Umpires tend to have their own strike zones. That’s sad, but it’s true. I always had a problem with that.
There’s supposed to be a strike zone, not an umpire’s strike zone. But you have to live with it. The worst was 1969, when they lowered the mound and tightened the strike zone at both the top and bottom. That was hard enough, but some umpires made the adjustment and others didn’t, or they’d make them in different ways. It was disorienting. After a while, it seemed like there was almost no such thing as a high strike anymore.
I always made sure to find out, in the first few batters, what the umpire considered a strike that night. But it’s not right that you should have to do that. A strike should be a strike.
Baseball at least tried to address the issue with the QuesTec system, which was designed to compare each umpire’s strike zone with the actual strike zone. But it was only installed in about a third of the major-league stadiums. In the ones that had it, cameras were stationed at various points to track the path of the ball and put each pitch within the framework of the batter’s stance. The purpose was to make the strike zone uniform. It was a noble cause, and it accomplished its objective to some extent. The studies showed that a lot of umpires were calling a strike zone that was wider than the plate and smaller vertically than it’s supposed to be.
For the 2009 season, QuesTec was replaced by a new system called Zone Evaluation, which was put in all the parks. That’s an improvement. But whatever the system, I’m not a big advocate. I’m too much of a traditionalist for that.
Put the umpire back there and let him screw it up in the way he wants to. That’s how it’s been played all these years, and I don’t know why they should have some kind of machine telling you what a strike is.
I suppose the quality of umpiring is as good as it can be.
It could be better if the umpires would stop thinking that they were such a big part of the game and that they need to be seen and recognized. Just call the balls and strikes. We don’t care about all this other stuff. A good umpire should be like background music, just kind of there. Now you get “Steeeriiiiiiike!”
Come on. “Strike one.” That’s all you want.
I’d prefer “Ball one.”
I’m not as concerned with an umpire’s style as I am with his strike zone. It’s a tough deal for a hitter when you’ve got a guy back there like Ed Runge, who didn’t issue many walks. He wanted to get the game over with. You’d walk up to the plate and he’d say, “You’d better be swinging.”
Ed Runge. Oh yeah. Heh-heh.
Ed Sudol was another one who had a big strike zone, a pitcher’s strike zone. If you saw Sudol you’d remember him because he had his own way of showing if a ball was outside, like he was shooing it away with both hands. But if he called it outside, it was outside. You could throw the ball four inches off the plate and Ed Sudol would shoot that hand up and go, “Strike one!” I thought, man, I love this guy. Love him! You didn’t have to come close to the plate. “Strike two!” Guys are swinging and bitching and woofing at him, and I’m just out there smiling.
You’re not going to hit the ball if a guy’s throwing it ninety-five miles an hour and getting calls off the plate.
No, you’re sure not. But for every Ed Sudol, there’s an Al Barlick.
Al Barlick was very consistent, but he had a small plate. He never gave me a pitch.
And then there was Doug Harvey. He called himself God.
Doug Harvey used to drive me crazy. He was considered one of the greatest umpires of all time, but he had a very difficult strike zone. You’d throw a ball on the corner and he’d call it a ball, and you’d complain that it was on the black and he’d say, kind of smart-alecky, “The black is not a part of the plate.”
If the ball’s that close, they should be swinging at it.
You have to be aware of everything to be a good hitter. You have to know if the umpire has a high strike zone, a low strike zone, or a wide strike zone, or if he calls one side of the plate better than the other.
Frankly, I like the fact that a hitter has to learn the umpires, just as he has to learn the pitchers. Every ump has a strike zone, and that’s part of the game. I think it’s a good part of the game.
It’s hard to judge or measure how much of a difference a guy like Harvey ultimately makes in the final outcome, but I was definitely more exhausted, mentally, after a game that he called. If I’ve got a Harvey back there, or a Barlick, I know I’m going to have to bring the ball over the plate to get a strike. That takes a toll, because I don’t want to bring the ball over the plate. I make my living by not doing that. If you throw the ball over the plate, hitters are going to hit it. If you have to do it, that puts you in a bind. It eats at your confidence. But if you don’t do it, you’re behind in the count. That’s not a very good arrangement for a pitcher.
There are all kinds of umpires. Some are just bad umpires. Others want to put on a show, so you have to be mindful of that with two strikes because you know the guy’s looking to run out there and make a big call. There are umpires you can’t question, because if you do you’ll be paying for it the rest of the game. Joe Brinkman would get mad in a heartbeat if you said something that he thought was out of line.
I didn’t argue much, mostly because Dick Allen told me not to. There was one particular umpire who apparently appreciated my manners at the plate, because he gave me the benefit of the doubt on every close call. He once told me, “You’ll get your pitch when I’m behind the plate.”
I had umpires say to me toward the end of my career, “If you don’t swing today, it ain’t a strike.”
