They Called Me God

by Doug Harvey

  “Sign me up,” I said. “Get me a schedule and get me a rule book. I’ll be there.”

  The next morning I got on an airplane and flew to Dallas.

  That night I met with the coaches and captains at center court before the game. I gave my usual pregame talk.

  “If you play decent ball,” I said, “we won’t have any problems.”

  “Hey, we know what we’re doing,” said Cliff Hagan, the Dallas Chaparrals’ player-coach. He had been a college all-American at Kentucky and a big star in the NBA.

  “I don’t need this shit,” I told him, “and I’m going to tell you right now, if you fuck around, I’m going to stick it up your ass. Let’s go to work.”

  The game began, and I hit Hagan with two technical fouls and threw him out of the game during the first two minutes. And every time I refereed Hagan’s games, he gave me trouble.

  The ABA sent me all over the country to referee. It was a terrible time for Joy and me. She added it up, and that year I was home for a total of thirteen days. But that’s how I made enough money to pay my bills and live.

  I even had to spend New Year’s on the road. One time I ran across some of the NBA referees, and they blanched when they learned of my schedule. All they paid was $75 a game, which was still more than I could make in college ball. The problem was I couldn’t make that $75 seven days a week. As a result, I was constantly on the go.

  I can remember one game in Indianapolis. We played in an older stadium, and the floor was slippery because the basketball court was laid over ice. That evening I called six technical fouls against the home-team Pacers. I ejected the coach and also the general manager. Hell, they were mouthing off, wanting us to call different things. The general manager should not have been on the bench.

  “You’ll have to leave,” I told him.

  “Fuck you, I’m not going,” he said.

  I unloaded him.

  The Pacers still won the game by 12 points.

  The ABA was interesting because it allowed several players who had been caught up in the college point-shaving scandals of the early 1960s to play in the league. One of them was Connie Hawkins, who supposedly had taken $75 from a gambler when he was a freshman at the University of Iowa. Connie, who played high school ball in Brooklyn, was barred from finishing his college career and also from playing in the NBA. He later sued the NBA and won millions of dollars.

  I loved Connie. He was a sweetheart. During a game he came by and said to me, “Harvey, this guy is really roughing me up.” The player who was guarding him and working him over with his elbows had played at California Western. I had refereed his college games and knew him to be a good kid, but on this night he was working Connie over pretty good. I could see blood on Connie’s face.

  “Connie, what shall we do?” I asked.

  “If you’ll turn your head two times,” Connie said, “I can straighten him out.”

  The next time Connie went down the court on offense I turned my head, but at the same time was looking out of the side of my face, and I could see Connie standing under the basket, staring at the rafters. The kid who was guarding him slid over in front of him, and he also looked up, and when he did, Connie nailed him with his elbow like you wouldn’t believe. Wham, he smacked him across the face. The blood flowed, I stopped the game, and the kid had to go to the bench for treatment.

  The kid came running onto the court.

  “How come you let that happen?” he asked me.

  “Because you’ve been nailing him all day long,” I said. “If you don’t stop it, I’m going to let him do it again.”

  I went over and told Connie, “No more.”

  “No more, Harv,” Connie said.

  That’s the man he was. I loved Connie.

  One of the other players caught up in the college gambling scandal was Alex Groza, the star center of the University of Kentucky. Groza too was barred from playing in the NBA, and like Connie, Groza was a terrific fellow.

  The first game I had him, I gave my usual center-court professional talk, which was: “Boys, if you want to mess around, I’ll stick it to you. If you want to play basketball, I’ll let you play. It’s that simple. Now, do what you want.”

  Groza said to me, “You’ll have no trouble from me.”

  In one of the games, the fellow guarding Groza kept elbowing him, and Groza said to him, “Don’t do that.” He kept it up, and like Connie, Alex said to me, “Can you turn your head for a few minutes?”

  I did, and Alex took care of him. These were the true professionals.

