Becoming Mr. October (9780385533126) (33 page)

About a week after the series in Boston, the Sox came to New York for two more. Eckersley beat us in the opener, and then in the next game Ron Guidry had one of his very, very few mediocre starts of that whole year, lost a 3–0 lead on a rainy, foggy night in front of a big crowd.

Billy was starting to mess with me again, batting me sixth in that game. But I had three hits, drove in Thurman to tie the game again in the eighth. Goose and Sparky both pitched outstanding ball,
eight innings
of shutout relief between them, and Nettles had a huge hit, a two-run homer in the bottom of the fourteenth off Dick Drago that might have saved the season for us.

We were running on fumes by then. We had Fred Stanley and a rookie call-up named Domingo Ramos playing short for Bucky. Dámaso García, another rookie, was playing second for Willie, Gary Thomasson was in center for Mickey. We had our bench players everywhere, names that were not recognizable like we all were used to with the Yanks back then. We had Dave Rajsich, Bob Kammeyer, and Larry McCall pitching in important ball games for us. We brought up
another guy from Double-A, Paul Semall, who Billy was actually planning to pitch against Boston. Guys nobody heard of before or since.

It got to be so you couldn’t walk through the locker room without a scorecard. We were a patch team.

We went to play in Boston again on July 3, and they started Eckersley against Figgy, who had a sore arm, too. He had to go, though, because we didn’t have much else.

By that time, we’d traded Ken Holtzman because Billy wouldn’t pitch him. We got Ron Davis for him, who would become an outstanding reliever for us but who was still a minor leaguer. We’d traded Eastwick because Billy didn’t like him. We got Jay Johnstone and Bobby Brown for him—a pair of backup outfielders who helped us off the bench. By that time, we were down to guys like Paul Blair and Jim Spencer—an outfielder and a first baseman—warming up in the bullpen. But we were still trading pitchers because Billy Martin didn’t like them—or because of whatever his personal issues were.

The game in Boston was a travesty. They just sort of cuffed us around. Figgy was done by the fourth, and Billy put in Sparky for one inning—I was wondering what Sparky thought about how he was being used in games, with the year he had in 1977—then Bob Kammeyer pitched the rest of the game.

I don’t know who we would’ve pitched the next night: McCall or Paul Semall—pray for rain. Fortunately, we got it. And as it happened, that rainout really helped us.

We couldn’t compete with teams like the Red Sox when they were healthy and they were playing well. There’s no secret formula. You just won’t beat top major leaguers playing a combination of your bench and guys who aren’t ready for the major leagues yet.

Yaz said it at the time. He told the press, “We’re getting a well-pitched game every time out there, while the Yankees are getting a new guy on the disabled list every day.”

It was true. The Sox were getting pitching like they never had before. I remember sometime around then, Eckersley was 11–2, Bill Lee was 10–3, Torrez was 12–5, Tiant was 7–2—their top four starters were 40–12. We were throwing an unknown Bob Kammeyer. I remember running in the outfield before a game, looking at the scoreboard when they put up the standings: The Red Sox were 51–19.

But of course, there was an additional explanation, closer to some people’s hearts: It was my fault. Particularly my fielding.

All of a sudden, it was like last year all over again. As if our stretch drive never happened. As if the World Series had never happened. Billy kept me hitting sixth. He started pulling me out of the lineup more and more. He almost never put me out in the field anymore. Then sometimes, after I’d been sitting for a while, he’d DH me against a tough lefty. Anything to show me up, I guess.

We started losing more, got down to just five games over .500. I
thought
the low point came right after the All-Star break, in mid-July. Right before the break we lost five of six, including getting swept three straight in Milwaukee. I was benched for the last two games—one of which was against a right-handed pitcher.

We lost both those games, and when we came back from the All-Star break to play the White Sox in the Stadium, the Boss had a big clubhouse meeting and announced there were going to be major changes. Mickey Rivers was back in center, so now Gary Thomasson, who’d been filling in, was going to start in left field, over Roy White. Mike Heath, a rookie we’d just called up from the minors, was going to start behind the plate. And Thurman … Thurman would be moving to right field to rest his knees.