I knew there was something wrong with those guys.
When I was trying to hit home run number five hundred in California, Durwood Merrill was the umpire, and he knew exactly what was going on. Most of them did. I got breaks toward the end of my career, for sure.
There were times when I’d be hitting late in a ballgame, a close game, and the umpire would call a ball that I actually questioned. I’d say, “Not now. Don’t do that now. I need everything fair and clean.”
Sounds like Bob Uecker, except Uecker wasn’t quite that serious. He was catching against us for the Braves once and the umpire was Billy Williams, and Williams called an outside strike on Mike Shannon. Uecker ripped off his mask and argued with him.
I didn’t want the pitcher to have an advantage, and I didn’t want an advantage. I wanted it to be straight, because in that situation—late innings, game on the line—I think I can get him. Just leave everything fair. Don’t give him anything, don’t give me anything.
I’d take whatever I got. But other than Ed Sudol, I never thought I got much. Maybe it was because my etiquette wasn’t quite as refined as Reggie’s.
When I struggled with the strike zone, I usually thought it was the umpire’s fault—especially when I was young and wild. In college, the strike zone was different than it was in professional ball. Once I got to the minor leagues, I couldn’t figure out what the strike zone was. I was thinking, what’s up with this? I’d throw a pitch between the belt and letters and they’d call it a ball and I’d think, what in the hell is going on? I’m sitting there reading the rule book and it tells me the strike zone is from the knees to the letters. It was never the letters in pro ball. I’d throw that thing up there and they’d call it a ball and I’d go crazy.
Eventually, I got used to it. The fact is, if you’re bad that day, it’s not the umpire’s doing. But it does make the umpire a little less likely to pull you out of trouble. If your pitches are all over the place, you’re probably not going to luck into the strikes that you might on a better day. The umpire is sitting right over your catcher’s shoulder and he knows the ball’s not going where it’s supposed to go. If the catcher sets up on the inside corner and you happen to hit the outside corner, there’s a pretty good chance he won’t give it to you.
It’s possible to work the umpire. You have to learn how to talk to him. It’s an art. A hitter can reach down to get some dirt, with his back to the umpire, and say, “That ball was a little outside, wasn’t it? That ball a little outside?” I might be turned the other way, adjusting my helmet, and say, “Damn it now, don’t tell me that ball was a strike. That ball’s not a strike. Don’t tell me it’s a strike. That ball’s not a strike!” You can do all that, but you can’t turn to him and say anything. You can’t look at an umpire. You can look forward, you can call time and look the other way, but don’t look at him. He’ll respect you for that.
As a pitcher, you can’t say much, and you can’t say anything from the mound. That would show up the umpire, and they’ll nail your butt for it because they don’t like to be shown up. That’s the kind of thing they hold grudges over. When the umpire would make a call I didn’t appreciate, I’d kind of cock my head and look in like I must have seen it wrong or something. Then, when I came in to hit, I might say something like, “You know, those balls are strikes.” But that’s about all you can do. Hopefully, your catcher’s getting in his two cents’ worth.
I remember Tom Gorman, a big ol’ umpire. One day I was throwing high strikes, just above the belt, and he kept calling them balls. I came in to hit and the other pitcher was throwing the ball in the same spot and ol’ Tom Gorman says, “Strike one.”
I said, “Damn it, Tom, that’s the same pitch you keep calling a ball on me.” And he wouldn’t say a word. He just kept tapping his indicator. And here it comes again.
“Strike two.”
And I said, “Damn it, Tom, if that’s a ball from me, it’s a ball from him.”
And he said, “Bobby, you take it again.”
After that, I was swinging at everything.
An umpire can make you do that. What’s worse is when there’s a combination of an umpire who calls a lot of strikes and a pitcher who works the ball just off the plate, like Greg Maddux or Tom Glavine. A smart pitcher with great control, plus a wide strike zone … whew. You’re in for a long, tough night.
Maddux can throw a pitch three or four inches outside, and the umpire will say, “Striiike!” Because he’s always there. If the umpire calls that one, Maddux will come right back to that spot, or maybe stretch it out another half-inch. His control is just that good. The umpires know who’s out there, and they have a tendency to give you a break if you have good control and you’re always right there where you want to be.
The hitters always complain about it, but that’s the way it is. It’s that way because guys like Maddux and Glavine—and there aren’t many of them—are so consistent. Those two are probably within about two inches of their target ninety percent of the time. It’s not always a strike, but it’s always there. They know they’re going to get the call, in all likelihood, and the hitters ought to know it.
It’s the same with hitters. I’m not sure about Ted Williams, though. He might have had the best eye in the history of baseball, but the umpires didn’t like him. He didn’t have the manners. But guys like Tony Gwynn, Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, Albert Pujols, even Barry Bonds … you get a great hitter up there, a guy with a good eye who doesn’t swing at the ball off the plate, and they’re apt to get the call just like the great pitcher does.
