by Jim Bouton
The country western music got a big workout in the clubhouse after the win. There are four or five different tape-players around and they make quite a racket. One of the favorites is “Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog.” Gene Brabender knows all the words to that one. Another is, “Happy Birthday, Joe Beam.” It starts out, “They’re hanging Joe Beam today…” Seems that Joe Beam killed eleven guys before he was twelve and they said he was an “unruly boy.” And right at the end, when they hang him, they break out into “Happy Birthday, Joe Beam.”
Breaks us up.
AUGUST
14
Seattle
Today Joe Schultz said to John Kennedy, who just had the cast taken off his knee: “How’s your old hinge, John?” Joe Schultz also said, “The starters here will be Brabender, Segui, Talbot and Brunet.” When he said Talbot I winced, and Talbot caught it and said, “Eat your heart out, Bouton.”
And when we were going over the hitters a lot of the comments consisted of: “He likes the ball over the plate.”
Let’s see, now. When the ball is over the plate isn’t that what the umpires call a strike?
Also, there seemed to be a lot of first-ball hitters in the crowd. Brooks Robinson, Don Buford, Paul Blair, all first-ball hitters. One day I want to hear somebody say, “Good third-ball hitter. Likes to hit that third pitch.” Then I’ll have learned something.
At the end of the meeting Joe Schultz said, “Anybody got anything else to say about this club?” And in a very low voice, I said, “Pretty good ballclub.”
And Joe Schultz said, “Well, hell, let’s go beat the shit out of them. Fuck ’em. They ain’t no different than anybody else.”
He was right. They beat us too. The score was 2–1. Gene Brabender pitched a helluva game.
I was warming up in the bullpen when a fan leaned out and said, “Hey Jim, how do you pitch to Frank Robinson?” I told him the truth. “Reluctantly,” I said.
Billy Williams just got called up. He was on the Seattle Angels club with me last year when it was Triple-A. He’s played eighteen years of minor-league ball. He’s a good-hitting outfielder. He should have had a better shot but I think he’s one of those Negroes who wasn’t quite good enough to be a star and wound up a good minor-leaguer.
The situation of the Negro in baseball is not as equitable as it seems. He still has to be better than his white counterparts to do as well. I recall a story Mike Marshall told about a guy in the Detroit Tiger organization named Ike Brown, who hit .300 for a number of years in Triple-A and was the International League All-Star third baseman for a couple of years. He drove in a lot of runs too, but he was never even invited to spring training by the Tigers. Mike says the fact that he was black must have had a lot to do with it. “How many Negroes on the Detroit club?” Mike said. “Earl Wilson, Gates Brown and Willie Horton. Two stars, and Brown is the best pinch hitter in the business.”
This brings up a point. There are a lot of Negro stars in the game. There aren’t too many average Negro players. The obvious conclusion is that there is some kind of quota system. It stands to reason that if 19 of the top 30 hitters in the major leagues are black, as they were in 1968, then almost two thirds of all the hitters should be black. Obviously it’s not that way. In the case of the Tigers, the fact that only three of their players are black is no less astonishing.
Joe Sparma and Al Kaline have a company that runs baseball clinics around the country. They line up the players to run the clinics and pay a thousand dollars for three mornings of work. It sounded like an unbelievable deal in the letter I got. They wanted me, Ray Oyler, Wayne Comer and two or three other guys. We wanted to know what the next step would be, so we asked Ray Oyler, because he’d played with the Tigers, to call Kaline or Sparma and check. This was about two weeks ago. Tonight I asked Oyler what he’d found out.
“I called Sparma twice,” he said. “I wasn’t able to get him.”
“Oh,” I said.
Consider this. There’s quite a bit of money involved and Ray Oyler, one of the boys, the man everybody likes, the “in” infielder, makes two phone calls, and gives up. Zero. On the other hand, Mike Marshall arranges to have a railroad car to ship our automobiles from Tempe to Seattle. It takes a lot; phone calls, letters, a lot of organizing. But Oyler is okay and Marshall is a weirdo.
A good word about Sal Maglie. Lately he’s been calling down to the bullpen to have me warm up even when I’m not going to get into the game. It makes it easier for me to get a catcher.
