My Catfish Hunter impersonation, probably from my rookie year in 1975.
Photo courtesy Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim Baseball Club
C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - T W O
At the end of a long day with my coauthor, Corey Sandler, he startled me with a question: “If you hadn’t had success as a professional baseball player, would you today be an accountant in Fall River, Massachusetts?”
You know, I just might have been. When I was a kid, I had worked for my uncle, who was an accountant. I don’t know if I ever would have gotten out of Somerset, where I grew up.
Things happened so quickly after I graduated from high school. I was seventeen years old when I was drafted by the Washington Senators; I had to decide whether to sign with them or go to college.
I went down to a school in Florida, but that didn’t work out, and in the meantime my chance to sign with the Senators had passed. In those days, though, they had a secondary draft, and in January 1971, I was drafted by the Angels as their eighth and last pick. This time, I signed.
I’ve been fortunate that since graduating from high school, with the exception of that short time in Florida, I’ve never really had to decide on anything but baseball. The most serious decision I had to make came when I was done playing. I always thought I would be a coach or a manager. I never expected to be a broadcaster. But I have now been in the booth for more years than I was on the field.
Do I wake up now and miss playing? No—I really don’t. Failure was very hard for me to deal with. And even success was hard for me, because I didn’t know how long it was going to last. I was not a superstar player. Every day was a trial for me.
Once I retired, it was nice not to get up every morning and wonder what today was going to be like: Am I going to be pissed? Am I going to be good? Am I going to be happy? I really don’t miss that.
I don’t need to whack the ball around anymore or execute a double play. I did that enough. I was doing that from the time I was in Little League to the time I finished playing Major League Baseball. I have taken enough swings. I knew I wasn’t going to get any better.
I faced the guys I had to face. This generation is facing the guys it has to face.
People have also asked me, “Since you have retired, have you ever gotten into the batting cage against one of today’s pitchers?” And the answer is “no.” Or, more specifically, “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to stand in against Pedro Martínez?” And the answer to that is, “I prefer not to wonder about that.”
I can watch a pitcher and pretty much figure out my chances of getting a hit off of him. And I also can see how he could get me out. A top pitcher like Martínez at his peak could have walked up to me and announced, “I am going to throw you five straight changeups,” and I probably wouldn’t hit them. But I also think I could have made contact with his fastball. That doesn’t mean I would get a hit. But I know I could handle it.
I don’t know if my injuries had something to do with the way I feel. My last few years in the major leagues were not fun. I didn’t play very much because of bad knees, and I kept breaking down. It was get the knee fixed, go try it, get it fixed again, and go try it again. It was frustrating and it was almost a relief for me to not to have to deal with it anymore.
It’s not like I had to leave the game because I was a lousy player. And I didn’t leave because of age. I just couldn’t do it anymore. So I think that made it a little bit easier for me.
I have such an advantage over Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire, David Ortiz, Manny Ramírez, and the other great home-run hitters of our time. I can recall almost every one of my homers, all seven of them.
Home Run 1
May 19, 1975, at Cleveland California Angels 12, Cleveland Indians 5
It was the fourth inning, two on and two out. Jim Perry came in as a reliever with the Angels ahead 5–3. Perry was a former Cy Young winner in his seventeenth season in the majors and I was six weeks into my major league career.
I pulled the pitch, and the ball just barely cleared the fence. I was flying around the bases and I didn’t know it was gone until I was at second base. I had never hit a homer, and I was running it out like it was going to be a triple. I never got into a home-run trot.
On that one swing, everything worked right. I hit the right pitch on the right part of the bat. Frank Robinson was the Cleveland manager, and he said if Remy can hit a home run off Perry, he can’t pitch for me anymore. The next day Perry was released from the Indians. He played a few more games for Oakland that season, but then he was finished.
Home Run 2
May 17, 1977, at Anaheim California Angels 6, Boston Red Sox 2
Two years later, I hit my second home run, this one off Ferguson Jenkins, leading off the fifth inning in a game where we beat Boston. Something was working right; 1977 was my home-run season. I hit four that year.
Home Run 3
July 3, 1977, at Anaheim California Angels 6, Oakland Athletics 4
Seven weeks later, I homered off Mike Norris in the third inning, scoring Thad Bosley and knocking Norris out of the game. We won that game, too.
Home Run 4
August 12, 1977, at New York New York Yankees 10, California Angels 1
We had just finished a series in Boston and moved on to New York for a doubleheader. My first at bat was against Catfish Hunter. Yankee Stadium has the short porch in right field, and it went out good. And I said to myself, “Wow, I’m 1 for 1 with a home run.”
Every other time I came up to bat that day, I tried to hit a home run. I never tried to do that in my life, and I certainly shouldn’t have. I didn’t get another hit in that game, and only one hit in the second game of the doubleheader. And we lost both games.
Home Run 5
August 26, 1977, at Detroit California Angels 7, Detroit Tigers 4
I was obviously on a tear. Two weeks later at Detroit, I hit a lead-off homer off Jack Morris. And then in the eleventh inning, I led off with a single and scored the go-ahead run on a Bobby Bonds home run.
Home Run 6
August 5, 1978, at Milwaukee Boston Red Sox 8, Milwaukee Brewers 1
I guess it wasn’t much of a streak; my next four-bagger took almost a year to come. My first home run for Boston came off Eduardo Rodríguez in the third inning with two outs, scoring Butch Hobson.
