They Called Me God

by Doug Harvey

  “Why, young man,” said the coach, “this is the major leagues. You have to be able to take it when you’re up here.”

  Just about then Al Barlick walked over and got between us.

  “You’re out of line,” he said to the coach. “Get back to your bench.”

  Like a schoolboy, he turned and walked back to the dugout.

  — 13 —

  They also found out that if you screwed with me—which I considered another form of disrespect—I not only wouldn’t take it, I would get even. Once word got around that I was no guy to mess with, most of the trash-talking stopped.

  As an example, our crew was in Cincinnati for a game against San Francisco. Johnny Edwards was catching for the Reds and Tom Haller was catching for the Giants, and I was arguing balls and strikes pretty good with both of them.

  Haller was batting and he yelled down to Edwards, “Hey, maybe you and I ought to call balls and strikes. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.”

  I was burning. I didn’t do or say a thing. I just waited my turn.

  Late in a close ball game, Haller came to bat. There were two men on base, and the Giants were down one run. The pitcher looked in and wound up, and just as he was starting his delivery, I said just loud enough for Haller and Edwards to hear, “So, you think you can umpire? You wouldn’t make a pimple on a fucking umpire’s ass. Strike one.”

  Haller didn’t even swing. He backed out when I started talking. He looked at me with a funny look on his face, and he stepped back into the box. He figured I had had my say. Well, when the pitcher started to wind up, I knew he couldn’t step out, and I let him have it again.

  “I could take you people and give you six years of training, and you couldn’t make a fucking umpire,” I said as he swung at this one. The ball was outside. He shouldn’t have swung at it. Now he was thinking that I intended to screw him on every pitch, which I did.

  Haller stepped back and said, “Hey, Harv, I realize we had some fun with you. But this is really an important part of the game.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Let’s go.”

  And he stepped into the box.

  “Yeah,” I said, “this is a really important part of the game, and nobody can hear me but you two assholes. Shall we play baseball? What do you want to do?”

  And just as the pitcher started to deliver, I said, “Oh, by the way, the last ball you swung at was a ball.”

  And Haller swung at a pitch over his head for strike three. He threw the bat down and walked away.

  Now it was Johnny Edwards’s turn to come to bat with a runner on first. He looked at me. The first pitch came in. I didn’t say a word. I called it a strike. On the next pitch he swung at a ball over his head and popped it up. So I got my revenge. And I did it in a way that let the two players involved know not to fuck with me again, without me making a big scene about it. This is what baseball needs. It needs people who are mature enough to handle the situation without screaming.

  Another time I read in the paper a statement from Bill White, the first baseman who had just been traded to the Philadelphia Phillies, that the umpiring was all fucked up. He said that the only good umpires in the league were Al Barlick, Jocko Conlan, and Shag Crawford.

  “The rest,” he said, “are terrible.”

  The next time I was behind the plate when the Phils were playing, Bill came to bat, and on the first pitch, which was outside, I called, “Strike one.”

  “Wasn’t that pitch outside?” Bill asked.

  “It might have been,” I said, “but as terrible an umpire as I am, who the hell would know?”

  I didn’t say another word, but you better believe he started swinging at anything that was close. It’s amazing what you can do if you use your head instead of your voice. Use your damn brain. That’s what I teach young umpires.

  CHAPTER 11

  SANDY, WILLIE, AND CHARLIE HUSTLE

  — 1 —

  My career let me work alongside some of the greatest ballplayers ever. As for pitchers, if I had to fight the devil in a game for every soul, I’d take Sandy Koufax. If I knew Sandy was going to be pitching, I couldn’t wait to get to the ballpark. You knew he was going to be around the plate. Scientists will tell you that it is impossible for a pitched ball to rise. Well, if Koufax’s fastball didn’t rise, then I have to say it came in at one angle and changed angles upward. Because just as the batter started to swing, that ball went up. Sandy threw his fastball dead overhand from a high mound, and it just exploded up.