No matter who you are, though, or who the umpire is, you can’t take anything for granted with two strikes. You can’t expect the umpire to bail you out, and you can’t let him beat you, either. A hitter has to make sure it’s just between him and the pitcher.
All you can ask of an umpire is that he leaves it that way.
You just don’t want him to upset the natural flow of the game. For the most part, I don’t think anything is thrown out of kilter by an umpire acknowledging the skill of the best pitchers and hitters.
A really tough game is one where the umpire calls a pitch a ball and then calls the same pitch a strike. Inconsistency is hard on everybody concerned. The pitcher doesn’t know where he has to throw the ball, and the hitter doesn’t know what he has to swing at. Everybody gets out of rhythm and you’ve just got a bad ball-game.
An umpire can also impact a game when he is consistent, if he’s consistent one particular way or the other—tight or loose with the zone, for instance, or high or low with it. Harvey and Barlick were examples of that. They would set a tone by the way they defined the strike zone. That can be the difference between a low-scoring game and a high-scoring game.
It sounds as though that wouldn’t give one team an advantage over the other, but it might. If the umpire has a small strike zone, it could favor the better-hitting team, because that’s the team more likely to take advantage of pitches over the plate. Those are the days when a pitcher might wish he were in another line of work. On the other hand, if I knew an umpire was going to give me a strike three inches off the black, I sure as hell wouldn’t throw the ball any closer than that. So I’d consider that an advantage for me, more than the other pitcher.
A major advantage, with that fastball and slider. An unfair advantage, I’d say.
And every now and then—not very often—you’ll get an umpire who calls the entire nine innings just like they’re supposed to be called, from the first pitch to the last one. There was one night in particular when I thought Harry Wendelstedt didn’t miss a pitch all night, and I told him so. I lost that game, by the way.
Of course, Wendelstedt was the home-plate umpire for five no-hitters, which tied a National League record. He was considered a pitcher’s umpire.
Like I said, he was a good one.
The most critical thing a catcher does is call the game. That’s much more important than blocking pitches and framing pitches and throwing out runners and all that other stuff.
That’s why Tim McCarver was such a good catcher. He had a terrible arm, but my goodness, could he call a game. All he had to do was catch you for an inning or so and he was on the same page. He’d know what you wanted to do in just about every situation. When a pitcher can place that kind of trust in his catcher, it puts his mind at ease. You don’t have to wear your brain out deciding what to do on every pitch and shaking off the catcher and battling him all the way.
You don’t want stuff rolling around in your head when you’re trying to play ball. You know what you want to do, and you want to just do it.
I was so sure what Tim would call that I once balked in a run when he surprised me and asked for something different. A lot of times I’d start winding up before he was even finished giving his signs. What he would do is put down one … two … three … And when I started winding up, that was the pitch. That was sort of my signal to him. Well, this particular time I started winding up and he wasn’t finished giving his signs yet. I thought, uh-oh, and stopped for a second, then tried to start up again. Everybody in the whole ballpark yelled, “Balk!”
I’d occasionally shake Tim off, but more often I’d just stand there and wait for him to put down something else. The thing you can’t do is shake a catcher off twice. If you do that, the hitter knows it’s a fastball. The second shake is probably for location, and that’s the tip-off that it’s a fastball. A catcher usually won’t signal for location on a breaking ball, unless maybe it’s a slider. Partly for that reason, I generally didn’t shake off location.
With McCarver, sometimes we didn’t even need a sign for location. He knew, for instance, that if it was a left-handed batter I’d probably want to jam him with the fastball.
As far as the second shake-off meaning it was a fastball … That was especially true for a pitcher like Hoot, who was mostly all hard stuff. If it was Luis Tiant or Juan Marichal, two shakes wouldn’t mean as much. Those guys had so many pitches, it might take more signs for them to settle on one.
Of course, with Gibson, I’d be focused on the fastball anyway, hoping to hit it to left center—or pull the slider if he came with that instead. I wouldn’t be paying much attention to anything else.
I was fortunate in that I always threw to good catchers. But sometimes it took a while to get in sync.
My first two or three years, I let the catcher call the game for me. The first one was Hal Smith, and he did a nice job of it. Gene Oliver caught every now and then, but he wasn’t quite as sharp back there. I once hit him right in the chest. Don’t know what happened. More often, though, Carl Sawatski would catch when there was a nasty right-hander pitching for the other team.
