XXII

“Why are you doing this to me, Whitey?”

I stopped seeing my teammates at the lounge. Ron Santo came by occasionally, not because he had a small piece of the place but because we were friends and he was sympathetic even if he couldn’t understand my head. That was understandable.

Soon none of the ballplayers could go to “Joe Pepitone’s Thing” if they wanted to. A newspaper story reported that all the bars on Division Street were being investigated by the police, who suspected that some of the lounges were employing people with criminal records, particularly drug-related violations. The headline on the story said: JOE PEPITONE’S BAR UNDER DRUG PROBE. Holy shit, I thought, that’s not going to do me any good, even though at the end of the story it said that I wasn’t implicated. I wasn’t worried about turning over my employee records, which I did, because I knew that all my girls were clean.

But the day that headline appeared in the paper, every ball club in Chicago put my place off limits to its players. And where my day business alone had been bringing in between three and five hundred dollars, that afternoon I took in thirty-seven dollars. That night we had less than half our normal crowd.

Brent Musberger came down to do a radio interview with me, and I said, “Look, this probe is on the whole street, but I’m a baseball player and because my name is Joe Pepitone it makes the headlines. Everyone thinks they are investigating only me. And this is just a check on employees. There is no proof that any of my people have criminal records or anything like that. Why don’t the papers wait until the police prove something before they print this kind of scare headline?”

Then Dominic walked over, and Brent asked him what he thought about the situation. Dominic said, “Let me tell you something. I know this kid and I’ve known him for years. I know how dedicated to baseball he is. You understand? It’s terrible what these newspapers are doing to this kid. If he ever found anybody was doing drugs in this place, he’d break their heads, he’d bust open their faces. You understand? I’m his manager, I run this place with Joe, and I got a daughter, fifteen years old, back in Brooklyn, and if I ever knew she was doing drugs I’d bite her face off. You understand? I love this kid, and I know what he’d do to anyone who did drugs in his place—he’d break their legs and throw them out in the street. He’d destroy them. You understand?”

Dominic convinced the radio audience that I hated drugs—but that I was a potential murderer.

Our week’s net fell from eight hundred dollars to six hundred; then five hundred, then four hundred, then three hundred, and kept sliding, even after we were cleared by the police. When a bar’s “in,” you can’t keep the people out. Once that appeal is smudged, you can’t get people in. You can’t make it with an occasional crowd. You’ve got to have your basic regulars. My brother Billy went back to Brooklyn and joined the police force. I had to let several of the girls go. Dominic and I tried to keep the lounge going all through the fall. Just before New Year’s, 1973, I was sitting in my apartment looking over the books and I realized it was hopeless. Where we once regularly cleared over a hundred dollars a night, we were now clearing twenty dollars—on a good night. I called Dominic at the lounge and told him to pack up all the liquor in the place and bring it up to my apartment. Then I called my friend Leroy who ran the garage in the building.

“Leroy,” I said, “if you come up to my apartment in about an hour, I have a rare buy on liquor for you and any of the other guys down there who are interested in a one-time-only special. I’m selling every bottle from my lounge at seventy percent off.”

I got rid of my entire stock in fourteen minutes and thirty-six seconds, and I was now out of the saloon business. I had earned back my investment, plus a little. But if it hadn’t been for the headline in the papers, I could have really done well with the lounge. That was the story of my life, a lot of “I could have done ifs . . .”

I decided the lounge experience was just another pile of shit I had to step in, just like the hairstyling salon, the wives, the treadmill sex. At least I had gotten off that treadmill after I’d been with Stevie a while. I began thinking back on all that screwing, all those different girls, and I realized there was no feeling involved, that there was nothing good about it, really. It was all raw sexless sex—in, out and on to the next. Shit, I couldn’t even remember what most of the girls looked like, much less their names. All those names, all those faces.

A girl had come into the lounge during the summer, a pretty redhead with a beautiful smile, gleaming teeth. “Hi, Joe!” she said, and threw her arms around me. “How are you?”

“Fine . . . fine,” I said, looking at her closely.

“Don’t you remember me?” she said.

“Oh . . . uh.”

“The Carriage House in New York three years ago. Sylvia.”

“Uh, let me think . . .”

