Ball Four (RosettaBooks Sports Classics)

by Jim Bouton

  “It was a great letter, Mike,” I said. “But the pen is not always mightier than the sword.”

  On the morning of July 15, the phone rang.

  “Hi, my name is Joe Schillan. I’m the director of Promotions and Special Events for the Yankees. And we’d like to invite you to Old-Timers’ Day.”

  There was a short pause. Was this it? Or was this a joke? I’d gotten similar calls over the years from friends.

  “Excuse me for hesitating,” I said. “This could be any number of guys.”

  “I understand,” said Schillan. “It’s not a joke. You can call me back if you want; I’ll give you my direct line.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “To be honest with you,” said Joe, “we read your son’s letter in The New York Times and we were moved by it. We presented the idea to George and he said, ‘Sure, why not? I don’t know why we didn’t invite him before this.’”

  “Well, that’s nice,” I said. I didn’t have the heart for skepticism.

  “Old-Timers’ Day is only ten days away,” said Joe. “And the teams are set, with their uniforms and everything, so you’ll be introduced in your street clothes.”

  “That’s fine, I don’t have to be in uniform,” I said. “I think I’m free that day. I’ll call back and let you know.”

  I hung up the phone and tried to absorb what had just happened. I stood up and felt slightly dizzy. Twenty-eight years of exile for writing a book, fewer than ten pages of which mention the Yankees, end with a simple phone call.

  I walked into the next room where Paula was sitting.

  “Well,” I said. “Guess what? That was the Yankees. They invited me back.”

  “You’re going, of course,” said Paula. This is a woman who knows how to chaperon a decision.

  Over the years, I had toyed with the idea of saying I had a previous engagement if I ever got invited. After Michael’s letter, that no longer seemed possible.

  “Sure, I’m going,” I said. “Let them sweat for an hour.”

  Then I picked up the phone to make a more important call.

  “I knew they would do it,” said Michael. “I knew it!”

  Maybe I was wrong about the pen.

  I received my invitation to Old-Timers’ Day with mixed emotions. I was thrilled for Michael, that he got the result he wanted. Sad for Laurie, because she never got to see it. And for myself, a strange kind of numbness. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful, just that I seemed incapable of joy.

  Still, everybody else seemed juiced up about it. Within hours of calling the Yankees with my acceptance, the phone started ringing. It must have been a slow news day because every media outlet in New York, plus a few from around the country, was calling for interviews and comments.

  The rocket ship had taken off. That’s what it’s like when you’re involved in an event that’s bigger than you are. All you can do is hang on for the ride. And it was some ride. The same people who had welled up over Michael’s letter were now shaking my hand and clapping me on the back, as if I had just achieved something.

  It was going to be another one of those life-altering events—a happier one this time.

  The day after the stories began appearing, I got another call from the Yankees informing me that it had been decided I would now be in uniform for the game, and not just introduced in my street clothes. They requested my uniform size. I wanted to say size 34 pants, same as always, but I had to add an inch.

  Paula did her part to help the old right-hander.

  “You’d better start throwing in the basement,” she said. “You’ve only got about a week.”

  “All I can do in a week, Babe,” I said, “is get a sore arm. I’m better off just cranking my arm over my head a few times so it doesn’t fly off on my first pitch.”

  Saturday, July 25, 1998. Old-Timers’ Day at Yankee Stadium.

  It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. And my heart was beating a little faster than usual as I boarded the players-only bus in front of the hotel. Wives and family would make the trip to Yankee Stadium on a later bus. How would my old teammates treat me, I wondered? I had run into a few the previous night at a cocktail party, and they were very welcoming. Tommy Tresh gave me a hug. Joe Pepitone had a big smile. “Hey, Jim, what’s happenin’?” Like nothing happened.

  Walking down the aisle of the bus, I realized that most of these Yankees were from other eras. I recognized a few from newspapers and television. Some I had run into at charity golf outings. They all seemed to know each other from previous Old-Timers’ Days. I was like a guy who had just crawled out of a cave. Then I spotted my old friend and fellow pitcher, Ralph Terry, who had flown in from his home in Kansas.