One night, around my third year, Sawatski, who’d been around for a long time, kept calling fastball, fastball, fastball. I shook him off. Fastball. Shook him off. Finally, he called time and trotted out and told me I was going to throw a fastball. I said I just threw the guy five in a row; I want to change it up. He said, nope, you’re going to throw a fastball. So I threw the guy a half-assed fastball and he hit a home run. Now I’m blaming Sawatski. That’s when I told myself I’d never, ever do that again: When I want to throw a pitch, that’s what I’m going to throw. If the catcher wants to fight about it, we’ll fight about it. But I’m not going to throw something I don’t want to throw.
Once a pitcher reaches a point where he knows what he’s doing, the catcher’s not really calling the pitches anyway. He’s suggesting. He’s just making a recommendation. Now, with a young pitcher who just came up and an experienced catcher, yeah, the catcher does and should call the game. The pitcher, at that point, doesn’t know the hitters and doesn’t fully understand the situations and circumstances. But once you learn how to pitch—if you know how to pitch at all—you don’t let the catcher call the game.
The worst thing is to give up a hit or a home run and lose a ballgame and second-guess yourself on something a catcher called. That’s what I learned from Carl Sawatski. You don’t want to blame anybody but yourself when you lose a ballgame.
A while back, somebody with the Yankees was telling me that our young pitchers were nervous about being in the big leagues and were trying to be too fine with their stuff and location. I asked the guy what he meant, and he said, “They’re throwing a lot of changeups. The other day, Ian Kennedy threw a three-two breaking pitch.”
He said Posada.
I said, “Why didn’t Posada put down a fastball?”
He said he did, and Kennedy shook him off.
I said, “Well, why didn’t Posada put it down again? This kid’s twenty-three years old. Posada should walk out there and say, ‘If you’re dead set on that and think you have to throw it, then you should throw it. But here’s what I think you should do in this situation.’”
You explain it to the guy, let him swallow it, digest it.
The one with experience should take the lead. Both the pitcher and catcher need to recognize which of them that is.
Ted Simmons used to drive me crazy when he was a young catcher. One day he called time and came out to ask if I was giving him a hard time. I said, “Giving you a hard time?”
“Yeah, you keep shaking me off.”
I said, “You know what I’m really trying to do?”
He said, “What’s that?”
I said, “I’m trying to win the friggin’ ballgame. I don’t have the luxury of giving you a hard time.”
Simmons was a bright guy, and he learned. It took him a while, but he caught on. As a rookie, all he thought about was hitting line drives, which he did very well. You can forgive a catcher for a lot of sins when he clears the bases with a double.
Bob views the catcher from the specific vantage point of working with him, but I see the role as a little broader than that. I’ve always thought that a catcher should be a team leader, as well—a lot like a quarterback.
We certainly had that with the Yankees in Thurman Munson. I had my troubles with Munson when I first got to New York, and they were magnified because of the admiration and support he had from his teammates. They stood by him when they perceived me as a challenge to his stature on the club. Later, he and I worked things out and developed a mutual respect. Munson was a proud man, and a good leader.
I like Posada’s leadership skills, as well. That’s an important quality when you’re handling a pitching staff.
You know, they made so much out of the business of me not wanting the catcher to come out and talk to me. The truth is, I didn’t mind that much. It broke my rhythm, and I didn’t appreciate that, but a pitcher needs somebody back there who will keep him from drifting, to read his body language and get him back on track if he’s straying from the plan. I used to give McCarver a hard time just to give him a hard time.
He’d come out and I’d say, “What the hell are you doing out here? What?”
“Well, you got a man on first …”
“I know that. I put him there.”
“Give me a shot at him.”
“Give you a shot at him? Who’re you kidding? You’re not going to throw him out.”
“Aw, the hell with you.”
And then he’d trudge back and on we’d go.
When Johnny Keane was the manager, he’d give a signal from the dugout that meant Tim had to come out and calm me down. Tim knew that I saw the signal, too, and he’d look at me and I’d be glaring at him and he’d just as soon walk on glass as come on out to that mound. He’d go about halfway and pretend he was telling me something.
If there was strategy involved, that was a different thing. McCarver would lumber out to make sure everybody was straight on the way we were playing it. All the infielders—including Dal Maxvill, our shortstop—would gather around, breaking my rhythm a little more. There’d be runners on first and third, and Tim would tell me, “Maxie’s covering second, go for two.”
I’d say, “No, I’m going home.”
“Because you guys can’t score and I’m not giving up another run.”
He’d say, “Well, that’s not the way you play the game.” “Well, that’s the way I’m playing it. Now, get on back there.” Thankfully, McCarver understood me. Hell, he even understood Steve Carlton.
Batters cheat. They watch the catcher and try to pick up the signs.
Sometimes they peek. Other times a catcher will set up his target too quickly and the hitter, with his peripheral vision, can see him moving over to the outside part of the plate or wherever.
It’s not always cheating. If a catcher’s shuffling around too much or making a lot of noise back there, you can sense what he’s up to even if you’re not looking. Good catchers will move to their target late.