  — 5 —

  In the middle of the season I got a call from the NBA. The head of referees called me. They knew I was the best referee the ABA had, and they were trying to bust up the league.

  “We want you to come to the NBA,” he said.

  “I have a job,” I said. “I agreed to referee the ABA’s games.”

  “We’ll give you sixty thousand dollars a year.”

  That was a lot of money, but I didn’t think twice.

  “No,” I said. I had agreed to referee in the ABA, and I wasn’t about to go back on my word.

  I got one more call.

  “This is the last time I’m going to ask you. And I know you don’t even have a contract.”

  He had done his homework. It was true I hadn’t signed a contract. I hadn’t even shaken the man’s hand, but I had agreed to referee for the season. I again told him no.

  “I’ve given my word, and my word is my bond,” I told him. “I’m not going to break it, not for all the money in the world. If you want to call me for next season, I’ll do it.”

  He never called again.

  In 1976 the Pacers—along with the Denver Nuggets, New York Nets, and San Antonio Spurs—moved to the NBA as the two leagues merged.

  I probably should have taken the NBA job, because it wasn’t long after I turned them down that I resigned as an ABA referee. George Mikan, the ABA commissioner, had hired his brother to be head of officials, and I thought he was doing a good job. Even though the ABA had a very fine group of referees, including former NBA refs Norm Drucker, Earl Strom, John Vanak, Joe Gushue, and Jack Madden, complaints by coaches and general managers about the officiating were rampant. They would get on the phone to the main office and bitch and moan about the officiating. Midway through the season, George Mikan, hearing all the complaints about what a terrible job his brother was doing, fired him, which I thought was wrong and terribly unfair.

  As soon as I heard about it, I quit.

  I was in the airport heading to my last game when I ran into Connie Hawkins, who was a sweetheart.

  “Where are you going, Harv?” he wanted to know.

  I told him I was flying to work my last game and that I was going to quit at the end of the week.

  “Harvey, don’t quit,” he pleaded. “You’re the best official in the league. Don’t quit.”

  “Connie,” I said, “the commissioner screwed some of my partners, and I don’t want to work for him anymore.”

  “Let me tell you something,” he said. “We’re going to miss you.”

  Hearing that from Connie meant a lot to me.

  CHAPTER 9

  AL BARLICK’S WHIPPING BOY

  — 1 —

  After the Puerto Rican winter league season was over, I was asked by Fred Fleig, the head of National League officials, to meet in Salt Lake City, where I was umpiring a Pacific Coast League preseason game. Fleig informed me that he had selected me to become an umpire in the National League and that in a few days I’d be going to Florida to work spring-training games. He said that Pedro Vázquez, the president of the Puerto Rican winter league, had told him, “We’ve been playing baseball down here for eighty years, and Doug Harvey’s the best umpire I ever saw.”

  “I don’t want you to tell anybody,” Fleig said. “Only your wife.”

  I flew with my umpiring crew to Seattle, site of the main office of the Pacific Coast League. Seattle was where the umpires st
opped to get their mail. The three of us approached the secretary’s desk, and in front of the others she said, “Congratulations, Mr. Harvey. I understand you’re going to spring training with the National League.”

  I stood there red-faced with the two other members of my crew. I had known about this for about a week, and I hadn’t told them a thing about it. And they were pissed at me.

  “Goddamn, you’re going to major league spring training, and you’re not good enough to tell your partners?” said Cece Carlucci.

  All I could do was apologize for not telling him.

  Carlucci worked the plate that afternoon, and the final batter of the game popped out. I watched the ball come down, saw the fielder catch it, turned around, and suddenly heard someone yell, “Look out!”

  Carlucci, who was so angry that I was going to the major leagues and not he, had thrown his mask about thirty feet in the air into the infield. He could have hurt someone. But that was how angry and hurt he was. Cece never did make it to the majors himself.

  I reached the majors faster than anyone else ever has. I had gone from Class C to the National League in just four years—all without my going to umpire school. Fleig assigned me to be part of the crew of veteran umpire Al Barlick.

