Welcome to the Big Time
Seeing Old Friends
It’s funny in baseball how things seem to go in circles. When I walked into the clubhouse in New York before my first game, about the first two people I saw were Johnny Castino and Gary Ward, neither of whom I had visited with since Instructional League.
I’d seen them from a distance in spring camp, but we were always on different fields. The A-ball guys don’t hang with the AAA guys. If you’re not good enough to be on their field, you don’t hang with them. There’s a pecking order in pro ball.
But that night in Yankee Stadium was like being back in the Instructional League with them. They gave me the best advice that anybody in this game ever gave me. Cas came over first and said, “Hrbie, it’s great to see you. Just remember this game is the same game that we were playing when we were together before. It’s still just baseball.” Then Gary came over and said, “Great to see you, man. I’m happy for you and proud of you. But just remember, this is the same game you’ve played your whole life.”
Right away, my mind was eased. I was 21 years old, never played a game above A-ball, and I was in Yankee Stadium. I’d never even been to a big-league ballpark other than old Met Stadium to watch the Twins as a kid. I’d never been to New York City, period. But I took their advice to heart. This was the same game I had been playing since swinging at Wiffle balls in the Meyers’ backyard.
First Impressions
I wasn’t blown away when I first walked into Yankee Stadium. There was an aura, but the hallway leading to the clubhouse, and the clubhouse itself, had a low ceiling. I guess I expected bigger things. Of course, I hadn’t seen the field yet. And after talking to Johnny and Gary, I spent about two seconds putting my uniform on. I just wanted to get down onto the field, where I figured I’d feel more at home.
When I walked onto the field, I was in awe. One second I’m at Visalia playing in a stadium that today I can’t even remember the name of, the next thing I’m at Yankee Stadium. Yeah, the clubhouse in New York might have felt like a dungeon, but walking onto the field was different than anything I had ever experienced. This was “The House That Ruth Built.” You kind of felt like you were in the place where baseball had been invented. To this day, every time I walk into Yankee Stadium, I get that same feeling. It’s a different feeling than any other ballpark.
Tommy John was the Yankees’ starter that first game. I was 1-for-4 during the first nine innings, beating out an infield hit down the first-base line. Against a crafty lefty like John, I’ll take that. At least I knew I wasn’t going to be oh-for my big-league career.
One thing I remember from that game is Reggie Jackson getting to first base, looking at my name on the back of my uniform and saying, “How do you say that, kid?” Then he said, “Welcome to the big leagues, kid.” Pretty nice, from a guy of his stature.
Back home in Bloomington there were parties everywhere. My parents had a group of people over, gathered around the TV. And, as I later learned, a bunch of my high school buddies had parties going on too, watching the ballgame.
Johnny Podres was the pitching coach for the Twins in ’81. I don’t think it’s any secret that Pods liked to have a cocktail or two. He was one of the games great characters and made quite a tandem along with our manager Billy Gardner, whom most people just called Slick. What a pair. Talk about funny guys with dry senses of humor.
When you walked by Pods on your way to the bat rack, he’d frequently slap you on the leg, give you a goofy look, and say, “Got something goin’ on tonight, Hrbie? Whatcha got goin’ on?” Then he’d wink at you and laugh. I loved Pods.
As I headed to the bat rack in the 12th inning of my first big-league game, Pods hit me on the leg and said, “Hey, kid, it’s getting kind of late. I’m going to need a cocktail pretty soon. Hit one out of here, will you?” I remember him saying that like it was yesterday.
Well, believe it or not, I went up and hit one out off George Frazier, who would later become a teammate of mine with the Twins. I got back to the dugout, and Pods was just sitting there with a great big smile. He’s probably loved me ever since, because I got Pods out in the big city.
About the time I got to first base, I looked out to right field and saw Reggie’s No. 44 with his back turned, watching the ball. It hit between the two fences and bounced back onto the field. I thought maybe Reggie was going to save it for me, but he picked it up and tossed it into the stands. Oh well. There’s some Yankee fan out there who has my first big-league memento. But I’ve got the memory, and that’s enough.
I got my first taste of the media that night. I walked into the clubhouse and there was a pile of people around my locker. I just wanted to get out of there, get back to the hotel, and start calling everyone at home.
The whole significance of the night didn’t really hit me until the year was over. I played my first game at Yankee Stadium, starting at first base where Lou Gehrig once played. And my dad was at home dying from Lou Gehrig’s disease. That night, I was just living in the moment, trying to figure out how to get a hit off a guy like Tommy John. Trying to prove to the Twins that I deserved to be there. But as the years went on, that night became more and more special to me because of my dad.
Back then, as I left Yankee Stadium, all I could think about was getting back to Met Stadium and playing my first game at home. I knew my family and friends would be there to watch.
Ouch
You could say that my home debut was a little less memorable than my major-league debut. It was memorable because I got to go in the Met clubhouse for the first time and play on the field where I’d watched the Twins as a kid. We’d go to 10 or 12 games a year, and mostly I’d go to watch Tony Oliva hit the baseball.
Tony to me was one of the greatest hitters who ever lived and would be in the Hall of Fame if he hadn’t blown out his knee. It’s pretty neat that Tony and I both have our Twins numbers retired as members of the team’s Hall of Fame, along with Harmon Killebrew, Rod Carew, and Kirby Puckett.
You couldn’t have seen that one coming from my first game at the old Met. It had been raining most of the day, and the field was wet. I don’t think we even took batting practice. I did stretch, for those who are wondering, but it didn’t help. Early in the game I reached for a low throw at first and blew out my hamstring. Of course, I didn’t want to leave the game. My parents were there, and I had a ton of friends out in the left-field stands.
Tickets weren’t too hard to come by. The Twins were 41–68 that season, which was shortened because of the strike. I tried to hit one more time after feeling my hammie tear. I think I swung at the first pitch, hit a fly to center, and could barely jog down the first-base line. That was it. I was out of the game.
Afterward, all my friends came up and wanted to know what happened. They didn’t know I had blown out my hamstring. All they saw was me hitting a fly to center, jogging to first, and then leaving the game—end of story for that night.
High school rival Timmy Laudner joined me on the Twins in late 1981. Courtesy of the Minnesota Twins
I missed the next two weeks before I was able to get back in the lineup. That home run in Yankee Stadium was the only one I hit that year in 67 at-bats. And I only batted .239, which wasn’t very Tony Oliva-like.
But the final month of ’81 was memorable for a lot of other reasons. Before the year was out, the Twins had called up a couple buddies of mine. Timmy Laudner, my old high school rival, came up from AA after hitting 42 homers at Orlando. Timmy was a catcher, not a center fielder like he had been at Park Center High. And the Twins called up G-Man, Gary Gaetti, from the same Orlando ball club.
By now Gary and I were already friends after playing a whole year at Wisconsin Rapids and suffering through a summer under Rick “Stelly” Stelmaszek. We were pretty much instant friends in the minors. I just liked Gary’s attitude. He was a guy who had no fear.
Gary hit a home run off Charlie Hough in Texas in his first big league at-bat. Everyone in the dugout was clapping, saying, “Way to go.” Not me. I was screaming and hollering like a little kid.
The game was on.