But yeah, some hitters will try to see what they can see. Steve Garvey was always checking his bat when he was up there, like he was making sure the label was in the right place. A lot of people thought he was really checking out the catcher.
I’m convinced that Hank Aaron did it. He was always looking around, looking back, looking down, looking, looking. He bothered me doing that. I’m watching him and I’m thinking, “Is that sucker looking at the catcher? What’s he looking at back there?”
Sometimes I’d have the catcher set up away and I’d bring the ball inside, just to see. McCarver would put his target on the outside corner and I’d buzz one under Aaron’s chin. It would go back to the backstop, because Tim wasn’t going to catch it if I crossed him up. That was just my way of telling Aaron to be careful now, you might be looking at the wrong thing.
I’d have to say, though, that Aaron was more subtle about it than Mays. Back in the fifties they’d just use fingers for everything, and then catchers began to touch their shinguards for location and sometimes for the pitch. One time McCarver was going through all this rigmarole back there, and Willie calls time out and turns to him and says, “What the hell was that?” He couldn’t figure it out.
Oh yeah, they peek.
I didn’t want to know what the sign was. I honestly didn’t pay attention to that, because I needed the whole count, the whole context, to figure out how I was going to hit. I couldn’t gear myself for a certain pitch. If a guy threw it and it was a ball and I couldn’t hit it, I’d think, okay, now where am I? I’d gotten off my pattern.
Teammates would say that so-and-so is tipping his pitches. I didn’t want any part of that, either. Some of them were good at reading the catcher and then signaling the hitter somehow. Graig Nettles, for one. He’d give you the location more than the pitch. But there are guys who sit in the dugout and whistle to tell the batter if it’s a fastball or breaking ball.
They do that until the pitcher hears it a time or two, and then the next pitch somehow hits the guy in the ribs.
Gene Mauch used to whistle all the time when I was pitching. Every time I’d wind up, he’d start whistling. He had me doing all kinds of stuff to try to throw him off.
Mauch used to coach third base when he managed, and one day I walked by him and said, “Gene, if you keep whistling, you’re going to get somebody killed in there.” It got kind of quiet after that.
I don’t think it’s cheating if a runner on second base picks up the catcher’s signs. It’s up to the catcher to make sure he doesn’t. As a hitter, if you’re smart enough to get ’em, then get ’em, any way you can. Some guys like to have that advantage, some don’t. Personally, I didn’t. Jeter doesn’t, either.
Mostly, a runner on second will watch where the catcher goes and give the batter the location, in or out. The batter watches where the runner puts his hand, or some other signal. But some catchers will deek you. They’ll set up in one spot and then slide somewhere else if they see the runner flash a sign to the hitter.
Catchers love to take advantage of a hitter they think is trying to pick up the pitches. There are some who will pound their glove right under the batter’s ear so it sounds like the ball’s coming inside, then scoot over real fast to the outside corner. Even if there’s a runner on second who’s watching it all, it’s too late by then to get a signal to the hitter.
A guy can get messed up if he plays that game. Make sure you know what you think you know, or don’t do it.
If the runner at second picks up on the location, he might take his lead with one arm or the other sticking out, and that arm tells the batter where the ball is coming. The runner probably doesn’t know the signs, but he can certainly see where the catcher sits. That’s why the catcher should start in the middle and not move until the pitcher begins his motion.
But you still have to be careful how you give your signs with a man on second. Maybe we’ll add one to whatever the sign is, or add two. Then, say, the second place the catcher touches will be the location.
We wouldn’t have to be so tricky if these guys didn’t cheat.
There are players who can read the pitcher’s grip on the ball and determine from that what they’re throwing, but I couldn’t do it. At least, I didn’t do it.
If it’s a curveball, the pitcher will sometimes raise the ball differently while it’s still in his glove. Maybe you can see his wrist turning a little bit. Sometimes, you might be able to tell from the angle of his forearm whether it’s a fastball or a breaking ball. Or it could be that, because of the way a pitcher wraps the ball for a curveball, he won’t come down as low when he starts his motion.
I might have been able to pick up on all that if I’d tried, but I wasn’t interested. I didn’t want to be looking in several different places when I was up there. I didn’t want to get in the way of myself, which I could do pretty easily if I thought about too many things at once.
I felt I had a lot of gifts, and I didn’t want to clutter them. That said, there’s always a guy who is so bad about tipping his pitches that you just can’t help but know what’s coming.
I complained a lot about the Cardinals’ hitting, but I never complained about our fielding. For me, it started with Curt Flood in center, because I was a fly-ball pitcher.
Not long after the 1968 World Series, some woman actually came up to me and asked if I still spoke to Flood. She was referring to the long triple that Jim Northrup hit in Game Seven, and the fact that Flood took a step in before he went back on the ball. I said, “Lady, how could you ask me something like that?”
