7
Ibelieved with all my heart that I had earned the right to call my own pitches about the time Sports Illustrated splashed a photo of me, mouth wide open as I fired one to the plate, on the cover of its May 23, 1966, issue.
I had compiled a 7–1 record and 1.52 ERA by the time the most famous sports magazine in America went to print and I had earned my first major national recognition. I had led the Indians to their finest start in years. We had won ten straight to begin the season and held on to first place though a collapse was imminent. My only defeat had been in Baltimore, a twelve-inning grinder during which I must have thrown about two hundred pitches. Pitchers in the modern era are often removed from games when they reach one hundred pitches—I had thrown twice that many. I felt frustrated and angry that my manager continued to dictate my pitch selection when I was working my butt off in a four-hour game trying to get us a win. Tebbetts raised the number of pitches he would call for me in a game from about 20 percent at the start of his tenure to perhaps 70 percent. Joe Adcock, who took over the club in 1967, selected about half my pitches until I got into trouble. Then he often left the dugout with the excuse that he had to go to clubhouse to get tobacco (he chewed enormous amounts during the games). That took him off the hook—he would not make the wrong choice in a make-or-break scenario.
This is when I started calling pitches from the mound. I established a signal system for the catchers if Adcock called pitches I did not want to throw. I periodically turned away from this process when I lost confidence in myself. In addition, knowing that my infielders could see the catcher’s signals, I forgot they could not see me changing them by swiping my chest, waist, or leg, thereby adding or subtracting numbers in the catcher’s sequencing signals. This proved damaging to our defense because the infielders needed to know what I was throwing to best position themselves based on the tendencies of hitters.
The Baltimore debacle was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Following my removal after the twelfth inning, I stomped into the clubhouse and called general manager Gabe Paul, who was watching the game from home. I told him that I would refuse to work if Tebbetts continued to call my pitches from the dugout. I would simply walk off the mound even if I were pitching like Cy Young and Sandy Koufax all rolled into one. I never said another word about it. Tebbetts was fired in mid-August. Later that year Indians beat writer Russ Schneider sidled up next to me on a plane and informed me of a rumor that I had said to Paul it was either Tebbetts or me—one of us had to go. That was certainly quite an exaggeration, which I explained to Schneider.
The bottom line is that the dismissal of Tebbetts, a nice person with whom I simply had professional differences, did me little good. He was replaced by George Strickland, who left in 1967 in favor of Adcock, my former Indians teammate, roommate, and hunting partner. Both continued the policy of calling my pitches. I felt frustrated and helpless.
I had evidence that the practice was hindering rather than aiding my effectiveness. California Angels standouts Jim Fregosi and Bobby Knoop even told me so over a dinner we all had together. They said their team had rather easily stolen the pitch signals from their dugout and therefore knew what offerings were on the way to the plate. They joked about it with each other during games. It was not difficult to understand. Signs are tough to pick up when the catcher is putting down fingers between his legs. They are much easier to decipher when flashed by the manager from the dugout then relayed from the catcher to the pitcher. The signs are not only easier to see, but the opposing players are provided more time to interpret them.
One example that refutes the alleged issues critics had with allowing me to call my own pitches occurred on June 23, 1968, after new Indians manager Alvin Dark gave me free reign. The team was on a hot streak fueled by one of the best and deepest pitching staffs in baseball history. We had taken three straight from eventual World Series champion Detroit to move within six and one-half games of first place and were playing the second game of a doubleheader before a rare large crowd of forty-four thousand at Municipal Stadium. I was rolling merrily along with a shutout through four innings and would have been out of the fifth had shortstop Larry Brown not extended it with an error.
Up to the plate stepped Dick Tracewski, who was batting.192. I had since 1964 gained the knowledge of two concepts through trial and error. I understood that if you throw a pitch inside, the next one should be low and away. I also learned the value of changing speeds despite the velocity on my fastball, which is how I developed an exceptional changeup, far better than the strong one I had in my amateur days. It was another one of those pitches in my repertoire that Reggie Jackson considered the best in the game. I knew that if I threw a change low and away, then jammed hitters with fastballs, they would either swing under it or would make contact inside the barrel of the bat.
