They Called Me God

by Doug Harvey

  Oh no, not him, everyone rooting for the Dodgers was moaning. Gibson was badly hurt. He wasn’t expected to play. How could he even swing the bat? But then he swung, letting loose of the bat with his back hand. It’s why I was watching the ball wondering, My God, can that get out?

  When I saw the ball go up in the air, my impression was that it would either be a home run or it would be caught. It landed in the seats—one of the greatest home runs in World Series history, especially after Gibson gimped around the bases pumping his arm. As he limped around the diamond I was wondering, Is he going to fall down on the base paths?

  The Los Angeles media voted it the most exciting sports event ever to take place there.

  — 3 —

  Earlier in the Kirk Gibson home-run game there was a man on first when Dave Parker hit a ball that went straight into the ground. He took off running. Mike Scioscia, the Dodgers’ catcher, came out, picked it up, and threw to first, hitting Parker. The ball rolled into right field, and as Parker barreled around first and into second base, I was yelling, “Time-out. Time-out.” But nobody saw or heard me.

  Parker wasn’t in the first-base running lane, and if a runner is hit by a throw while running outside the lane, he’s out. I went over to Parker to explain that he was out, and I told the runner who had been on first that he had to go back.

  The A’s manager, Tony La Russa, came out to ask what had happened. I explained that the ball had just touched the top of Parker’s head, and that when I looked down, he was running inside the first-base lane.

  “Now, Harv, that’s not true,” said La Russa. “Let me say something.”

  “Go right ahead,” I replied.

  “I was sitting over there. And I was watching that ball when it was thrown. And I could see it. It didn’t hit him.”

  It dawned on me that I was talking to a lawyer. La Russa, a pretty bright guy, has a law degree. So I decided to put things in legal terms that he could understand.

  “Let me present my case,” I said.

  He looked at me funny, then said, “All right.”

  “If I really thought I could see those plays better from over there,” I said, “I’d sit right next to you.”

  End of argument.

  — 4 —

  After the game Oakland general manager Sandy Alderson was bitching and moaning because the batter before Kirk Gibson homered had walked on a 3-2 count, and Alderson made the statement, “If Harvey had called the last pitch a strike instead of a ball, Gibson never would have gotten up.”

  I was really pissed, because he was accusing me of missing the pitch. I went back and reviewed the film, and the pitch was about six inches off the plate. It wasn’t even close. Alderson said it should have been called a strike. Screw him.

  After Gibson hit that home run, the series was as good as over: Oakland wasn’t the same ball club, and Eckersley never got into another game. Orel Hershiser was masterful in game five. He just stuck Oakland’s bats right up their noses. They didn’t stand a chance.

  — 5 —

  It was announced before the end of the 1975 season that I would be one of the umpires for the World Series, which was between the Boston Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds. I was walking across the hotel lobby at one in the morning.

  I heard someone say, “Mr. Harvey.”

  I turned around and it was Carl Yastrzemski, the talented Red Sox outfielder.

  We talked for a few minutes, and Carl said, “Oh, we’ve all heard about you. We’re all anxious when we get to the World Series that you might work the plate. The guys really know all about you and have a lot of respect for you.”

  What is this American Leaguer telling me this for? I thought.

  I found it interesting and I was touched.

  — 6 —

  The game in which I was given the nickname “God” was played in the evening in New York, and it was raining. The night before Frank Cashen, the Mets’ general manager, called down to our dressing room and said, “Tomorrow it’s supposed to rain, and also the next day. Tomorrow we’ll be lucky to get the game in, and the next day no chance, and it’s their last trip here. It means we have to play a doubleheader in their ballpark in San Diego. I’d appreciate it if you could get the game in tonight.”

  “I work hard to get every game in,” I told him. “If it can be played at all, I will get it in.”

  “Thank you,” Cashen said. “That’s all I can ask.”

  All the grounds crews had a certain affinity for us, because when they saw Harvey’s crew coming and there was a potential rain situation, they would tell all the members of the grounds crew, “You guys better get your rain gear on, because we’re going to work today. Harvey’s here, and he doesn’t give up games.”

  I’d rather fight the rain in the cool weather than to lose the game and have a doubleheader in the hot weather.

  The next day I had the plate. I was working my butt off and it was raining lightly. My rule always was that I would allow the game to continue until it became unsafe. Of course, I was also trying to get in four and a half innings so the game would be official and count.

  I got in six innings. There was no score and there were two outs. Mookie Wilson hit a ground ball to Steve Garvey at first base. Before the slowly hit ball even got to him, Steve held up his hand to tell the pitcher he had the play under control. Garvey fielded the ball, then took one step and his legs flew out from under him. Wilson was safe at first.

  Clearly it wasn’t safe to continue. I called time and ruled there would be a game delay. I ordered the grounds crew to repair the area around first base and cover the infield. After a while the rain let up, and I ordered the game to continue.

  Mookie was on first base with two outs, and Darryl Strawberry, the big outfielder for the Mets, got up and hit the ball four miles. At the end of the sixth inning, the Mets had a 2–0 lead. We had just started the next inning when the rain began coming down hard. I had the grounds crew cover the infield.