My goodness. If Flood couldn’t catch that ball, nobody could. And even if he had misplayed it, there’s no way on earth that I would ever complain about anything Curt Flood did in center field. It’s not just that he was a great friend and outfielder. I’d never complain about any teammate who busted his butt out there like Flood did.
A pitcher can really tick a guy off by turning around and staring at him for making an error. The first thing the fielder’s going to think is, “Well, if you’re so great, buddy, don’t let him hit it to me.”
Actually, that’d be the second thing. The first wouldn’t be as pleasant.
What aggravates a pitcher is a fielder making a mental mistake. That tells you his heart and head are not in the game while you’re out there pitching your arm off. But errors are going to happen, just like hanging sliders are going to happen. If your fielders turned on you every time you made a mistake, you’d have a mess on your hands. So you can’t throw any tantrums out there when they make one—as long as it’s physical. And you can’t complain about them when the game’s over. That’s no way to rally the troops. You need those guys.
I trusted my fielders. They knew what they were doing. I didn’t tell them what to do or where to play.
Only Jim Palmer did that, and most of the time he was right. But it looked kind of weird. Some players didn’t like it.
The coaching staff moves them around from the dugout, anyway. They have spray charts showing where guys are likely to hit the ball.
I didn’t think a lot of those, though. They’re like scouting reports: They assume that a hitter is going to do the same thing against every pitcher. They also assume that you’re going to throw the ball where they expect you to throw it. Sorry, that doesn’t always happen.
If I were playing right field behind Bob, I’d position myself well off the line against certain left-handers, because I’d know they weren’t likely to pull him into the corner. That’s just common sense. I’d know I might see some balls off the bats of right-handed hitters, because a lot of them would swing late. Plus, he’d be pitching away from them. I’d also move around, depending on the count. If he’s behind two-and-oh or three-and-one on Frank Robinson, I might shade toward center because Frank probably wants to turn on a fastball in that situation.
Then, late in the game, I might take into consideration that he isn’t throwing as hard.
Don’t assume that.
I’d watch. I’d pay attention.
That’s what I assumed. I just left the fielding up to the fielders.
I looked at it like my old teammate, Curt Simmons. He’d just tell everybody, “When you see those great big ol’ guys up there, play deep. With the little bitty guys, come in a step or two.”
There was really only one thing about a ballpark that mattered to me: the size of it.
In small parks, I tended to pitch guys away more often so they couldn’t pull the ball for cheap home runs. I’m talking about lefthanders, for the most part. Normally, I tried to come in on left-handed hitters, but if they could just poke the ball over a short right-field fence, never mind. In old Busch Stadium, for instance, where we had that damn roof in right field, they could step back on an inside pitch and dump it up there real easy.
I didn’t want the ballpark to change my approach. At pretty much all times, I preferred to keep the ball toward left center. For example, when we played in Detroit, where they had a short porch in right field, I tried not to think right field because it would hurt my swing. Fortunately, Tiger Stadium also had a short porch in left field.
My best hitting park, all around, was probably Fenway. Since I liked to hit the ball the other way, and opposing teams were happy for me to do that, I had some fun with that wall out there. I didn’t even have to square the ball to bounce it off that thing. The result was a whole lot of doubles. I also stroked a bunch of balls into the net for home runs. As far as homers go, Fenway, for me, was second only to County Stadium in Milwaukee among parks that I never played in as a member of the home team. But I hit more doubles there than anywhere else.
Comiskey was interesting. It was basically a pitcher’s park, with deep fences, but I enjoyed all that space in the outfield. Except for RFK in Washington, where the Senators played through 1971, Comiskey was the only park I batted .300 in for my career. I didn’t hit many home runs there, or drive in many runs, but as a visitor I scored more runs at Comiskey Park than anywhere else.
Forbes Field was a lot like that, real big in center field. It went forever. Flood could cover it, too. It was so far out there that they put the batting cage right on the field. Against Clemente one day, Curt ran out and caught a ball smack in front of that batting cage. It had to be 450 feet away. I’ve got to believe that was one of the longest outs in major-league history.
Down the right-field line, though, Forbes was short, like Yankee Stadium. I just made sure lefties couldn’t pull me, and I got along nicely there.
The worst park for me was old Busch. It was only 354 feet to right center, 322 to straightaway right, and 310 down the line. The screen ended at the 354 mark, so you could hit a 355-foot fly to right center for a home run. It was amazing how many balls happened to land just to the left of that screen.
For my career, I lost the exact same number of games at home or away, but I won seventeen more on the road. My ERA at Busch was a third of a run higher than it was in other ballparks.
But Stan Musial sure liked it.
As much as I believed in not trying to pull the ball over a short porch in right field, I still found myself doing it at Yankee Stadium. When I was there, I even went to a half-inch shorter bat to give myself a quicker swing so I’d be out in front more often.