AUGUST
16
It’s been nippy these last evenings and my fingers have felt a bit wooden. It’s not freezing, of course, but the temperature gets down to about 55. So I’ve been using a handwarmer.
Talbot: “What the hell do you need a handwarmer for? Dammit, it’s only 60 degrees.”
Pattin: “Oh, he’s just got to be different. You know him.”
Bouton: “Marty, why don’t you go feed your gopher?”
I was sorry I said that. Although Marty has been giving up a lot of home runs lately, it’s not the kind of thing you mention. He got into the game and gave up two more, which made me feel bad. What made me feel worse was me getting into the game and giving up three runs in two innings. It was a terrible performance. I was wild as hell. I kept telling myself it was because I hadn’t been pitching enough and I was angry at Joe, then I got angry because the score was 10–2 against us when he put me in, and when the ball would come back from the catcher I’d slap my glove at it. So instead of thinking about pitching and how to get the ball over the plate I was thinking about being angry. Did I say I loved this game?
AUGUST
18
The Orioles beat us for the fourth straight time. The score was 15–3. Said Fred Talbot: “We got no business scheduling these guys.” Then, “This Baltimore outfit can sure fluff up your ERA.”
Sure can. Especially mine. I came into the game in the second inning. George Brunet had had some bad luck; a few bleeders, a few shots, and the game was gone. I knew it was gone because I was in it. Second inning, bases loaded, one out. The first pitch was a good knuckleball that went by McNertney to the screen. A run scored. I walked the hitter, filling the bases again. I got the next guy on a strikeout, but then I got behind and had to come in with a couple of fastballs. Double; two runs. Now all three of poor Brunet’s runs have scored and I’ve got runners on second and third. The pitcher comes up and hits the second pitch into left for a single and Sal Maglie comes out to the mound.
“We’re going to have to take you out,” Sal says.
“But, Sal,” I say, “I need work. We’re losing 10–0. What difference does it make now?”
“We brought you in with the bases loaded and you didn’t do the job. We have to get you out of there.”
So I turned around, walked off the mound and into the dugout. Since I hadn’t really thrown much, I then ran out to the bullpen to get some more in. When I got there I picked up a ball and said, “I’d like to do a little throwing now. Who wants to catch?”
“I’m not catching,” Ranew said.
“Pag, I’d like to do some throwing,” I said.
“Why?” Pagliaroni said.
“Because I didn’t get the right feel of the knuckleball and I think I have to do some throwing.”
“I don’t think you have to do any throwing,” Pagliaroni said.
“Well, I think I have to. And I’m the one who decides when I throw and when I don’t throw. Right?”
Nobody answered. I glared around the bullpen and no one would look me in the eye. So I sat down and sulked.
Eddie O’Brien had been listening to all of this, of course, but he wasn’t going to get involved. He’s only the bullpen coach. I decided to involve him. “Eddie, I need to do some throwing,” I said. “Do you want to have somebody catch me, or what?”
“You better check with Sal,” Eddie said.
“What for? Since I’ve been back from Vancouver I’ve had an agreement that I didn
’t have to check with Sal.”
“You better check with Sal anyway,” Eddie said. “Especially since you just came out of a ballgame. He might not want you to do any throwing.”
So I got up and went down to the dugout. We’re still not out of the inning and Pattin is getting pounded. I waited until the inning was over and went up to Maglie. “Sal, I’d like to do a little throwing in the bullpen. Is it all right?”
“No, no. It wouldn’t look good. You just came out of a ballgame.”
“It’ll look okay. It’ll look like I was working on something.”
“Ah, crissakes. Ask Joe.”
“Joe, do you mind if I get some throwing in the bullpen?”
“No. If you want to, go ahead.”
Back in the bullpen I said to O’Brien, “Sal and Joe said it was all right if I do some throwing.”
O’Brien didn’t say a word. He just got up and walked all the way in to the bench. Meanwhile, no one was getting up to catch me. So I stood there, feeling awkward, and mad.