Oh, yeah, where did that leave me? As the designated hitter—against right-handed pitching. Because supposedly I couldn’t hit lefties anymore. Against lefties, the DH would be Lou Piniella.

Less than half a season after I had one of the best World Series in history, I was going to be a part-time player. Less than two years after becoming the highest-paid player in the game, I was going to be a platoon player.

The Boss told us we had no choice: “You’re some of the best-paid athletes in the world, and I’m the man who signs the checks. If you don’t want to do things my way, then you can go somewhere else. This is my team. I pay the bills. I’ll do what I want to do.”

I understood George’s frustration. We all did. It must’ve been exasperating to watch us play and slip further behind. But this was his football background talking again. Lou Piniella said it at the time: “George thinks it’s all just a matter of mental toughness, and it’s not true.”

Lou was right. It’s a long, long season, baseball. You have to pace yourself, and you can’t go out there and knock somebody down when you get mad.

You can have all the desire, all the mental toughness in the world—and you’re still not going to win if all your pitching staff has arm problems, and you’re throwing unproven kids against some of the best arms in the game. You’re not going to turn double plays, you’re not going to get big hits if you have to have minor-league fill-ins playing up the middle. Desire alone won’t beat talent.

The trouble was also that the changes George wanted didn’t make a lot of sense. Gary Thomasson was a good ballplayer; he made some nice contributions for us, especially in the field. He also got some timely hits. But he wasn’t the all-around player Roy White was; he didn’t have his experience. Hadn’t been in two World Series the last two years, the way Roy had been. Mike Heath went on to have an outstanding career as a catcher in the American League, but he was just a rookie and wasn’t ready to do much more than play part-time, to grow into the position on this level.

Thurman needed a rest, all right. But the place to get it wasn’t the outfield when he’d lost a lot of his speed, couldn’t cover much ground. He was going to become an outfielder at the age of thirty-one—thereby making
two
positions less than they should be.

It didn’t make sense putting Lou on the bench that much, cutting down on his at-bats. Lou was a productive hitter. It made even less sense to not play me every day. I’d shown I could do the job, I already had four rings, and I had too big a paycheck to sit. They were going to make me a part-time player?

With all due respect to the Boss, it wasn’t a good plan. I thought that if Billy had built up some trust and reliability, he might have been able to make George see things differently and talk him out of the
whole idea. But Billy wasn’t about to do that. He was too worn down, too beaten by then, on the edge of losing his job as manager. And I think he enjoyed seeing me get benched.

By then, I didn’t even know what to say. I couldn’t believe how fast all the goodwill, all the accomplishments from the year before, had dissipated. I was so discouraged. I was honestly wondering whether it was all worthwhile. I was mentally back there again!

After the meeting, the craziness continued. I went to the movies with a girl I was seeing. A woman came up and asked for my autograph. I told her no—politely—because, as I pointed out, then I’d have to sign for anyone who asked. I just wanted to enjoy my date, enjoy my night out, and see a movie.

This woman started getting angry, started yelling at me. She started screaming at my girlfriend. I tried to get between them, and the woman fell over and started shouting that I hit her, which of course I didn’t. I really don’t know if it was all some sort of a setup or if she was just crazy.

It became such a scene they ended up having to clear the whole theater. The next day it was all over the papers. They made it sound like a riot had broken out—and they made sure to say that my date was white and the woman who wanted my autograph was black, injecting race into it.

Before I knew it, the woman had filed a lawsuit against me. On my attorney’s advice, I sued her back. Eventually, it went away and got thrown out of court. But it all just seemed crazy to me. As I told a reporter the next day, “When you’re me, nothing surprises you. I went to the movies last night and got sued.”

With that coming on top of my demotion to part-time DH, I had just about had it with everything—the Yankees, the Boss, and Billy. New York. I was just getting numb by then. When the writers wanted
to know what I thought about our big realignment, I just told them, “George owns the freaking team. He can do what he wants.”

That was how disgusted I felt by then. My only real hope was that George as a businessman—not as a fan—would recognize how foolish me being a part-time DH was and trade me somewhere else.