  — 2 —

  When I stepped onto the field at Dodger Stadium opening day on April 10, 1962—the first regular-season game ever played there—the size of the place and sold-out crowd amazed me. I was just a farm kid from the Imperial Valley.

  “What do you think of this joint?” Al asked me between innings.

  “It looks like it could hold a lot of hay,” I said.

  Al laughed like hell and must’ve told the story a thousand times.

  From the beginning I could see why he was called the King.

  Al had a booming voice, and at the inaugural game at Chavez Ravine, I experienced him for the first time with his game face on. The ballpark was jammed. He was behind the plate. The pitcher threw the first pitch of the ball game, and Al raised his arm up to signal it was a strike. He bellowed a booming call of “Sttteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek.” You should have seen the people stand up and cheer. They had never heard a voice like that in L.A. before. He shook the whole stadium. They loved him.

  Al had no fear of anyone. If someone hollered from the bench, he would turn, walk eight to ten steps toward the bench, and he’d turn that voice loose.

  “One more word from you assholes . . .”

  It was enough to shut them up.

  Of course, it wasn’t fun when he turned his venom on me.

  Barlick was a rough, tough Irishman who had been a longtime umpire in the league. His father had been a coal miner, and Al had been one too. Al had dropped out of high school his junior year to help support his family. He escaped the mines when he was hired to umpire in the minor leagues in his hometown of Springfield, Illinois. In 1940, he was hired by the major leagues as a replacement for the great Bill Klem. Al was twenty-five years old, one of the youngest umpires ever to work in the major leagues. He was from the Midwest and didn’t trust anyone. You had to prove yourself before he would even consider talking to you. Once you proved yourself, he might not like you, but he’d respect you. Earning that respect wasn’t easy.

  When I arrived after spring training to join his crew, I could quickly see that Barlick was mad to the gunnels. We never seemed to have a nice word to say to each other, though I have to say that he was one of the greatest umpires in the history of the game. But because he went out of his way to torment me, I experienced two of the worst years of my life.

  The two other umpires in our crew, Shag Crawford and Ed Vargo, tried to shield me from Al’s tirades, seeking to make my life a little more bearable. Shag Crawford adopted me. If anyone was a man’s man, it had to be Shag Crawford. I can’t say enough about him.

  But not even they could protect me from Al, who wasn’t called the King for nothing. I worked under him for two full years, fully realizing how much Barlick resented me but never knowing why. He tried to drive me out of baseball, and I simply refused to leave. It took all my skill and honor to keep him from running me out of the league. I just refused to give in to him.

  I wanted so badly to tell someone what he was doing, but who was I going to tell? Fred Fleig was in charge of the umpires and he had hired me. I had too much pride to go see Fred about this. I also told myself, If you can’t handle your job between umpires, how the hell are you going to settle anything on the field?

  — 3 —

  I was working with Al, Shag Crawford, and Ed Vargo, and after ball games we would drink too much. I was not, and am not, a good drinker.

  Early in the season our crew had to get up before sunrise so we could catch a flight from Houston to Pittsburgh, and I showed up perhaps five minutes late. In front of the other members of the crew, Al ripped into me. He called me every son of a bitch in the world. I swallowed hard. I wanted to slug him, but didn’t dare.

  Since that incident I always had trouble sleeping on getaway days when we had to catch a plane. I was so afraid I would come down late and be the target of Al Barlick’s wrath that I would lie awake all night for fear the alarm clock wouldn’t ring. Finally I began taking a light sleeping pill so I could get some sleep.

  Al could be underhanded. I remember a doubleheader in Houston my first year. The expansion Colt .45’s, as they were known then, were playing Milwaukee in the old ballpark in Houston. The dressing room was a tin shed, hot and miserable. The Braves were at one end and we were at the other. Barlick was working first base and I was working home. During the game Henry Aaron asked about a pitch, and I told him it was a good pitch.