“We spent two weeks together, at your place. Don’t you remember?”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Sylvia.” I just couldn’t remember her, couldn’t remember anything about her, and I couldn’t lie to her, bullshit her along, fake it, as I would have a few years ago. I had come to realize that virtually all the people who are in charge, the people in authority, are phonies, hypocrites, liars. And that I was just like them. I was the worst phony and biggest liar in the world. As I got older, people began to see through me, through what I thought was a great act. Now I couldn’t look anyone in the eye and lie any more. I felt better, being honest with others, and with myself.

It took an incredibly long time for me to get any perspective at all, but I was thankful that it was finally coming. Stevie helped. It was great to really dig somebody, like being with them as much as possible. I thought I loved her, thought about divorcing Diane and marrying Stephanie Deeker. We had such good times together. For the first time, I was happy simply sitting home with a girl, just being with her. But I still had this thing about Diane in the back of my head: maybe I’d want to go back with her some day. It was weird. I had a super relationship going with Stevie, yet I was still hung up on my second wife. Maybe, because I’d mutilated that relationship, it was simply guilt poking at my head, the feeling that I should make it up to Diane eventually.

All I knew for certain was that I loved living with Stevie. She was the most relaxed, together chick I’d ever known. She cared about as much about neatness around the apartment as I did. We liked to live, not straighten up a place every minute. I had Dominic staying with us for a few months, and he’s a fanatic for neatness. He drove Stevie crazy with his puttering around. It reached the point where she told me he had to go. We had two dogs, a poodle, and a big sheep dog named Cockeye, one of which he happened to have. Cockeye also had a lot of hair, which he happened to shed constantly. Dominic couldn’t stand the dog hairs in his room. One day Dominic hung up a sign on his door that said “No Dogs Allowed,” and locked the door from the inside. Our only bathroom was off Dominic’s bedroom.

“Get him out of here, Joe,” Stevie said. “Because if he doesn’t leave, I’m going to.”

I picked the lock with a hairpin, opened the door, and Cockeye went bounding in. He jumped right up on Dominic’s chest—because he was used to sleeping on that bed when Dom was out—and stood there wagging his tail. With every wag, a dozen hairs fell onto Dominic. When I stopped laughing, I told him he had to find his own place. He took an apartment in a building around the corner that was owned by a woman he knew.

I was still as jealous as ever, and I kept checking up on Stevie at the Playboy Club. Any time she’d go home to Kansas City to visit her mother and stepfather, I’d worry. Her stepfather, Jim Shipley, was a helluva guy. I’d been hunting with him a couple of times and really enjoyed his company. He also liked to go out evenings, and any time Stevie would visit, they’d bounce around. I’d call her at three o’clock in the morning, and her mother would say, “Stevie’s not home yet, Joe.”

“Not home—at this hour?”

“Well, she’s out with her father.”

“What do you mean, out with her father? Everything in Kansas City closes at two in the morning. Look, Mrs. Shipley, have her call me when she gets home. I don’t care what time it is. It’s important.”

I’d sit there waiting . . . three-thirty, four o’clock, four-thirty, five o’clock . . . worrying. Who is she really with? At five-thirty, Stevie would call.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“We went to an after-hours place.”

“With your father? Who are you shitting?”

All of a sudden, Jim would come on the phone. “Joe, she was with me. Be cool.”

“Oh, everything’s all right, Jim. I wasn’t really worried.”

In November, when it was apparent that the lounge was on its way out, I called John Holland to find out how I fitted into the Cubs’ plans for 1973. If at all. He was noncommittal, but he said that Whitey Lockman would be in the office in a few days and that I could come by and talk to him. I did.

“I was just thirty-two last month,” I told Lockman. “I’m in good shape. I don’t run around at night any more, my legs feel good. And I can still outhit half the guys in this league. I know it.”

“You don’t have to sell me on the fact that you can still play baseball, Joe,” he said. “I know what you can do. You can help us if you want to. But do you want to? Do you still want to play baseball, Joe? You’ve got a lot of things to prove to a lot of guys on this club. You’ve got to convince everyone that you’re going to play ball and not quit in the middle of the season.”

“Let me show you in spring training,” I said. “I’ll show you and everyone else what I’m going to do this season. I really want to get back. I really want to play.”