When O’Brien came back he gave Pagliaroni a nod. “It’s okay,” he said. “Joe said he could throw.”
I could feel my neck flame. “I told you he said it was all right. What the hell are you going down there for?”
“I just wanted to check,” O’Brien said.
“You mean you didn’t believe me?” I said. “I have a bad outing or two, Eddie, and now suddenly my word isn’t good anymore? Huh, Eddie? I’m not telling the truth, right?”
So Pag got up, very slowly put on his glove and mask and crouched down behind the plate. I started to get ready to throw when I heard John Gelnar say, “Come on, Merritt, I’d like to do some throwing myself.” Merritt just laughed.
“Don’t be a wise guy, Gelnar,” I said. “This may be funny to you but it’s not funny to me.”
“If you’re mad at us, don’t take it out on John,” Pagliaroni said.
“You didn’t hear what he said,” I told Pag. “He’s trying to make fun of the fact that I need to do some throwing. This isn’t a popularity contest. If it’s between me doing my job or being one of the boys, it’s going to be my job that comes first.”
I started to throw, but it didn’t make me feel any better. After about forty pitches, steaming all the time and thinking how wrong it was for O’Brien to check up on me, how mean it was of Pagliaroni and Ranew to just sit there, how unfair it was of Gelnar to try to make a joke of it, I marched down to the front of the bullpen and made a speech.
“You know something? There are going to be better days for me, but it’s going to be hard to forget what people on this bench were like when things were bad. O’Brien, you’ve been nice to me lately and I thought it was because you were changing. Now I realize it was only because I was pitching well. You’re really the same old guy just waiting for the right moment to come out and be yourself.”
“You’re making an ass out of yourself,” Pagliaroni said.
“Well, maybe I’ll apologize tomorrow,” I said. “But I think I said something that needed to be said.”
“Yeah, and how about the night you said, ‘The hell with the rest of the guys. They don’t pay my salary?’” Pagliaroni said.
I said I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
“You know, the day we had that extra-inning game,” Pagliaroni said. “You left in the ninth inning and when somebody asked you where you were going you said home, and he asked you what about team spirit, and you said, ‘The hell with the rest of the guys. They don’t pay my salary.’”
“Pag, I actually said that,” I said. “But it was meant to be funny. I was smiling when I said it and it was supposed to be a joke. Anyway, it’s unfair of you to bring that up now. You’re just jumping on a guy when he’s down. You’re taking something you heard thirdhand and was misinterpreted in the first place and you’re trying to tell me you’re using that as an excuse not to catch me.”
There must have been steam coming out of my ears by now, because Eddie O’Brien said, “Go take a shower.”
“Okay, I’ll take a shower,” I said. “Only I want you guys to think about what I said.”
“I’ll think about it,” Pagliaroni said. “My whole life revolves around Jim Bouton.”
“I guess you won’t think about it much at that,” I said.
In the clubhouse I stomped around for a while and had a few beers, which I seldom do. I watched Brunet getting dressed and I nearly fell off my stool. “George, I got to know something,” I said. “This is not a knock. I don’t mind guys who do things differently. But I got to know. Did you forget to put on your undershorts?”
“No, I never wear undershorts,” Brunet said. “Hell, the only time you need them is if you get into a car wreck. Besides, this way I don’t have to worry about losing them.”
I guess that made me feel better, because I suddenly remembered something Mike Marshall once told me. “It doesn’t hurt to say you’re sorry,” Marshall said, “even if you don’t mean it.”
All right, all right. I’ll apologize. So I sat there eating spicy hot dogs and drinking beer and listening to the radio. When O’Donoghue came in—early, because he’d pitched—I stuck my hand out and said, “I want to apologize for losing my cool in the bullpen tonight.”
“Okay, fine,” O’Donoghue said.
Later on Gelnar said, “Sure, fine,” and Ranew said, “Okay,” and Pagliaroni smiled and said, “Likewise.”
I didn’t apologize to Eddie O’Brien. There are some things I just will not do.
McNertney stopped by my locker to—of all things—apologize. It was for the ball that went back to the screen. “Jesus, it just hit off my glove,” he said. “It was a good knuckleball too.”