  Aaron eventually walked. Later, between games, Barlick said to me, “Henry Aaron said you told him you blew the pitch, that you missed it.”

  “You’re full of shit,” I said.

  “I’m not,” Barlick said.

  Between games of the doubleheader, I walked over to Henry.

  “May I ask you a question, Henry?” I asked.

  “Sure, go ahead,” he said.

  “Barlick told me that you told him I missed a pitch. Is that true?”

  “No, that’s not true,” he said.

  “Can you come over and tell Mr. Barlick?”

  “No way,” Aaron said. “I’m not getting myself into that kind of trouble.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I walked back to Barlick.

  “You’re a fucking liar,” I said. “I don’t know what this is, but you have one hell of a problem going. Are you trying to blow me out of this league? Because you’re not going to do it.”

  Barlick didn’t talk to me for a week after that. That’s how serious it got.

  — 4 —

  As miserable as he made my days, at night after games I was often the only one keeping Barlick company at the bar. For a while it had been Ed Vargo who drank with him, but Ed started excusing himself all the time and going upstairs to his room, and finally Al asked him what the hell was going on, because Ed was his bobo and drinking buddy. It turned out Ed was falling in love with his future wife, Betty. She worked for TWA out of San Francisco, and Ed was going up to his room every night to call her.

  One night Barlick and I were sitting in the Sheraton Hotel bar in New York, and he exploded.

  “The goddamn young umpires don’t know they should be drinking with the King,” he said.

  Al and I would start with beers at the ballpark after the game, and then we’d drink at the hotel bar. Al would bemoan the fact that there were no umpires who brought credit to the game, and I’d sit and listen to this, and then we’d order stingers, his choice of obliteration. What I had to learn early was to stop drinking stingers with Al Barlick. My wife told me later in life that the way I was starting out my first year, she was sure I was going to become an alcoholic. At the same time, she had fears her dad would become one too—and those did prove to be true. It took me a while to see that in time I was going to be in trouble, because I
never woke with a headache after drinking. So for me there was no fear of it.

  Al was a heavy drinker, and the more he drank, the more abusive he’d become. I really didn’t want to sit with him, but I was the new kid, and so I did it out of duty. By the end of the evening, we’d end up bad-mouthing each other. A couple of times, he wanted to fight me.

  “I’ll whip your ass right now,” he’d tell me.

  I finally called his bluff and challenged him to fight.

  “Al, let me tell you something,” I said. “You get sober, and I’ll get sober, and I’ll take you any time you want. In the morning, I’ll meet you in the lobby at nine o’clock. We’ll find a place and we’ll fight.”

  This happened twice. I’d come down in the morning, but Al wouldn’t show up. Because of my farming background, I’ve never been one to sleep very much at all, especially past sunup. If the sun was in the sky and I wasn’t on that tractor, I was a dead man. I preferred to get up with a short night of sleep and take a walk, come back, and take a nap in the afternoon.

  I had a daily routine. I’d get out of bed early, go right down to breakfast, and then no matter what city I happened to be in I’d immediately go out and walk for an hour. I’d stop and bullshit with people I’d gotten to know over the years, then pick up two newspapers, USA Today and the local paper. Then I’d take off for my second walk of the day for about an hour or so. I’d come back to the hotel at about four-thirty and then I’d have my evening meal. I’d go upstairs at about five o’clock and then rest for an hour. If I couldn’t sleep, I’d put my arms by my side and lie perfectly still. Then I’d go to the ballpark.

  That’s what I did every day.

  I’ve always cursed the day Fred Fleig assigned me to Al Barlick, but then when I got older I realized how much I had learned from him. Al was a tough taskmaster. One time I was umpiring at third base. The Cardinals were in Los Angeles, and Cards’ third baseman, Ken Boyer, turned to me and said something funny, and I laughed out loud. Across from first base, where Al was, came this booming voice. He screamed across at me, “What the fuck are you smiling at?”