If there was any part of the team that Sullivan felt best about, it was his two ace relievers—Joe Grzenda, a lefty, and Ken Sanders, a righty. (The wide acceptance of the term closer for a bullpen pitcher who could finish a game was still a few years away.) Both were 2–0.
Sullivan loved Grzenda’s resiliency. A few months earlier, his career had been as dead as Babe Ruth. He’d been released in the middle of the previous season, and in February, two weeks before the start of spring training, he was home in Pennsylvania, trying to figure out a way not to spend the rest of his life working in a mine like his dad. His chances of landing with the Barons seemed as remote as having a candy bar named after him.
Compared with the rest of the staff, Grzenda was a moxie veteran. At twenty-six, he was already in his ninth year in pro ball—with his fourteenth team.
Grzenda originally signed a pro contract for $4,000 with the Detroit Tigers after graduating from high school on June 8, 1955, in Moosic, Pennsylvania, a small town ten miles from Scranton in the northeastern part of the state. His father was a strict disciplinarian and tough-as-iron-ore coal miner who didn’t hesitate to take the belt to his five kids. (“Today they put parents in jail for those kind of things,” he said years later. “If they did that back then, my father wouldn’t just be in jail, he’d be under it.”) Joe never saw a penny of his $4,000 bonus. His father controlled the money.
Grzenda did well his first three years, and in 1958 he was promoted to Birmingham, which at that time was the Tigers’ AA team in the Southern Association. At the end of July, his record was 14–2. Fans loved him; he was labeled “the most popular player in Baron history.” With his whip-like arm, he mowed down hitters, the speed of his fastball compared with that of the hardest thrower in the game at the time, Herb Score. During interviews, he talked so softly that reporters had to lean close just to hear him.
But the hot, humid summer of 1958 in Birmingham began to take its toll. His weight fell from 175 to 160. When he pitched, people in the stands could literally see the sweat fly off the bill of his cap. Over the last month of the season, he lost five games, finishing the season at 16–7, but still tied for the league lead in strikeouts (with a future Cincinnati Red, Jim O’Toole).
His personal highlight that season happened sitting in the dugout early in the season. His eyes wandered to the stands—as ballplayers’ eyes sometimes do—and he spotted a beautiful young woman sitting in the fourth row. He’d always been shy around girls, but—not wanting to let this chance pass—he scribbled a note on the back of a scorecard and handed it to the batboy, instructing him to deliver it between innings and to make sure that the manager, Cal Ermer, didn’t see him. A few minutes later, the batboy returned with a huge smile and the girl’s phone number. Her name was Ruth; she was one of twelve children and worked as a teller at a Birmingham bank. It was the first Baron game she’d ever attended. Pretty soon they were an item.
After serving six months in the Army National Guard at Fort Jackson in South Carolina following the 1958 season, he showed up late for spring training the next year, hurt his arm, and saw his career take a dive. From 1959 through 1963, he compiled a woeful 20–38 record, bouncing among nine minor-league teams, a poster boy for the journeyman minor leaguer going nowhere. (He briefly got called up to the big-league team in 1961, pitching relief in only four games, with a dreadful ERA of 7.94, but getting a win in his only decision.) His nadir came in 1963 at Syracuse when the Tigers released him. With two babies under the age of three, he and Ruth stared at the barren walls of their small apartment, wondering what to do next. He felt lost, broken. Baseball had consumed him since childhood. He had a high school diploma and not many skills. He knew for certain he didn’t want to have anything to do with mining and end up like his dad, an angry old man with black lung disease. He had less than $500 in the bank, didn’t own a home, and his ’60 Pontiac LeMans needed major work. The career that had looked so promising when he was striking out almost a hitter every inning in Birmingham in 1958 was over, relegating him to the giant scrap heap of “can’t miss” prospects that missed.
He was face-to-face with the lunch bucket league, unprepared financially, educationally, and emotionally. But just when his depression sank lower than a canary in a coal mine, Kansas City picked him up for a couple of lumps of coal a week before spring training and assigned him to Birmingham, the city where he’d met his wife and had his greatest season.