Home Run 7
August 20, 1978, at Oakland Boston Red Sox 4, Oakland Athletics 2
Matt Keough was said to throw a spitball, and I think that’s what he threw me. I swung wildly and missed the pitch, but the umpire behind home plate, Durwood Merrill, called it a foul tip. Everybody in the ballpark, including me, thought I had struck out, but Merrill said it was a foul ball. I was already walking back to the dugout.
By the time I got back to home plate, Keough was screaming and yelling at the umpire. He was going crazy.
He throws the next pitch in, and I hit a home run. It was just hilarious.
You know they say, “Don’t give power hitters a second chance.” Here I am, a guy who almost never hits home runs. I got a chance when I should have been out, and I hit a home run off him, scoring Butch Hobson and Rick Burleson.
That was the last home run I ever hit, and it should never have happened.
On October 2, 1978, one of the greatest games in the history of baseball was played. It was a perfect game. Perfect, except we lost.
On that beautiful October afternoon, there was a one-game playoff in Boston to decide the division championship of the American League East. It was the Red Sox against the Yankees, the two best teams that year. It couldn’t have been a better matchup.
The Yankee starter was Ron Guidry, who was 25–3 with a 1.74 ERA and on his way to winning the Cy Young Award unanimously, finishing second to Boston’s Jim Rice in the voting for Most Valuable Player in the American League. Mike Torrez started for Boston.
In the seventh inning Bucky Dent hit an improbable three-run homer to put the Yankees ahead by a run. And then came the bottom of the ninth.
With one out and one on, I hit a Goose Gossage fastball on a line drive to right field. Lou Piniella couldn’t see the ball in the late afternoon sun. “I knew it was headed towards me,” he told sportswriter Peter Gammons. “I just had to wait for it to come into sight and react like a hockey goalie.”
The ball landed just in front of Piniella, and he just held his glove out there and grabbed it. “If it had gone by me,” he told Gammons, “it would’ve rolled to the bull pen, Remy would’ve had an inside-the-park homer, and he would forever be remembered as the man who ended the Curse. Instead, I got lucky.”
Carl Yastrzemski made the final out. We lost the game by one run, and the Yankees went on to the Series.
In my opinion I would have had a triple. I don’t think I would have had an inside-the-park home run, but Burleson would have scored. We would have been tied, I would have been on third with one out, and we would have had Rice and Yastrzemski coming up behind me.
Looking back I can see how Piniella’s play was pure luck. When I hit the ball, I knew he wasn’t going to catch it; I had a pretty good idea the ball was going to drop in. What I didn’t know was that he had lost the ball in the sun. All he did was stick his glove out, and the ball bounced right in. That held Burleson at second and me at first base.
Had the ball been one inch to his left, it would have gone by him, Burleson would have scored, I would have been on third base, and there might be a monument to me at Fenway Park. That’s how crazy that inning was.
We had come to the ballpark with our bags packed to go to Kansas City had we won. It was crushing, a lousy way to go into the off-season. But then you start the next season and you move on.
When I retired, I thought about it more. Gee, that was a great game to play in, a great atmosphere. And then I realize that was as close as I got to being in the World Series. That stings.
I love to watch a great hitter launch a home run. I love to watch a great center fielder make a terrific catch. I’m thrilled to watch a shortstop go deep into the hole to make a great play. And I love to watch a good runner go from first to third on a single.
But what I love most of all are guys who like to play. I like to watch guys charging the ball. I like to watch guys who give the same effort when they are down by ten runs as when they are ahead by ten runs. I like to see guys get upset when they are not playing well.
I can’t stand guys who mail it in. It just doesn’t sit well with me. The only thing you can control in the game is effort. You can’t control anything else. Once the ball leaves your bat, somebody is either going to catch it or not. I want to see guys who play hard all the time: run the bases hard, break up double plays, throw to the right bases, guys who are fundamentally sound.
Some of my favorite players have been guys who didn’t have the best ability, but they had the most heart. There are a lot of times I would rather pay to see a lesser player than a so-called superstar.
These are the dirt dawgs: guys who are relentless, an infielder who will dive for every ground ball to keep it in the infield.
I’ve already said a few times how difficult baseball is to play every day, for 30 spring training games and 162 regular season games. It is mentally and physically draining. When a guy consistently gives maximum effort, he’s someone I really appreciate watching.
I loved Pete Rose as a player. He was so competitive. He didn’t want to lose. He didn’t want to be embarrassed. This guy played every single day like it was the last game he was going to play. Can every player look in the mirror and say, “I got the most out of myself in this brief career”?
Former Red Sox Trot Nixon was a guy who could not live with himself when he didn’t do well. Jason Varitek is another example. I can’t help liking them because of the way they play the game.
When fans go to the ballpark, they look for great moments. He wants to see home runs. She may want to see superstars have a great day. And they both may hope to see Curt Schilling or Josh Beckett or Daisuke Matsuzaka mow down the opposition with outstanding stuff. I love to watch that stuff, too. But I also love to watch a player who is going to battle every single day for his team and for himself.
Speaking for myself, I may not have had the greatest stats. I may not have made the most money. But I can live with myself knowing that I had the opportunity to play on the big stage, and I did it as best as I possibly could every single day.
Rem Dawg Remembers
Jerry Remy
I tried to get the best out of what I had. I didn’t have great ability by any measure, but I worked very hard, and I’m very proud of the fact that I played eleven years in the majors and made an All-Star team.
I could run—that was my best attribute—so I used that to my advantage.
I know that I left nothing behind. When I left the game, there was nothing that I felt I didn’t accomplish. I did what I wanted to do, and I did it the way I wanted to do it.