The dear boy.
My wife says I was wrong. She says I blew my cool and that’s not something I ought to do, especially if I plan to go into politics some day. She said she thought I was right, but that being right has nothing to do with it. “You won the battle,” she said, “and you lost the war.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the only kind of politician I can be is the kind who sits on the sidelines and hollers. Take a guy like Ralph Nader. He’s not a politician, I know, but how many politicians have contributed as much to American life as he has? So maybe I can find a way to be heard, to be effective without surrendering my right to pop off when I think I’m right.
In fact, though, I don’t really think I did myself any good in the bullpen tonight. I mean what will get around about it is not that I said some tough things, but that I delivered a short speech in front of the bullpen. Nobody delivers short speeches in front of the bullpen. My trouble is I forgot one of baseball’s most important axioms: “He’s a helluva guy. Wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful.”
AUGUST
19
When I got to the clubhouse I was confronted by Pagliaroni. “Did you send me the check, Bouton?”
“Check? Me? Money?” I said. “How much did I owe you?”
“No. You don’t owe me. I got a check for $100 from the guy who won $2700 on Home Run for the Money because I hit one. I just figured it might be a phony from you.”
I bit the check and pronounced it genuine. “Nope, I didn’t send it,” I said.
It was then calculated that if Pagliaroni got $100 for winning his man $2700, Fred Talbot should have gotten a thousand from Donald Dubois. Did he ever get anything? “Nope,” Talbot said.
Gee, wonder what old Dubois would do with all that money.
Said Talbot: “I hope he gets drunk on it, wrecks his car and kills himself.”
George Brunet (who does not wear undershorts) was talking about the Negro in baseball, Tommy Harper in particular. “You know, for a colored player, he’s not a bad hustler. Hell, he wants to play ball.”
Before the father-and-son game Sunday, Pagliaroni said to Wayne Comer: “Now, no fair giving your son a greenie.”
Greenie or no, the Comer boy stole the show. When he came to bat he took the ha
ndle and knocked some imaginary dirt off the bottom of his little sneakers, then he rubbed dirt on his hands, gripped the bat, tapped the plate with it and showed all the mannerisms of the big-league players. Said Fred Talbot: “Comer’s kid has a little hot dog in him, doesn’t he?”
The kids beat the fathers 40–0, and Sibby Sisti said, “Forty runs, for crissakes, and nobody gets knocked down.” And McNertney said that he was standing next to Sal Maglie during the game and swore he heard Sal saying, “He’s a first-ball hitter”—“a high-ball hitter”—“a fastball hitter”—and none of the kids was over four feet tall.
For some reason that reminded me of my manager in Amarillo, Sheriff Robinson, who used to say about every hitter, “Jam him.” And then later on we talked with some old-timers who’d played with Robinson and they said, “He was a pretty good ballplayer. But we used to jam the hell out of him.”
Max Soriano, one of the owners, had a party at his house for the players. It was supposed to be held on an off day except a lot of the players objected that it would ruin their day. So it was switched to Sunday night and, of course, it was a fine party, good food, bar, and the wives enjoyed getting dressed up.
The best line of the evening was delivered by Joe Schultz: “What are you drinking there, honey?” he said to Fred Talbot’s wife.
“Coca-Cola,” she said.
And Joe Schultz said: “You’ll never make it on that, my dear.”
This broke everybody up, and Bob Locker said, “You better write that down, Bouton.”
My note-taking is beginning to make the natives restless.
A couple of guys have been needling me about it. Tossing fat on the fire, Steve Hovley my roommate, who knows, asks, “Hey, why are you writing down all those notes?”
“Yeah, what’s he writing those notes for?” Fred Talbot adds.
So Hovley tells him. “When a guy smells the end of his career coming, he usually starts writing little notes to himself. You’ll see. It will happen to you too.”
Steve Hovley sauntered over to my locker and asked what was new on the Gatorade front. Not much, friend. Milkes snooped around to find out if I’d actually bought the Gatorade and if it had been drunk by the players. Everybody’s checking up on me these days. Then he told Johnny McNamara that he wasn’t going to pay for it.