  I was soaked, and I told Joe West, who was part of my umpiring crew, “Stay out here. I’m going to go in and change my underwear. Let me know if it stops raining.”

  Not too long afterward Joe came into our dressing room, laughing. You have to hear his country-boy laugh. He’s got a wide-open laugh, and I love him. So Joe was laughing, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

  “What’s so funny, Joe?” I asked.

  He was laughing so hard he could barely tell me.

  “I went over and sat in the San Diego dugout,” he said.

  “Why’d you do that?” I asked. “They’re losing, and they’re the ones who are going to be upset.”

  “Aw, hell,” he said, “I figured I’d do that. Anyway, Garvey comes in, and he said to me, ‘Didn’t anybody check the infield?’

  “ ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Chief checked it.’

  “And down at the other end of the dugout Terry Kennedy was taking off his catcher’s gear, and he slammed his shin guards down on the bench and said, ‘Well, that does it. Because that son of a bitch walks on water.’ ”

  West thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and he told the story to Chicago Tribune sportswriter Jerome Holtzman. I liked Jerry. We trusted him. He wrote what you told him.

  The next trip to Chicago, I checked the field to make sure it was all right, which I did every time, and I came into our dressing room. One of my crew said, “Jerry Holtzman was here.”

  “I’m sorry I missed him,” I said.

  The next morning the headline of Jerry’s column was GOD VISITS CHICAGO.

  He was talking about me.

  That morning the other members of my crew and I got into a cab. We were headed for the ballpark, and Jerry Crawford said, “Hey, chief, we thought you’d like to see this.”

  That’s how I learned of it.

  “My God,” I said.

  “No,” they said, “you’re the God.”

  After that, everyone started referring to me as “God.”

  Every time Lenny
Dykstra, who was playing center field for the Philadelphia Phillies, would run into me—no matter where I was on the field, even if I was at third base and he was in the right-field dugout—he would come running by me on the way to his position and say, “Hello, God.” Lenny thought that was the greatest thing in the world.

  How did I feel about that? Well, what was I going to say?

  They didn’t miss by much.

  — 7 —

  When I first began umpiring, it was up to the home team’s general manager to decide whether the game should be called off. But there were abuses. Some general managers would cheat. We were in Philadelphia, and the Phils were scheduled to play a Sunday day game against the Los Angeles Dodgers. I was part of Shag Crawford’s crew.

  The game was to be played at one, and Shag got a call at ten in the morning to say that the Philly GM had called off the game.

  “They just called me and said the game was called off,” Shag told me.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “It’s barely raining outside.”

  “I know it,” he said.

  The reason they called it off, I’m sure, was that Sandy Koufax was supposed to pitch that day against them, and they didn’t think they could beat him. The game was played at a later date as part of a doubleheader. It was typical of the shenanigans that happened when you gave that kind of power to the general managers.

  As a result, the league gave the power to call off the games back to the umpires.

  Years later, we were in St. Louis for a game between the Cardinals and the Chicago Cubs. They were playing an important three-game series. Before the first game, a scheduled two p.m. start, it was raining hard, and it kept raining hard all afternoon. I stayed at the ballpark, hoping the rain would let up.

  I asked the head groundskeeper about the weather report, and he said to me, “It’s going to rain all night.”

  By eight o’clock the infield was really muddy, and finally I called it. They were unable to reschedule the game, and as a result the Cardinals lost a pay date. The general manager was upset because it was going to cost him a lot of money.

  When I returned to my hotel room, which overlooked the ballpark, I kept a diary. Every half hour I would write, Still raining hard. Still raining. And I sat there until one thirty in the morning, when I wrote Game called properly.

  I then went to bed.

  I sent my notes in to Chub Feeney with my report. Chub called to tell me he was taking away the right of calling the game and giving it back to the general managers. That was the dumbest thing in the world, but it was all part of what was turning into the corporatization of baseball.

  I was watching the 2012 World Series on TV, and they called the game on account of rain. There was no way I wouldn’t have started that game and gotten in seven innings.

  My first trip into a town, I would always spend twenty minutes with the grounds crew. I’d visit with them, because I knew I might need them. And I could get them to do anything for me. They knew I liked to work in the rain.

  I played the safety factor. If I saw somebody’s foot slip just once, or my own foot, I would call time-out and order the infield covered. If the rain lightened up, I’d get the whole grounds crew out there and have them take off the tarp and put diamond dust all over the infield just like new. It would take them ten minutes.

  One reason the grounds crew would do anything for me was that I’d bring a bottle of scotch to the head groundskeeper and have him deliver two cases of beer to the guys who were actually doing the work. They were the best. They were such hard workers.

  When I retired, the New York Mets grounds crew gave me a Gore-Tex golf rain suit, acknowledging that I always worked in the rain.

  — 8 —

  If I had to pick one play that defines what it’s like to be an umpire, that play occurred when we were in Philadelphia in 1979. The Pirates were trying to win the pennant. Chuck Tanner was the Pirate manager.