  Sandy was also a gentleman. One day he had two strikes on a batter and threw a curveball. I called it a ball. He took the ball back from the catcher, and he looked in at me, and he took his left hand and put it flat against his chest as if to ask, Was it too high?

  I nodded yes. He threw the next pitch six inches lower. Bingo. I nailed him. Strike three. That’s how good he was.

  Shag Crawford was umpiring behind the plate in the 1963 World Series, and he told me that Sandy had two strikes on Mickey Mantle and threw a fastball around his chin. He said the next one came the same way, chin high, and catcher John Roseboro caught it just below the knees. The pitch had a dynamite break on it, and it just left Mantle standing at home plate, strike three. And Mantle couldn’t believe it.

  I flew into New York after a game in Chicago and was watching the Yankees play the Washington Senators on TV. They were interviewing Mantle, and the color guy was saying to him that in his opinion Carlos Pascual had to have the absolute best curveball in baseball.

  Mickey smiled and said, “Have you ever heard of a pitcher by the name of Koufax?”

  Until the day Koufax retired, no one knew how much pain he had to endure when he pitched. I had a bad back that I had injured in junior college. It would constantly go out of place, and Bill Buhler, the trainer for the Dodgers, was the only one—I tried several—who knew what he was doing and could put it back in place for me. Because of that, I would go see him when the ball club was out on the field taking infield and batting practice before the game.

  I walked in one day and Bill, who was wearing rubber gloves, was rubbing down Koufax, and I could smell something really foul.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked.

  “It’s Capsolin,” Bill said.

  Capsolin is an ugly bloodred before the air gets to it, and he was rubbing this stuff across Sandy’s chest and on his shoulder clear down to his left arm, almost to the elbow. I couldn’t believe Sandy was putting himself through that type of torture just so he could pitch. When Sandy finally quit at age thirty after winning twenty-seven games in the 1966 season, it really didn’t surprise me. Sandy was suffering tremendously. I know, because when I was in high school I was elected to the letterman’s club, and as part of their hazing they would rub this Capsolin on your balls. It hurt so much I didn’t sleep all night. I had to put ice on my balls, and that’s how I spent the whole night, and the pain didn’t ease until the next day. I would never want anyone to have to go through that.

  Sandy Koufax was the best pitcher I ever saw. I’d pitch him against any pitcher in the world, against any pitcher in history. That’s how good he was. I just thank God he gave me the opportunity to umpire on the days Sandy Koufax pitched. In all of baseball, I’m not sure we’ll ever see the likes of him again.

  — 2 —

  Another great pitcher who was a gentleman was St. Louis Cardinals and Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Steve Carlton. Steve was very, very quiet.

  Great ballplayers don’t say anything. They don’t worry to themselves, Gee, it’s a 3-and-2 pitch. I thought I had it. They don’t scream at the umpire. They figure, If it’s 3-and-2 and the umpire called ball four, it must have been outside. There’s another batter up there. Let’s go get him.

  Man, Carlton could pitch. A left-hander, he’d take that hard slider and break it in on a right-handed batter. It broke hard and caught the plate. The batters would start swinging and from behind the plate I could see they were missing because the ball had such
great movement. They were swinging over the damned thing. Hell, they were fortunate to get a foul ball off of him, never mind a base hit. Carlton was one of the greatest pitchers of our time.

  — 3 —

  We knew that Nolan Ryan had a special arm. When he first came up with the New York Mets I wondered whether he’d ever be able to capture the strike zone. He had problems. He couldn’t throw strikes. And then the Mets traded him over to the American League for Jim Fregosi of the Angels. The Mets never could find a decent third baseman, and they were hoping Fregosi could do the job. Unfortunately, Jim didn’t play much, and Nolan went into the Hall of Fame.

  The reason he became a sudden star with the California Angels was that the American League gave the high strike because the umpires wore the outside chest protector, and it didn’t matter that everything he threw was up. He blew through the league. Once he was given the high strike, the batters had to swing at anything within six inches of it. And when he finally learned to control his pitches, he came back to the National League and did just fine.