It didn’t work. I homered in New York at about the same clip that I did in Oakland. And most of them were to right center and left center. I had a knack for finding the biggest part of any ballpark.
I was a natural high-ball pitcher, and that didn’t change in a small ballpark. It didn’t change when they lowered the mound five inches, either.
The guys most affected by that were the breaking-ball pitchers who threw from over the top. They liked to keep the ball down, and a lot of them had a hard time doing it after 1968. I didn’t throw many curves anyway, but starting in 1969 I threw even fewer because they were always up in the zone.
You know, the Dodgers didn’t lower their mound in ’69. Instead, they raised home plate. The infield at Dodger Stadium had a steep crown to it, so the mound always looked like—and felt like—it was sitting way up high. But because the whole middle of the diamond was already elevated, the mound itself wasn’t sloped very much. If they’d leveled it another five inches, it would have been too flat. The new rules said that the mound had to be ten inches higher than the plate, instead of fifteen, so the Dodgers achieved the same result by jacking up the plate. I don’t know if that accounted for the full five inches, but it was definitely different.
I wish more teams had done it that way, because three of the next four games I pitched there were shutouts.
Whatever they did in the American League, it worked for me. I hit more home runs in 1969 than any other year.
But then, I liked playing on the West Coast in general. It was cooler. Especially San Francisco. It was cold in San Francisco, and the wind would be whipping, and I loved that. The hitters didn’t care so much for it, though. The bat stings when you hit the ball in cold weather. If it were up to me, baseball could take a little vacation from June through August, just like school. You should have to shovel the field before you play.
Actually, the main advantage of cool weather is that you don’t get so tired. In San Francisco, or in Chicago or Milwaukee in April, I’d wear long underwear and I’d put on wintergreen and hot oil and it wouldn’t take long at all to break a sweat. I’d be nice and warm, and the hitters would be blowing on their hands and wishing for a walk. That’s a good formula. The pitcher’s mound at Candlestick Park was tilted and a little cockeyed—the rubber wasn’t square with home plate—but I felt so good out there that it didn’t matter. Then we’d get back to St. Louis and it was so sticky that you’d be whipped by the fifth or sixth inning.
It was difficult to pitch in St. Louis after the sixth inning. It was pretty much blood and guts at that point. You’d just be tired. You’d lose weight. You’d cramp. You’d give anything for an ocean breeze.
I had more cramps, hamstring pulls, and muscle tightness when I played in cool weather in Oakland. It was just harder to get loose. I did get better after I started spending time stretching before games.
But I’ll take the hot weather that carries the ball and wears down the pitchers.
The best thing about hot weather was that it put me in a bad mood. I found that a bad mood was generally good for pitching.
The mood that worked for me was being excited. The ballpark could play a part in that. I was always excited to play in Yankee Stadium because of all the history. And the crowds. I loved big crowds, loud crowds, rowdy crowds, any kind of crowd.
I got a charge out of Fenway, too, especially as a Yankee. I enjoyed the fans being right there when I was in the outfield, screaming and cussing at me. I was in my element. It was easy to get your blood running at Fenway Park.
And then that Green Monster always standing by, calling to me. Great place.
I knew it was time to quit when I’d be out on the mound thinking about something else. Some nonsense that was going on off the field. I’d be out there rehashing something that my wife had said to me, and there’s Willie Mays standing at the plate. What the hell?
You can’t pitch successfully in the major leagues without the ability to block out everything else. That’s essential. If you can’t do that, you don’t belong on the field. You cannot let your personal life interfere with the job you have to do for two and a half hours. The great players all have the ability to shut out distractions.
When there’s a lot of hubbub all around you, the game becomes your sanctuary. I’d get on the field and could finally be alone with what I wanted to do. Didn’t have to worry about what somebody was saying or what was written in a newspaper. I was in my world.
I received a death threat during the 1973 World Series—something that had to do with voodoo—and went out and won the Series MVP Award. Even made some nice catches in center field. I was scared, but not distracted. There was next to nothing that could distract me during a World Series.
For that matter, there wasn’t much, if anything, that could distract me during a ballgame, period. No matter what was going on in my life—in the clubhouse or away from the park—I was a happy camper when the game started. Let’s play baseball.
For most of my career, I could focus no matter what. If I was angry about something going on at home, all the better. Once, on Father’s Day in St. Louis, I had the biggest, nastiest argument with my wife that I’d ever had, went to the ballpark, pitched a shutout, and when I got home we took up right where we’d left off. That’s the way it has to be.
I was only married for a short time at the beginning of my career, so I didn’t have many domestic distractions. But I did have support from people close to me, family and friends. Thank God for that.