  Keith Moreland came up for Philadelphia, the first time I ever saw the kid. The bases were stacked, and Moreland hit a line drive right down the left-field line like a 1-iron in golf. I was down on my knee behind the plate, and all I see was this big, huge back and the back of his uniform, number 22. I jerked up my head real quick to see where the ball had gone. All I saw was a flash of white down by the fence. I thought to myself, Am I glad I’ve got a third-base umpire.

  I looked down at Eric Gregg, who was umpiring at third. I had always told him, “Eric, when you get a line shot, don’t ever go down on one knee. You destroy your line of sight and you can’t see a thing in the lights.” But there was Eric, all three hundred pounds of him, down on one knee.

  Eric put up his hand and slowly went into this circular motion to signal a home run. It told me he wasn’t sure whether it was fair or foul. I’m sure it told everyone else in the park the same thing. On a ball like that, you gotta sell it. Bam! You nail it! You turn your index finger round and round. That’s the way you sell that thing.

  When Eric stood up, he looked like he was being attacked by wasps or yellow jackets, because back in those days the Pirates had those awful yellow-and-black uniforms. The Pirates players swarmed him.

  Chuck Tanner came running up to me. “Harvey, Harvey!”

  “Get away, Chuck!” I said.

  I had no idea where the ball was. All I had seen was that flash of the white of the ball. I couldn’t tell anything. I was just not sure what happened. So, shit . . .

  I started walking toward third, trying to get Eric away from all those players. Both teams were charging us. Tim Foli said, “Harvey, Harvey, you gotta change that goddamned call!”

  “Get the fuck away from me or you’re going!” I said to him.

  Then came the big fella for the Pirates, Willie Stargell, and he was going crazy.

  “Willie, I’m ashamed of you,” I said. He had that shocked look on his face. “What makes you think I can’t settle this thing? Get your people away from us.”

  Eric came up to me and he had a look of quiet desperation on his face.

  “Chief, chief, you got that call?” he was yelling at me.

  I just walked right past him. I went and talked to the other two umpires in our crew, Andy Olsen, who was at first, and whoever was my second-base umpire.

  “Guys, did either of you see what happened to that ball?” I asked.

  “Nah,” said Andy. “All I saw was a flash. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Well, you have to admit, it was really close, wasn’t it?” I said.

  And Eric said, “Oh, man, it was really close.”

  “Okay,” I said, “that’s good enough for me. That’s a foul fuckin’ ball.”

  So out came Philly manager Dallas Green, snorting, hollering, and screaming. He got real close to my face, and I said to him, “Okay, Dallas, that’s close enough. I’m listening to you. What is it you’ve got to say? And don’t blow out my fucking eardrums. I’m listening to you. What is it you’ve got to say?”

  Now, if you’ve ever talked to people about me, they’ll say they liked me because I’d listen. And so I listened to everyone, and then I called it a foul ball.

  The shit hit the fan. I ran four of them that day. I think that was the only time I had a cross word with Mike Schmidt, one of my all-time favorite ballplayers. But everyone on the Phils was pissed at ol’ Doug Harvey that day.

  Pittsburgh won the game, and we went into the dressing room. Everybody was sitting by themselves.

  “Hey, get me a beer,” I told the clubhouse kid.

  I sat down and started stripping my stuff off onto the floor, drinking my beer. My partners weren’t too sure whether I was pissed at them too, because they didn’t really help me out with that call. It was real quiet. Then there was a knock on the door.

  “There’s a lot of writers out there,” Eric said.

  “Well, just let them cool off for a while,” I said.

  “Eric,” I said, “do you want to tell them what happened, or do you want me to te
ll them what happened?”

  Eric wanted nothing to do with them, so I walked out there.

  First I have to get them to calm down, I was thinking.

  “Hi, fellas, what’s up?” I said.

  “Harv, we were wondering why you made that call.”

  “What call are you talking about?” I said.

  “C’mon, Harv, you know, the ball you called a foul ball.”

  “It was a foul ball.”

  “Well, yeah . . . but, Harv, the ball just slid in there where the outer fence starts; there’s just an arc about that big. And that’s where that ball went.”

  “It was foul, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but we wondered how you made that call.”

  “Gentlemen, that’s my job. I’m supposed to see what happened and make the call. And that’s what I did.”

  But I’d have to say, that’s the closest I’ve ever come to being stumped.

  — 9 —

  After a while, I became known as an umpire who didn’t toss many managers and players during the course of a season. There was a reason for this: My twenty-second rule had a lot to do with it. My stature had something to do with it, and my ability to make managers and players see the folly of their arguing also had something to do with it.

  Montreal Expos manager Dick Williams, who was very intense, would really get into an argument. The game meant a lot to Dick. But Dick had a little bit of snake in him. He’d come at you really hard.

  I don’t know why managers think you’re going to change what you called. I’m old-school. Al Barlick said, “If you call it, hang with it,” and that’s the way I umpired.

  Dick would come out and say, “Harvey, what the fuck is going on here? For Christ’s sake, can’t you see that—”

  “Just back up a step, Dick.”

  “All right. I’ll back up. Is that better?”