  — 4 —

  Another pitcher who was outstanding when he came up to the majors was Fernando Valenzuela of the Los Angeles Dodgers. I never had any arguments with Fernando, because he didn’t speak English and I don’t speak Spanish. When he pitched he never looked at the catcher. He was interesting. He could spin that ball in the opposite direction as good as any screwball pitcher I ever saw.

  He became a star and a hero, and then suddenly after he became a hero in Mexico, he quit working at it during the off-season, because when he came back, suddenly his screwball didn’t break as much as it did before, and the batters started to hit him.

  Before that, Fernando was really great.

  — 5 —

  Dwight Gooden was 24-4 with a 1.53 ERA in 1985. He had a dynamite fastball and slider. He could hum it. He knew how to pitch up and down, in close, away. He was outstanding.

  With a guy like that, there were very few arguments. When a guy wins that many games, what the hell is there to argue about? An occasional pitch, maybe. Is he going to get mad and blow the game? Come on. You’re not going to do that. That’s when the manager tells the pitcher, “If the umpire needs his ass chewed, I’ll come out and do it. Don’t you say a word.”

  Dwight knew how to pitch and he knew how to act. He was a pleasure. I enjoyed working with him that year. He was so on. He was like Sandy Koufax.

  — 6 —

  Greg Maddux was another guy who got the absolute most out of what he had. Here’s a guy who wasn’t overpowering, but he could put the ball exactly where it belonged. I got such a kick because everyone said, “The umpires give him extra on the plate.” Not so. Not so at all. The man was good enough that he could put that sucker there and move it just enough that the batter would think, “That’s off the plate,” and it would be strike one.

  The next one he’d say, “There’s the same pitch,” and he’d swing at it, and the damn thing would break inside and they’d foul it off for strike two.

  He’d throw one up and tight to back the batter off the plate, then throw a little slider on the other side of the plate, strike three.

  It was really something to sit back and watch. He was another of the pitchers like Koufax and so many others who didn’t complain. He worked his job. He wasn’t overpowering and yet he got people out. He kept his mouth shut. The umpires just adored looking out to the bullpen and seeing him warming up. It was wonderful when you had a pitcher like Koufax or Maddux, who never said anything and just threw strikes. It makes it so much easier on the umpire.

  You get through and you feel, I’ve had some kind of a day. But you haven’t had a day. You just reported the fact that the pitcher had a hell of a day.

  — 7 —

  The umpire is there for one reason and one reason only: To make sure one team doesn’t gain an unfair advantage. It’s that simple. For the game to have meaning it has to be fair, and the only thing standing between fairness and chaos is the umpiring crew.

  You’ll be shocked and maybe disappointed when I expose the horseshit players who tried and got caught cheating, using everything from phantom tags and corked bats to scuffed baseballs. I’ll even shine a light on umpires who compromised their integrity. You think managers wouldn’t cheat if they could win a few more games? You think pitchers don’t cheat? Man, you have to watch those bastards every minute.

  I used to get a kick out of Tommy Lasorda. He’d come waddling out. He could be nasty but I always kind of liked him. In this game, Don Sutton, who was a hell of a pitcher when he wasn’t cheating, was pitching for the Dodgers, and he was pitching a brand-new ball. He rubbed it up, and there was a fly out and Jerry Crawford got the ball and looked at it, and he called me over.

  “Chief, look at this,” Jerry said. And he showed the ball to me, and it had a scab right on the league president’s signature. I didn’t think it was an accident that the mark had been put on that spot.

  When a ball is marked in a specific place, the pitcher knows right where to grip it to make it more than slide. He can make it drop. What a major league pitcher can do with a marked ball is magic. And it’s cheating.

  Sutton pitched another brand-new ball, and on his first pitch Ken Reitz hit a fly out to Rick Monday in center field. Monday flipped the ball to Jerry coming in, and Jerry called me over again. That ball had been scuffed in the same spot as the other one.