  “Hey, welcome back,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  It was great to see Ralph again. I took a seat across the aisle.

  “You belong here,” said Ralph. “Hell, man, you earned it! And the game belongs to the fans, Baby.”

  I started to think this might turn out to be more fun than I had imagined. Then I noticed Clete Boyer, sitting on the other side of Ralph, working hard to ignore me. You can’t win ’em all.

  When the bus pulled up to the stadium several hundred fans were already waiting behind wooden barriers flanking the players’ entrance. I let most of the others file off first so I could watch the response. With outstretched arms, hands clutching baseballs and autograph books, kids and adults of all ages welcomed the players.

  “Goose, Goose,” they screamed, when Gossage ambled onto the pavement. “Over here, Goose.”

  “There’s Ron Guidry,” someone said. The crowd started hollering “Gator! Just one, pleeease.”

  “Who’s that?” a kid asked.

  “Ralph Terry,” said an older man.

  “Sixty-two World Series!” shouted a guy who remembered Ralph’s Game 7 shutout against the Giants.

  Most of the players signed a few autographs on their way in. And I was looking forward to it myself. Actually, I was pretty excited, but still a little nervous. I wondered how these genuine Yankee fans, Mickey Mantle fans, would greet me. I took a deep breath and got off.

  “Bulldog!” a lot of people hollered. “Welcome back.”

  Inside, the familiar smell of the stadium washed over me—a distinctive mix of industrial-strength New York air, popcorn, and freshly-hosed cement. I looked for familiar faces—anyone with wrinkles—among the stadium personnel. I recognized a few people, but I couldn’t recall any names. Most of them smiled, some shook my hand. The real reception, good or bad, would be down in the clubhouse.

  The players’ entrance had been moved from the first-base to the third-base side, so the route to the clubhouse was new. I had to follow a blue painted line on the floor through a series of turns, down a narrow concrete hallway. In an open area around a corner, I saw some older men lingering near a door and knew I had found the clubhouse. There are always some older men lingering near clubhouse doors.

  And there was Louis Requena, my favorite Yankee photographer! We were practically rookies together back in 1962. Louie, one of the sweetest men you’d ever want to meet, had made a composite picture of me in my Yankee uniform surrounded by the box scores of my first seven wins. I still have it somewhere. I came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Jimmy Boy!” he said, as we bear-hugged, “Good to see you back.” Fortified by Louie’s reception, I entered the clubhouse.

  Whoa!

  Instead of players, sitting at their lockers talking and laughing about old times, a mob of sportswriters and photographers and television crews was filling the room. They were all over the place. I was confused. What were they doing here?

  Waiting for me, I was embarrassed to discover. As I walked to my assigned locker across the room, they followed like minnows darting after a bread crumb. I felt uncomfortable. I wondered what the other players were thinking: “‘Big-Mouth’ gets invited back and screws up Old-Timers’ Day.” I ju
st wanted to slip in quietly, be one of the guys, see what that felt like.

  Moose Skowron was sitting on a stool at the locker next to mine. He was wearing his baseball underwear and having coffee, just like he always did. I took a chance and reached out my hand.

  “Hey, Jimmy, how are you?” he said, smiling and shaking my hand. Moose was chatting with Hank Bauer, who was before my time, but who I’d seen at a couple of sports dinners.

  “Hello there, Mr. Bouton,” said Hank in his gravelly Marine voice.

  So far, so good, I thought. Then I saw John Blanchard with the same look on his face that Clete Boyer had had on the bus, and I got a twinge of bad feeling. Part of me wanted to talk with them but I knew that wouldn’t work. These were not talking guys, at least not with me. Maybe when we’re ninety or so, we’ll shake hands on a foul line somewhere.

  Once at my locker, the clubhouse disappeared from view behind a wall of sportswriters and photographers. The questions tumbled over one another. When did the Yankees contact you? Have you had any response from your teammates yet? Did you ever make peace with Mickey Mantle? What did you think of Michael’s letter? And the most frequently asked, “How does it feel to be back?”