These were all factors that came into play when I faced Tracewski with two runners on base. Those who complained I could always simply blow weak hitters away with fastball after fastball soon had another thing coming. An off-speed pitch would have worked a lot better than three straight heaters, the last of which Tracewski sent over the fence for a three-run homer that cost us the game. The pitch was at chest level, about the only place a high-ball hitter like him could have blasted it. I was struggling with my curve that day and that was the result. Two days later a media report claimed I tried to challenge Tracewski with a changeup and the story was taken as truth, fueling the fire of those who illogically supported managers calling my pitches. Never mind that I had compiled the lowest ERA and WHIP (walks and hits to innings pitched) rate of my career in 1968 when Dark allowed me to take responsibility for pitch selection on the mound.
Yet the Tracewski home run was most remembered when the debate raged over my pitch calling. That reflects a lack of knowledge, poor understanding, and faulty memory. Another example of the latter arose during my time as counselor for the Toronto Blue Jays. Their coach Gene Tenace, who had been a decent power hitter during his playing days, sometimes good-naturedly taunted me about how he owned me as a hitter. He bragged about how he blasted one of my fastballs over the fence at Shea Stadium where the Yankees were playing while their ballpark was being renovated in 1974. I was racking my brain trying to remember this majestic blow but I remained in good humor about it.
Soon I was accompanying the Jays on a flight from Detroit to Cleveland, where I knew a couple statisticians who looked up his record against me. Not only had he never homered, but his career batting average with yours truly on the mound was a dismal.135 with many strikeouts. So much for Tenace owning me. Now the ribbing was directed toward him. I handed Jays manager Cito Gaston the statistics on a piece of paper in the clubhouse. Gaston was always up for a friendly joke or tease. He summoned Tenace to the middle of the room and told him to talk a bit more about his dominance of one Sam McDowell. Gaston then stopped him cold to read off the numbers in front of all his team-mates: Case closed.
Tenace was not the only fabricator—or at least hitter with poor recollection. I heard quite often stories from players who never even faced me claiming at dinners and special events they had taken me deep. It was all in good humor, of course. It is the kind of bragging common among guys post-retirement and it’s all in fun. I sometimes find the teasing rather entertaining despite the obvious falsehoods. Do not misunderstand—I often did make mistakes on the mound and sometimes a hanging curve or changeup was slammed for hits or even soared over the fence. But many of the claims do not match reality. I cannot blame those who utter such nonsense. I am victimized on occasion by a faulty memory as well. The longer retired the better we performed?
Speaking of untruths, that Tebbetts did not trust me to call my own games did not jibe with what he was saying in public. He told Sports Illustrated in the 1966 cover story that I had a good idea of how to pitch and that I was destined for greatness. He compared me favorably to Koufax, offering rightly that I had accomplished more as a pitcher at the age of twenty-two than had the future Hall of Famer. Tebbetts even praised my concentration, which certainly would raise questions about his insistence on not allowing me to empower myself on the mound as well as his reputation for being an effective psychologist as a manager. It had nothing to do with age. Other young hurlers with far less experience than me were calling their own pitches. I considered it not only insulting but a handicap to performance. Many years later it was brought to my attention that perhaps his need to take credit for making me a Hall of Famer was more important than zeroing in on any of my actual problems. He knew I had fantastic talent, much better than he had seen in his half-century or so in baseball.
My frustration with this lack of trust in me to dictate selection reached a peak in 1966 and 1967 that indeed hampered my ability to win, as did a stunning lack of run support that I never complained about because I realized my position-player teammates were trying their best. I knew the club was struggling financially, attendance was bad, and there was the possibility that owner Gabe Paul and his replacement Vernon Stouffer would move the franchise out of Cleveland. The Indians of that era felt compelled to trade away high-priced players—even before the advent of free agency—to survive.