I went to spring training to prove that I could still play exceptional baseball. I didn’t do any clowning around at the Cubs camp in Scottsdale, Arizona. No kidding at all. Just hustle on the ballfield. When the exhibition games started, Lockman put me with the B team, which was made up entirely of utility men. I hit with this team, trained with it, and traveled with it to road games. It shocked the shit out of me, made me angry. But I held my tongue. I knew Lockman was testing me, and I knew I could hit my way back onto the regular squad.

I ran hard, and hit the ball hard. After three weeks with the B team, though, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I went to Lockman.

“Why are you doing this to me, Whitey?” I said. “What are you trying to prove?”

He stared into my eyes. “I’m getting trouble from you already?” he said.

I turned away. “Just forget about what I said, Whitey. I don’t want to get into any arguments.”

I kept hitting well, and all of a sudden Lockman started me at first base with the regulars. I got three hits. He kept me with the regulars, and in the next week I got two or three hits every game. I hustled. I kept my mouth shut. I batted .400 in spring training and won the regular job at first base.

Lockman played Jim Hickman at first against most left-handed pitchers, but that was all right. I understood. I planned to hit so well against righties that I’d force the manager to play me against every kind of pitching.

When the season opened, I came out swinging, and the line drives were zinging off my bat. Lockman sat me down against lefties, but I was patient. I felt good. There was plenty of time. I’d show him.

Then, before a game against the Cardinals, the lineup card was posted and I wasn’t on it. I checked the Cards’ starting pitcher, and saw it was Scipio Spinks, a right-hander. I let out a yell in the clubhouse.

“What the fuck is going on here? I’m swinging good. I’m hitting the ball. What the fuck is this?” I started toward Lock-man’s office.

Ron Santo grabbed me and said, “Wait a minute, baby. This is what it’s all about. This is the true test. You understand?”

“Yeah,” I said, heading for my locker. “It’s not right, but I get it. I’m okay now.”

Another right-handed pitcher started against us the following day, I couldn’t wait to see the lineup card. My name was on it. I drove in five runs that day, and in the locker room afterward, Santo came by. He was singing, “What a Difference a Day Makes.”

I smiled and said to myself, Up yours, Whitey Lockman. I’ll win this job full time whether you know it or not.

A month later I was still being platooned, because I couldn’t get in a hitting groove when I was sitting down every second or third game. I had thirty hits in twenty-eight games for a .268 average, three home runs, and eighteen RBIs. Not great, but by no means terrible, either.

The last two of those thirty hits came in Philadelphia on a Saturday afternoon in mid-May. Since I was no longer banging around at night, I had dinner that evening and went back to my hotel room to watch television. About eight o’clock the phone rang. Oh shit, I thought, somebody wants to have a drink or something, and I don’t feel like it.

I picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”

The guy on the line didn’t identify himself, simply said, “You just got traded.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I said, and hung up on the wise-ass.

The phone rang again. “Joe, this is Whitey Lockman. I wasn’t kidding. You’ve been traded to the Braves. I think it’s best for you, best for everyone. The Braves really want you, and I think the change will help you a lot. Eddie Mathews is anxious for you to report to Atlanta as soon as possible. I think he plans to play you regularly at first base.”

“Great,” I said, and hung up.

But I didn’t feel great. The writers came by and told me the Cubs hadn’t gotten a lot for me—a minor-league first baseman named Andy Thornton, and an “undisclosed” amount of cash. They asked me how I felt.

“It’s all part of baseball,” I said. “I’m part of baseball, and I go where the game sends me. I’m disappointed because I like Chicago. I was having a fair year and we were winning. I think the Cubs are going to do it this year.”

I just hoped I could beat them every single time they played the Braves. I was hurt and pissed off inside. I felt way down in my gut that this would have been my best year. I finally knew all the pitchers, I concentrated on every pitch, I could make all the plays on the bases and in the field, and I really wanted to prove something. Then the assholes dump me. I’d fucked it up in the past—I’d fucked it up so many times I couldn’t count them—but they’d fucked it up this time. The Cubs had a shot at the pennant, and they gave away the only solid first-baseman they had. Fuck them. Fuck me.

