “The numbers are real big. I don’t know exactly what they are, but there’s a hell of a difference.”

  Mincher stalked off. Later on he came over to me and said, “What the hell are you trying to tell us about $700?”

  I told him the way I got my information and said, “Why would I make those numbers up?”

  “Well, somebody’s lying in this deal,” Mincher said.

  “It’s not me, Minch.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s you,” Minch said. And he went away mad.