I kept trying to get through to George to tell him this. Back when he signed me in 1976, he made it clear I could always talk to him. So I tried to schedule a private meeting with him, say what I needed to say away from the press.

He wouldn’t see me. I had already been trying for weeks to see him, but he wouldn’t make the time. When George knew what you were going to say and it wasn’t what he wanted you to say, he avoided you. That’s something we’ve all experienced.

I tried to take it all in stride. I tried the things that had worked for me the year before: talking with my dad and my brother Joe. Praying with Gary Walker. I’d made some more friends around the clubhouse by then, and it was good to talk with them.

I had comfortable, calming conversations with the gentlemanly Roy White. We got along well. I’d talk to Fran Healy, who had retired but who George had made a broadcaster. Had some good conversations with Gene Monahan, who was one of the trainers and who would be with the team until just a couple years ago—forty-plus years.

I had some great talks as well with Pete Sheehy, who was the equipment manager with the Yankees going all the way back to 1927—the year they had that great team. He was a legend and had already seen so much. He was the guy who Lou Gehrig flipped his glove to when he realized he was too sick to play anymore and said, “I’m done, Pete.” It was Pete Sheehy who gave Mantle his number 7.

When I had tough times, he’d come over to me while I was still at my locker and everyone else was gone. I’d be slumped down in my chair, half-clothed or whatever, sitting and staring. I’d be picking my Afro; I had a nice head of hair. Back then, anyway.

Pete would sit down next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He’d look up at me and say, “You know, Lou Gehrig used to locker here. I used to say to him in difficult times, ‘Just let the river flow.
Tra-la-la-la-la. Let the river flow.’ ” He’d say, “Sometimes, Reggie, you just have to go out and play and get out of your own way. Don’t worry. You’ve got a lot of ability. I used to say the same thing to Lou.”

That was a moment I’ll never forget. Every time I would see Pete, he was very quiet. He would just kind of look at me in a very fatherly way. A gentleman who knew the path I was on, knew the road I was traveling. I’ll never forget that! And today I still own that same locker; it’s in my car garage. Got it from Steiner Sports Memorabilia, after the Yankees left the old Stadium.

Older people look at you in a knowing way. They see what’s going on—but they are reluctant to tell you that. Older people know the answers. They don’t say much because they know you have to go through it yourself—unless you ask them for help. Then they’ll tell you. They know like I know the answers for my daughter, Kimberly—but I have to let her figure them out herself.

I was good friends with Ray Negron, talking to him all the time. I spent a lot of time with him; I was a big brother to him. If you think about it, it was an awkward yet unique situation. I think Ray was nineteen or so then, but he managed to have a relationship—strangely, yet fortunately—with Billy and me. We both respected that. I never got a message from Billy through him, and I never sent a message to Billy through Ray. We respected that.

But because I knew Ray, I knew Billy’s girlfriends. They were always nice, and I always got along with them. Said hello, stuff like that, when I’d see them at the ballpark. Always a smile, never had any kind of thing against them. There was never any kind of bitterness that translated between his girlfriends and me; that was never a factor. That was how crazy a situation it was. I couldn’t talk to the manager, but I was friendly with his friends.

After George benched me, I finally said it straight out to the press. I told them, “I’m not gonna DH for three years. I won’t ever be a full-time DH, not until it gets to the point where I know I can’t do the job in the outfield anymore.”

I believe I said, “I’m still a baseball player, not a DH.”

I knew I’d had a rough time in the outfield the year before. And that May, there was a play that got a lot of coverage. It was in Kansas City, and we were leading by a run with two outs in the bottom of the ninth. Martin brought in Goose, and Amos Otis hit a long fly ball off him, almost to the wall. Paul Blair and I were both going for it, and we ran into each other. Otis got a two-run, inside-the-park home run off it that changed a likely win into a loss, just like that.

No excuses, it was my fault. The center fielder is the captain out there, and he calls the shots. But that sort of thing just happens sometimes. It wasn’t indicative of the year I was having. Overall, I cut my errors down from thirteen to three. To make out like my fielding was the reason we were in fourth place was ridiculous. To make out that Thurman Munson, a lifelong catcher, with his bad knees, could do a better job was even more ridiculous.