They Called Me God
Page 19
If you want, you can look in just about any magazine for men or boys and you can find an ad in which you can order a free package of Red Man or Copenhagen or some other chewing-tobacco product. All you have to do is mark the little box that says yes and you have to mark that you are eighteen years of age, and it will be sent to you right away. Does anyone actually check to see whether you are eighteen? Not that I know of.
So then you try it out and right away, you feel great.
But the reason they want you to use it for free: After just one month, you will find that you are addicted. The lengths the tobacco companies will go to addict you are great. Ask yourself: Do the tobacco companies give a damn whether or not you get cancer, as I did?
When you begin chewing tobacco, pretty soon you notice that what you are using isn’t strong enough, and you want something stronger. This is precisely what happened to me and to everyone else who starts out.
I started with Red Man, which is 1.8 percent nicotine, and I worked my way up until I was using Copenhagen, which is fully 28 percent nicotine. Once you begin using Copenhagen—unless you are unusually strong-willed and able to go through a painful withdrawal—you will need medical care to beat the habit. And sometimes even medical care isn’t enough, because chewing tobacco is more addictive than alcohol, cocaine, or even heroin.
You want to save up a lot of money? If you’re using a tobacco product of any kind, put aside the money you would spend on tobacco. I was spending $8 a week. That’s $32 a month. By the time you turn around, you’ll have thousands of dollars in the bank.
A lot of young baseball players think it’s cool to chew tobacco while they’re playing ball. Trust me, once you get cancer, you won’t think it’s so cool. I know.
CHAPTER 18
THE HALL OF FAME
— 1 —
I was inducted into the baseball Hall of Fame in 2010. After all the years of grudging respect from the players, managers, and the lords of baseball, to be treated with such reverence was almost overwhelming. I was treated as though I was a long-lost member of the family, the prodigal son returning home.
I get so emotional, it’s still tough to talk about. And the bad thing, I had cancer and a couple of strokes before I went to Cooperstown for the induction ceremony. So in order for me to go from one station to another, to talk to a writer or have my picture taken by a photographer, or for a radio broadcaster to talk to me, ask me questions, and put me on the air, I need two people—one on each arm, helping me to walk.
It’s thrilling now, because I can walk unaided. About a month ago I collapsed from pneumonia, and they thought it was over with. I called my two surviving sons and brought them in. One came in from Las Vegas. But now I’m feeling good again. Joy says I should have been dead about six times. So I’m hanging in there pretty good for an old guy who started out with twenty-two months in the hospital when I was four years old. I had to fight it then, and I’ve had to fight it all the way.
My trip to Cooperstown began with a telephone call. They tell you that you have to be at a certain telephone. You have to give them the number of that telephone. Then you have to be close enough to an airport to catch an airplane almost immediately. To do that, Joy and I drove from our home in Springville, California—gateway to Sequoia National Park—to San Diego, a five-and-a-half-hour drive. We took up residence with my son, got up in the morning, and had breakfast at a restaurant close to the airport, waiting for the call.
I hadn’t been told a thing, whether I was in or out.
Why all the cloak-and-dagger? Because they’re scared to death the news media will get ahold of it and break the news. They hold off until the last minute and then they tell you.
We were down in San Diego waiting for the call, and Joy answered the telephone.
“Doug, it’s for you,” she said.
I knew enough to know that they don’t call you if you don’t get in. I walked over and grabbed the phone, and a voice said, “Mr. Harvey, you’ve been elected to the Hall of Fame. You’re to be at the San Diego airport in an hour and a half.”
I started crying like a baby. Hell, I get all teary-eyed now just thinking about it. I mean, I was awed. I thought to myself, How could a kid from El Centro, who’d never been anywhere in his life, wind up in the Baseball Hall of Fame?
Joy and I got on a plane and flew east to Indianapolis for a press conference.
— 2 —
I still had one more command performance in July 2010. The Hall flew Joy and me to Cooperstown. I had to fly to what seemed like the middle of nowhere, and they sent a limousine there and drove me to the Hall of Fame. I will say this: The ride was breathtaking.
I met the staff and was given a tour of the Hall that knocked my socks off. We were wined and dined, and the people were so gracious it brought tears to my eyes. Everything was first-class, just superb treatment, and the other Hall of Famers present were just so welcoming and gracious. All the old grudges disappeared, and instead we were able to laugh about them. Joy and I felt welcomed, and it wasn’t always that way. They went out of their way to find accommodations for forty family members, in-laws, out-laws, cousins, nephews—they came from all over. It was such a great honor. There are so few umpires in the Hall. I was number nine.
I had umpired for thirty-one years. I made a lot of sacrifices, missed a lot of time with my kids and other family members. To have that induction was really wonderful.
The day of the ceremony was memorable. A few months before, I had been pretty sick. The doctors weren’t sure my health would be good enough for me to give my speech in person, so I went ahead and taped one. Luckily for me, I recovered enough to make the trip to Cooperstown. I was on the stage while my prerecorded video was playing, and wouldn’t you know it, it started to drizzle. My wife, who was wearing a beautiful purple dress and a purple hat, was getting soaked. I had to do something.