I stuck up for my teammates when they were criticized for weak hitting. Tigers ace and legendary scamp Denny McLain once stated that he could relax pitching against the Indians. That raised my ire to such an extent that I asked Dark if he could alter the rotation to allow me to start against McLain. Dark once told reporters that if he needed to win one game he would have me on the mound. Given the talent of that Cleveland rotation I considered it quite a compliment.
The distinct lack of offense certainly hindered one of the most dominant pitching staffs in baseball. Hitters dreaded coming to Cleveland to face the likes of Luis Tiant, Sonny Siebert, and Sam McDowell in a series. In 1968 we boasted only two hitters with more than ten home runs. I know 1968 was considered the Year of the Pitcher, but that was ridiculous. We had some decent power hitters such as Fred Whitfield, Leon Wagner, and an aging Rocky Colavito in 1965 but all of them were soon gone and we were left through the rest of my time in Cleveland with poor offensive talent. We would joke in spring training about our destiny as a last-place club. But we always played with pride and grit. The Indians boasted a fine hitter or two in those years such as third baseman Max Alvis, who joined me on the American League All-Star team in 1965, but never enough of them. The opposition often pitched around Alvis because our lineup provided him little protection.
We were usually out of the pennant race by Memorial Day but we certainly enjoyed the ride, as did most teams. Baseball players, particularly in that era, loved playing jokes on one another. One of the best perpetrated by our veteran pitcher Stan Williams nearly backfired. We had arrived in Kansas City for the 1967 season opener against the Athletics (the Royals did not arrive until 1969) and were staying at the downtown Muehlebach Hotel. Williams and I visited a store across the street that sold gadgets such as exploding cigars and hand buzzers that were perfect for practical jokes. He bought a rubber gorilla mask and I bought a monster mask with the plan of playing a trick on Tiant, who could be easily frightened.
We found out what room Tiant was occupying and knocked on his door with our masks on. “Who’s there?” asked Luis with obvious apprehension. “Telegram for Mr. Tiant,” replied Williams in an altered voice. We heard the chain being lifted, then Tiant cracked the door just a bit. Williams kicked it wide open, growled, and raised his arms like a monster. Little did he know because he could not see down through the mask that Tiant had grabbed a very real gun and was pointing it right at his stomach. Fortunately Tiant finally recognized Stan’s voice and did not pull the trigger.
Opening Day was special for every team in baseball but particularly those that understood clearly they would not be hanging around for the pennant race. That included the Indians throughout my career. We could always expect a huge crowd at Municipal Stadium, which could hold seventy thousand fans. But it was almost always cold in early April no matter where we played. I recalled a 1963 opener in Minneapolis when snow was blown away by a helicopters then gasoline was sprayed on the infield and lit to thaw out the dirt. On the bus to the stadium I listened to our hitters talking about how it hurt their hands to hit jam jobs in freezing temperatures. That pumped me up—I could not wait to fire my 100 mph heater inside and create some of that sting. I would grease myself with a gel called “atomic balm” that boasted body-heating chemicals then put on the long johns I used for hunting in the winter. I struggled in some of my opening day starts because I was not yet in the groove, but at least I stayed warm.
I knew I had to pitch well to win with the Indians. Our camaraderie, as well as the determination exhibited by my teammates, motivated me to keep my mouth shut about the lack of run support. But it certainly did not result in a victory total that befit my performance. I did, however, take a step back in 1966 and 1967, mostly due to frustration over how I was being handled. I sported a mediocre 9–8 record in 1966 with an ERA that had climbed nearly a point from the previous year.
Baseball players are forced to endure quite a bit of pain—it is part of the game. Those who cannot overcome it do not last long. And occasionally they must play through pain that weakens effectiveness. I experienced significant elbow soreness in 1966 that altered my delivery. The same scenario the following year resulted in frequent cortisone shots. Then in 1971 twenty-four cortisone shots as well as lidocaine to dull the pain allowed me to take the mound and avoid surgery for a shoulder problem. I later learned this was the most dangerous approach an athlete could take because it threatened to destroy his arm, hip, shoulder, whatever. But back then none of us, including the doctors, knew any better.