I went back to Chicago for a couple of days to be with Stevie, and to think. The Braves’ general manager, Eddie Robinson, called. I told him I’d report to Atlanta on Tuesday, that I had to straighten out a few personal things. I talked to Stevie, who was still working at the Playboy Club, and she said she’d go with me to Atlanta if I wanted her to. I sure as hell wanted her to. Í told her I’d go first and find us a place to live.

The Atlanta ball park was a nice stadium to hit in, and Eddie Mathews turned out to be a beautiful guy, easy to talk to, honest with you, no bullshit. All the Braves were nice, a good bunch of guys. But in less than a week, I’d had it with major-league baseball. I was hitting all right: four singles in eleven at-bats. I just didn’t have any feeling for the game, and I asked myself, What the hell am I doing this for when I’m totally uninvolved? I wanted to be with Stevie. As soon as she got here, though, the team would have to go off on a road trip. Stevie and I wouldn’t be together. I’d leave the one person I had tremendous feelings for, to do something I had no feeling for. I had to be crazy to do that.

I went to Mathews and told him it had nothing to do with him or the Braves but I was quitting. He tried to talk me into staying, as did the general manager, Eddie Robinson. He said the club would take care of all my bills if that was what was bugging me. I told him that wasn’t it, that I wasn’t in much debt now, that I just didn’t have any feeling for baseball any more, and I wasn’t going to help the club a whole lot if I wasn’t motivated. I also said that if I stayed, I thought I would go out of my mind. I would have to put on one hell of an act to play. And I was getting too old for any more phony bullshit.

I told the press, “My decision is final I’m tired of the hassle of moving and establishing myself in another town. I’m tired of this kind of baseball, and I want out. I hate the Cubs for trading me the way they did. I busted my ass for them this spring, then they trade me. I just wanted to prove something to those bastards, then I decided proving something wasn’t worth the price I’d have to pay.”

On the flight to Chicago, I got down, deeply depressed, which wasn’t surprising. I was finished with major-league baseball. There was no going back this time. I’d quit before, but every other time I knew that I could return when I wanted to, that some team would want me. I’d put an end to that option this time. Three quits is out. No team would sign me now, because there was no guarantee that I would stay with it, that I wouldn’t abruptly take off. I couldn’t give any guarantees. But now I wondered, What was I going to do for a living?

When Eddie Robinson had asked me that, I’d told him that I might consider playing in Japan. He’d said that he would make inquiries of the teams there. I started thinking about Japan seriously now. I sure as hell didn’t feel like playing any more baseball in the major leagues, even if I was asked to. Hell, the Braves wanted me to. There were just too many bad vibes for me in the majors, vibes that went far beyond all the bullshit in the game, which was bad enough. What was worse—what was the heart of the matter—were all those wasted years that were flashing through my head now. It was just too hard to be around the game, because it only made me think about what I could have been, what I should have been.

In twelve years in the majors, I had hit 219 home runs. I should have hit closer to 400. Much closer. In twelve years in the majors, my batting average was .258. It should have been closer to .298. Much closer. All I had had to do was take care of myself a little bit, have even a minuscule regard for my body, and concentrate about ninety percent of the time, instead of the fifty percent of the time which I did. I had spent most of those twelve years letting talent alone carry me along, making so little real effort myself that now all I was left with was guilt. That seemed to be my only real goal in life: to see just how much guilt I could accumulate, drag around. Escape, escape, escape . . . and pile up the guilt. Well, I’d worked hard at accumulating it. I’d earned every bit of it. And, after all these years, the bill collector in my head was one very tough dude to dodge.

When I got home, I thought about Clete Boyer, my old Yankee teammate. He had quit the Braves and gone to Japan two or three years ago. He was still playing over there, so it must be a pretty good deal. It gave me something to think about. Getting out of this country might be a damn good thing for my head. I called Eddie Robinson to tell him I was definitely interested in Japan if I could make the right deal.

A few days later he called to tell me the Tokyo Yakult Atoms of Japan’s Central Professional League had made me an offer. I thought the salary was low. He called me with a better offer, but I told him I thought we could do better. The third offer I couldn’t refuse: a $70,000-a-year contract for two seasons, and the club would pay for my housing in Japan. Wow!

“Stevie, quit your job and pack your bags,” I told her. “Your Number One fliend is taking you to a velly fine place. Banzai!”

One sportswriter wondered how long it would take me to get oriented over there. I had my fingers clossed.