As a sort of joke, in my role as God, I put my two arms up to signal the rain to stop, and darned if it didn’t stop within thirty seconds of my doing that. After the video ended, I told the crowd, “I want you to notice, I stopped the rain.” They cheered and cheered. They loved it. So did I.
There’s an old saying that they hire you to be the best, and they expect you to be even better. That’s what umpiring is all about. It’s a tough racket, believe me. I worked hard every day and never compromised my integrity, on the field or off. Being fair and honest is all I know. That’s what got me into the Hall of Fame.
Ted Williams always said that hitting a baseball was the toughest thing to do in sports. Hell, to me, calling balls and strikes in the big leagues is the toughest thing to do in sports. I’d have liked to have taken Ted back behind the plate during a ball game to show him what tough really is.
I’ve heard it said that umpires are a necessary evil. Well, we’re necessary, but we’re not evil. We’re the backbone of the game, the game’s judge, jury, and executioner. Without us, there’s no game.
Before each game, no matter what, I’d tell my crew, “C’mon, boys, let’s walk into hell.”
That was my world. I loved what I did. It was my whole life. Just that and my wife and kids. I loved it.
By God, I loved every minute of it.
Without umpires, the game wouldn’t survive. (Doug Harvey Collection)
Yankee manager Bob Lemon and me before a game. You always give the manager the choice of whether he’s to be tossed or not. (National Baseball Hall of Fame)
Terry Cooney, Nick Colosi, Larry Barnett, me, and Dick Stello with managers Tommy Lasorda and Bob Lemon before a game in the 1981 World Series. Tommy could be nasty, but I always kind of liked him. (National Baseball Hall of Fame)
The umpiring crew for the 1982 World Series. The players are on their best behavior. You don’t get many complaints during the World Series. (National Baseball Hall of Fame)
Al Forman (NL), me (NL), Hank Soar (AL), and Bill Valentine (AL) before a game at Cooperstown, New York, in 1965. Gene Mauch managed the P
hils, Johnny Keane the Yankees. Gene Mauch taught me an important lesson: It takes two to make a fight. (National Baseball Hall of Fame)
Being an umpire is like being a policeman in civilized society. (National Baseball Hall of Fame)
I don’t believe I have ever made a wrong call. (Doug Harvey Collection)
After Roberto Clemente’s three thousandth hit I shook his hand and handed him the ball. (Doug Harvey Collection)
Gerry Davis, me, Dick Stello, and Eric Gregg. Dick was killed in a freak accident. Eric had a terrible problem with food. (Doug Harvey Collection)
It’s been fifty-two years now. I couldn’t do without her. (Doug Harvey Collection)
Me, Joy, and our two sons, Scott and Todd. (Doug Harvey Collection)
When I met Joy, she was working at the ballpark selling scorecards and seat cushions. (Doug Harvey Collection)
I will cherish my induction into the Hall of Fame until the day I die. (Doug Harvey Collection)
There were years I went through almost an entire season without tossing a single player or manager. (Doug Harvey Collection)
We don’t ask for respect; we demand it. (Doug Harvey Collection)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Doug Harvey
I wish to thank my dad, who showed me umpiring, and my mom, who taught me a day’s pay for a day’s work. I am indebted to my brothers, Roy, Nolan, and Donnie, for always helping me, and I want to tell everyone else in my family, including my nieces and nephews, how much I love you all. I thank Fred Fleig, who not only gave me my opportunity to umpire in the big leagues but who did it when no one else believed in me. To Al Barlick: We fought for years, but you taught me. And to Shag Crawford: I thank you for being the man you were. I want to thank L.A. Dodger trainer Bill Buhler for keeping me in the game. I thank my friend Andy Strasberg, a baseball historian, as well as John B. B. Freeman and Richard Lister, for their hard work; my agent, Jeff Silberman, for his good work; Peter Golenbock, for his friendship as much as for his professionalism; and to editor Jeremie Ruby-Strauss at Simon & Schuster and copyeditor Richard Klin. You’ve all been great.
Peter Golenbock
I wish to thank my friends Ray Arsenault, Burton Hersh, Mike Rees, Ra Eisenhower, George Philippides, brother Robert, sister Wendy, and Genady Litvin and all his associates at Litvin & Torrens Associates in Miami. You all came through for me when I needed you most. I am deeply grateful.
DOUG HARVEY is a Hall of Fame umpire whose career total of 4,673 games—including five World Series—ranks third in major league history. He lives in California.
PETER GOLENBOCK has written eight New York Times bestsellers, among them some of baseball’s most important books. They include Dynasty: The New York Yankees, 1949–1964; The Bronx Zoo, with Sparky Lyle; Number 1, with Billy Martin; Balls, with Graig Nettles; Idiot, with Johnny Damon; Personal Fouls; and American Prince, with Tony Curtis.
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Copyright © 2014 by Doug Harvey and Peter Golenbock
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First Gallery Books hardcover edition March 2014
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Interior design by Jaime Putorti
Jacket design by Jason Gabbert Design LLC
Jacket photograph from the Doug Harvey Collection
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013048063
ISBN 978-1-4767-4878-8
ISBN 978-1-4767-4881-8 (ebook)