  “Lasorda, come out here,” I said.

  Tommy came out.

  “Look at this ball.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Do you see this scuff right here?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, someone on your ball club is marring the ball”—I didn’t even say that Sutton was the one marring it—“and I have to think Sutton is pitching the marred ball knowing it’s marred, and I’m telling you, if he does it again, I’m going to toss him.”

  “Jesus Christ, Harvey,” Lasorda said. “What are you trying to be, God? You can’t do that.”

  “Yes I can,” I said, “and I will.”

  Sure enough, in the bottom of the sixth Sutton pitched another brand-new ball, and the batter hit another fly out to Monday in center.

  “Rick, give me that ball,” I ordered him.

  I’ll never forget the look on Monday’s face. He had a silly, shit-eating grin. There was a scar on the ball in the same spot as the others, and as Sutton was walking off the field, I told him, “Keep going.” Right then and there I threw him out of the ball game.

  Out came Lasorda, ready to do battle.

  Sutton, meanwhile, went into the dressing room, and when he came out he was holding a legal form letter.

  “My lawyer will be in touch with you,” he said.

  He laid the letter on my arm. I should have folded it up and kept it for posterity. Instead I tore it into a million pieces. If he wasn’t cheating, why was he carrying around the piece of paper?

  “Fuck you, and your lawyer too,” I told Sutton.

  “Harvey,” said Lasorda, “what are you trying to do?”

  “Tommy,” I said, “I’m trying to clean up this game a little bit.”

  “The last guy I ever saw who tried to clean up a town,” said Lasorda, “was Wyatt fucking Earp.”

  It was a great line, and it took all of my power to keep from breaking out laughing. But this was serious, and I had to carry out what I was doing.

  I had told the other umpires on my crew, “Don’t get mad. Get even. Wait your turn. There will come a time.”

  Six years later, I got my chance with Lasorda.

  I was in Pittsburgh and the Pirates were playing Lasorda’s Dodgers. Rick Rhoden, who once was a Dodger pitcher and a teammate of Don Sutton, was pitching for the Pirates, and he was sticking it to the Dodgers.

  In the middle of the game between innings, Lasorda whistled at me to get my attention.

  “Harv,” he said.

  I turned and looked at him.

  “Come on over he
re.”

  “I don’t go to dugouts,” I said. “If you want to see me, you come out here.”

  Lasorda came out, and he was carrying five balls with him.

  “Look at these balls,” he said.

  I picked one up and looked at it. I looked at a couple more and pretended I didn’t see the scuffs that Rhoden had apparently put on them.

  “Those are National League balls,” I said. “That’s what we’re using.”

  “No, no,” said Tommy. “That’s not what I’m saying. Here, look at this. Look!”

  He was showing me where the balls were scuffed.

  “Now, Tommy,” I said with utmost sincerity, “where do you think Rhoden learned that?”

  “I don’t give a damn where he learned that,” Tommy said. “I want you to clean it up.”

  “Well, Tommy,” I said, “the last guy I ever saw clean up a town was Wyatt fucking Earp.”

  Tommy dropped the five balls on home plate and walked back to the dugout without saying another word, and he didn’t come out again during the rest of the ball game.

  It’s exactly what I always tried to tell the young umpires. I’d say, “Don’t get all pissed off. Just listen and eject them if they have to be ejected, and if they really put your ass to the wall, just wait. There will come a day when justice will be yours.”

  That’s why I respected Hall of Fame pitchers like Don Drysdale and Steve Carlton so much. They did it without cheating. They didn’t have to cheat.

  — 8 —

  I never told anyone, but I almost quit after the first Sutton incident. Clearly Sutton was cheating. Why would he be carrying a letter like that if he wasn’t cheating? I reported to the league office that there was one smudge on each of three league balls, and the balls never hit the ground. They had been hit and caught by a fielder. Sutton was caught red-handed.