He was thrilled to still be in baseball, even when Sullivan told him that he would start the season in the bullpen. Despite not getting to start, Grzenda knew a year in the bullpen was better than one minute in a coal mine.
Grzenda had just fallen asleep when he heard the knock at the door of his room at Chattanooga’s Choo Choo Inn. The Barons had gotten in late following a two-hour bus ride from Knoxville, where they’d taken two out of three and moved into second place, two games behind Macon. He’d picked up another win.
He rolled over and looked at the clock—4 a.m. Maybe somebody had the wrong room, he thought, ignoring the pounding. It continued.
Groggily, he rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door, peering through the little peephole. He did a double take. It was Sullivan.
What the hell was his manager doing pounding on his door at this ungodly hour? Maybe it was a curfew check. But that seemed unlikely. Sullivan had told the team he wasn’t interested in being their warden, and besides, managers rarely checked curfew when the team had just won eight out of nine.
He opened the door. “Put on some pants and come down to my room,” instructed Sullivan. “I’m in 202.”
Without even taking time to light a cigarette, Grzenda quickly threw on his pants and headed down the hall. Maybe Sullivan was about to tell him something bad had happened to his wife and kids. Please, don’t let it be that, he hoped.
It didn’t make sense. The season had gone great for him so far. Four months ago, he was sitting at home in Pennsylvania, brooding over the prospect of digging coal the rest of his life. Now, along with Ron Tompkins and Paul Lindblad, he shared the best record on the club, 3–0. He was throwing the shit out of the ball, the best his arm had felt in years. Plus, he really liked the guys on this team. Everyone got along, something he’d never experienced on any of the teams he’d played on, including his championship Barons team back in 1958. So, if he wasn’t getting his release, what the hell did Sullivan want?
When he got to room 202, the door was ajar. Sullivan was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only his skivvies.
“What’s up, Skip?” asked Grzenda.
Sullivan paused. To Grzenda, it felt like forever.
“You’re going to The Show,” announced Sullivan.
Grzenda stared at him, the words not registering. Maybe he didn’t hear him right.
“Yep, I just got the call a few minutes ago,” Sullivan continued.
At 4 a.m.? Why couldn’t they wait until the morning?
“They want you in KC for tonight’s game,” said Sullivan. “You’re flying out in a couple of hours.”
Grzenda stared in disbelief. “Are you serious?” he asked.
Sullivan just sat there, flashing his movie-star smile. He knew Grzenda’s story. As much as he’d come to rely on having a great lefty-righty combo out of the bullpen, and as crucial as Grzenda would be to the team’s pennant hopes, he was happy to be the bearer of such good news.
“I’m stunned,” said Grzenda. “I don’t know what to say except thank you, thank you, thank you,”
Grzenda had loved playing for Sullivan. Of all the fifteen managers he’d played for, he liked Sullivan the best—the way he treated his players, the way he understood the game, the way he’d given him a chance.
Overwhelmed by the news, Grzenda’s mind raced. He thought about being able to finally buy new tires to replace the worn-out ones he had on his LeMans. He wondered if Ruth would be upset about leaving Birmingham and all her friends and family. How would she get to Kansas City with the two kids? If she drove, at least she’d have good tires.
He thought about his dad and how he’d always told him he was worthless, and how he was determined to always treat his own sons like big leaguers.
He thought about how much he wanted a cigarette.
“Thanks for giving me the chance, Skip,” he said.
But as Grzenda left the room, a thought occurred to Sullivan: Was Finley just jerking everybody’s chain when he promised to do “everything possible” to help Birmingham win the pennant? The A’s were in last place, already so far out of the first division, let alone first place, that Joe Grzenda could be Sandy Koufax and Cy Young all rolled into one, and the A’s would still be doomed to the cellar. How was calling up Grzenda, the Barons’ best reliever, helping Birmingham? Sullivan thought of five pitchers on fifth-place Dallas, the A’s Triple A team, who could have just as easily been called up.