In 1977, when I was caught up in all the drama with Billy Martin, it was the intervention of my father, my brother, George Steinbrenner, and a friend from Arizona, Gary Walker, that enabled me to get through it. Gary called me every day from Arizona. George would call my father and my father would drive to Trenton, New Jersey, not far from where my brother lived while he was in the Air Force. We’d all meet in Jersey and talk it out. The conversations were about playing ball and forgetting Billy Martin.
But even with all that support—plus Fran Healy in the clubhouse—and even though I was playing the game I loved for the greatest franchise in the world, it was a struggle to keep my head where it needed to be. There was a stretch that year when I was so overwhelmed and distraught by all the stuff that was going on—with Billy, with my teammates, with the feeding frenzy the media created—that I sat on my terrace for five straight hours one day, just staring into Central Park. I wasn’t myself. I was at the bottom emotionally and couldn’t pull out of it. My girlfriend had to come tell me when it was time to leave for the ballpark. I cried all the way there.
Then the game started, I got a couple hits, and we picked up a victory.
I played my best ball down the stretch that year and had a huge World Series. I had to. It was New York. If I hadn’t produced, they’d have run me out of town.
And Billy would have won.
In St. Louis, the media doesn’t swallow you whole like it does in New York. The writers didn’t bother me much. We had an understanding: I’d talk if I felt like it and I wouldn’t if I didn’t. They respected that. So I never had a problem.
The way I saw it, the only thing I owed the public—and my boss, for that matter—was a good performance. I definitely owed them that. But as far as giving over and above that, it’s strictly a personal choice. I considered myself a public figure on the field only. If a guy happens to have the type of personality that’s outgoing and engaging and he’s comfortable doing appearances and chatting with the media, fine. But if he doesn’t have that kind of personality, why should he have to bear that burden?
I actually felt the same way about the press. A lot of people might not believe that, because I was known for engaging the writers. It’s true, there were a lot of them around my locker and I filled their notebooks. I developed several friends who were newspaper writers: Dave Anderson, Dick Young, Bob Ryan, Mike Lupica, Murray Chass, Steve Jacobson, Leonard Koppett, and Jim Murray among them. However, I dealt with them on my terms.
I spoke my mind. I was honest. If there were writers I didn’t want to talk to because they hadn’t done their research or I didn’t like their questions, I’d tell them so. If I felt someone didn’t respect the game or tried to get me to comment negatively about a teammate—what did you think of the play that Nettles made, or what about what Sparky Lyle did?—I’d say, write it yourself. I would end an interview at any time.
For the most part, I wasn’t really bothered by what anybody wrote. I felt that as long as I had a bat in my hands, I could rewrite the story anyway. My dad made that point to me, and it stuck.
One of the sensitive aspects of talking to the press is that it becomes a spectacle in the clubhouse. There’ll always be writers and cameras at your locker after a good ballgame, and that’s expected, but some players get self-conscious about having the media gathered around them on a regular basis or when there’s no obvious reason for it. The other players see that, and you don’t want it to get to the point that they resent it. You don’t want to give the impression that you think you’re the star, or that you’re the story.
There’s another side to that: A lot of players are happy to have somebody take the press off their backs. I had teammates in Oakland who felt that way. It was something I had to watch in New York—especially when I was still new to the clubhouse—but the fact is that a lot of guys would rather not have to deal with the media. If I was willing to do it, it took the pressure off some of them.
Personally, I welcomed it. On the whole, I enjoyed talking to the writers, because a lot of them are very bright and bring up interesting points. I didn’t fear them like a lot of players do. I treated them as people, and if they happened to be ignorant I reacted accordingly. If they were bright, I had respect for them. I don’t have to apologize for the fact that I made myself accessible to the press and liked some of them.
When you play for the Yankees you’re going to be all over the papers anyway, so why not take some control of that? Say what you think so there’s no misunderstanding and no misrepresentation. I was still misunderstood and misrepresented from time to time, but that comes with the territory.
On the other hand, I was on the cover of Sports Illustrated eight times, and I’ve always been proud of that. I can still describe every one of them. They’re a validation of who I am as a player and what I’ve accomplished as a player. I went out of my way to cooperate with the SI writers and photographers because, well, I thought it had value to me. I thought the publicity embellished my image.
In 1980, for my sixth cover, the photographer, Walter Iooss Jr., followed me around for about a week. At the end of it, we were playing a Sunday game against Kansas City. I asked him if he needed anything else and he told me, mostly kidding, that he could use another home run or two. I nodded, then hit one off Rich Gale my first time up. The next at-bat I thought I might have had the second one, but the ball was caught on the warning track. I apologized to Walter. In that issue, SI referred to me as “the most obliging” of all their cover subjects, ever. I appreciated that.
It got crazy for a while there in New York, but by and large I loved being in the spotlight. It fit me. It drove me. So why not make the best of it? The media’s not going away.