  “So far, it feels like a press conference,” I said nervously. They laughed.

  Meanwhile, I kept looking around to see if I could spot any other players. I wanted to be bullshitting with teammates, not answering questions. I appreciated the attention but it’s not what I was hoping for. I wanted to experience Old-Timers’ Day, and the questions were getting in the way. I still felt isolated, not really a part of things. This was not what I had in mind.

  The barrage of questions continued—a respectful barrage but a barrage nonetheless. When one member of the group had had enough, he was replaced by another who hadn’t heard the answers to the previous questions. All the while, I was trying to change into my uniform. The other players were already dressed and on the field. Batting practice would be over before I got out there. I felt panicky. It was like one of those bad dreams where you can’t quite get to something. Old-Timers’ Day was happening without me!

  “So how does it feel to be back?” asked the newest arrival.

  “Well, if I’m ever going to know that,” I said, “I’ll have to actually be back, so let me get out there and I’ll tell you later.”

  And I headed down the tunnel to the dugout.

  Waiting on the steps was another convention of photographers and video crews. I couldn’t believe it.

  But Joe Pepitone could. Wading into the throng, he put his arm around my shoulder and pointed at me, shouting, “Jim’s back! Jim’s back! Do I know how to get my picture in the newspapers, or what? Jim’s back! Jim’s back!”

  Everybody laughed. Same old Pepi. Fortunately, pictures are quicker than questions and I was finally able to run out onto the field.

  This is it, I thought to myself. It’s actually happening. I’m running out onto the field on Old-Timers’ Day at Yankee Stadium. It was not something I had ever missed; at least not consciously. But now, here I was.

  I felt quietly pleased.

  And a little bit giddy. What should I do? Throw a ball? Run across the outfield? What do you do on Old-Timers’ Day? I was like a kid at an amusement park. I needed something to hang on to. A life preserver.

  Tommy Davis was at first base, taking throws from the infielders. I jogged over. Tommy was invited to play for the opposing Los Angeles Dodgers. I love Tommy Davis. Whenever we see each other he says things like “Don’t be gettin’ too close to me, Bouton. People already think I had something to do with your book.” This time he greeted me with a big smile and an exaggerated handshake.

  I grabbed a baseball and headed for right field, looking up into the stands as I ran, elated now to be out on the grass “with all the people looking down at you,” as Dick Baney once put it. Pretty soon, family members and friends were leaning over the wall, waving and taking pictures. In the upper deck, where I had reserved seats for sixty people, another contingent was hollering and waving. There was so much to see, and do, and feel. It was overwhelming, really. I just sort of floated around, tossing a ball, waving to people, soaking it all up.

  That was the fun part. But there was also a sense of vindication; that I had been invited to a place I should have been invited to a long time ago. Twenty-eight years in the principal’s office for throwing spit-balls was a cruel and unusual punishment. I understand Old-Timers’ Day is a Yankee event and they can invite whoever they want, but it’s also made possible by the fans. As Ralph Terry had said, “The game belongs to the fans, Baby.”

  Then I’d remember why I was there in the first place and a tremendous sadness would come over me. I was there because my daughter had died. I knew Laurie would have wanted me to have fun, so I didn’t feel guilty; but I just couldn’t keep the emotions separated for very long.

  I’d think of Michael and his Father’s Day gift, and feelings of love and pride would well up. I bounced from pleasure to vindication to sadness to pride and back again. How I felt depended on the moment.

  When I wasn’t waving and smiling, or welling up, I’d try to do some serious throwing with whoever wandered by. I didn’t want to embarrass myself if I got into the game. You never know who you might be pitching to. The last thing a ’60s guy wants to do is face some guy from the ’70s or ’80s, not to mention ’90s.

  As soon as batting practice was over, I jogged in to get ready for the big moment—the introduction of the players. This is actually more important than the game itself, which is an anti-climactic side show. I sat on the top step of the dugout next to Yankee pitching coach and former teammate, Mel Stottlemyre. Mel and his wife Jean had lost their youngest son, Jason, to leukemia in 1981. Mel said it was two years before he could really function again. I had at least another year to go.

  “Are you going to lose your hat when you pitch?” Mel asked.

  “I don’t throw hard enough anymore,” I said.

  “You have to lose your hat,” said Mel. “That’s your trademark. Everyone will expect it. Just prop it on your head and make it fall off—otherwise the fans will be disappointed.”

  Mel is one of the great pitching coaches in baseball.

  With the players gathering in the dugout, I scanned the stands behind home plate for Paula’s chartreuse jacket; the one she was wearing so I could see her from the field. She was there with Michael and David and my dad and my brother Bob. Lee was out of town on business and Hollis was in Amsterdam. I spotted the jacket, arms flapping as if trying to signal an airplane, and waved back again for about the fifteenth time.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the legendary public-address announcer Bob Sheppard, making it official. “Welcome to the 52nd annual Old-Timers’ Day.” Bob Sheppard’s voice has not lost a step.

  Sheppard then introduced Yankee announcer Michael Kay, who would introduce the old-timers. On Old-Timers’ Day, players are introduced with their career highlights first, to build suspense and let the fans try to guess who they are. The players wait in the dugout, listening to the highlights, to see whose turn it is to run on the field. I wondered what highlights they’d choose from my career.

  “He was a pretty good pitcher in the 1960s… but then he wrote a book… and became a pariah.… Let’s welcome…”

  I moved to the top step of the dugout so I could hear the announcer. They usually introduce the smaller fish early and save the big guys for last, ending with Joe DiMaggio. I just didn’t want to be first.

  “He spent the mid-1960s with the Dodgers…,” Michael Kay began, and I knew it wasn’t me.

  “Only the fourteenth Yankee player to hit three home runs in a game…” Nope.

  “Played eleven years in the majors…” Nope.

  Fifteen players later, I was wondering if they had skipped me by mistake. Maybe I was on a list of players to be introduced in street clothes. If they got to the end before realizing the oversight, I’d never get introduc
ed; they sure as hell weren’t going to bring me out after Joe DiMaggio!

  “Remember the Yankee whose hat fell off whenever…?”

  A charge went through my body. I waited a second just to be sure.

  “… he rang up twenty-one victories in 1963.…”

  I climbed out of the dugout and started for first base. I felt unsteady, like I might topple over. I heard a roar. What if I fell down? I wondered. It seemed as if I was moving in slow motion, or underwater. At some point my hearing went out. I was moving in a white zone, watching myself slap hands with the other players. I took my place at the end of the line, numb, trying to figure out what had happened.

  I stood there like that through what must have been two more introductions.

  Slowly, I began to focus again. Son of a gun, I thought, I’m really out here. On Old-Timers’ Day. This is great. The other players were being introduced but I paid no attention. I was in my own little world. I looked into the stands again for Paula’s green jacket, but I couldn’t find it because everyone was standing, blocking the view.

  Then I remembered the gang in the upper deck in right field; my brother Pete and his family, my aunt Frances, my cousins, the Goldensohns, the Stanleys, the Elitzers, the Nelsons, Laurie’s Girls—which is what we call her closest friends Noreen, Kay and Grace—some of Mike’s friends, and others. Could they see me from that far away? I wondered. Could I see them? I stepped back off the foul line and looked up, waving my arm, oblivious to the ceremonies around me.

  And that’s when I saw a large blue banner with white block lettering that read, WE LOVE LAURIE, being held aloft by a frantically waving group of people. That must be Laurie’s Girls, I figured, who had obviously been waiting for this moment.

  It got me right in the heart and I began to cry. Players were being introduced and cheered, and I was crying. Laurie, my poor Laurie, I thought. She would have loved to be here. And maybe she was, I told myself.

  I waved my hat to let the girls know that I’d seen the banner, and I stepped back into the line. After a memorial tribute to Mel Allen, a recitation of Yankee greats enshrined in Monument Park in center field, and the singing of the national anthem by Robert Merrill, the players headed for the dugout to play ball.