I suffered through my worst season to date in 1967 with a 13–15 mark and 3.85 ERA. That opposing hitters were catching on to stealing signs was obvious. My hits-to-innings-pitched ratio soared when I pitched for Adcock. My season with him was the only one from 1965 to 1970 in which I did not lead the American League in strikeouts or make the American League All-Star team.
I vividly recall one game against the Angels in 1967 that helped prove the point that I performed better when left to my own devices. I was pitching a shutout through six as we hung on to a 1–0 lead for dear life. I allowed successive singles to start the seventh inning, then Sims glanced from behind the plate to the dugout for another pitch call from Adcock. But he had bolted to the clubhouse for some chewing tobacco. I was happily free to extricate myself from the jam without his interference. And I did. I earned the complete-game victory.
What I perceived as a bit of overmanaging likely even cost me a major league record. The date was September 18, 1966, but I remember it like it was yesterday. We were in Detroit, which boasted a tough lineup featuring the likes of Bill Freehan, Al Kaline, Willie Horton, and Mickey Stanley. My mound opponent was McLain, who in 1968 became the last thirty-game winner in baseball history and would soon thereafter gain a reputation as an angry flake who poured ice water over the heads of sportswriters he did not like. Heck, there was one writer in particular in Cleveland I clashed with but I never dumped ice water on his head.
Anyway, I had my best stuff that Sunday afternoon. All my pitches were working. I struck out nine batters in the first three innings and racked up fourteen through six. I was on pace for twenty-one, which would still be a record today. I seemed destined to at least break what was then the all-time major league mark of eighteen in a nine-inning game. I told Strickland that my arm felt a little stiff but I was fine to continue for at least another inning or two. He was taking no chances. Explaining later that as an interim manager he did not want to be known as the man who ruined the career of a brilliant young pitcher over a potential record, Strickland removed me from the game. I did not even get the win. Reliever John O’Donoghue blew my 5–1 lead, then Tiant rescued the victory in extra innings.
Interference from managers, as well as my own weaknesses, had begun to prevent me from reaching my potential. That was too bad because I was starting to receive some recognition, which meant a lot to a narcissist like me, though the Sports Illustrated article served as much to further my reputation as a flake—as left-handers are supposed to be according to baseball legend—as it did to praise my rise as a pitcher. I was portrayed as a guy who would say anything at any time and contradict myself, such as when I said I needed to beat a team in my mind before I could beat them in the field then added that I could not win if I was confident and that I had to be scared to death to perform well.
Such comments left readers scratching their heads. I often used the wrong word or phrase even when explaining factual data I had learned. What I was trying to explain was that visualizing fear helped me remove that fear and relax, thus allowing me to free my mind and develop a plan of attack. Sometimes my explanations came out wrong.
I was not trying to confuse anybody. Some in the media claimed I simply stated what they wanted to hear because I believed they were going to write whatever they wanted anyway. But that was only true of writers for whom I had little respect and who did not write truthfully about me, particularly Cleveland Plain Dealer beat writer Bob Dolgan, with whom I often clashed. When I told Sports Illustrated in a 1970 article that I sometime spoke untruthfully to reporters I was referring specifically to him. I did not like that Dolgan offered opinions in his stories, claiming to know what players were thinking rather than just stating what happened and getting quotes. It was a trend that had begun with some in the media at that time and has worsened in the modern era. The obvious motivation is that it stirs up controversy that results in greater reader-ship and, in today’s modern technology, more clicks. But Dolgan was certainly unpopular among my teammates, two of whom refused to speak with him at all. If he were among a bevy of reporters asking questions, they would simply refuse to be interviewed until he had left the clubhouse.
Criticism based on ignorance bothered me during my career. Often radio announcers and newspaper journalists who had no idea that managers such as Tebbetts and Adcock were calling my pitches complained on the air or in print about pitch selection for which I was not responsible. Neither the criticism nor the pitch calling was doing me any good. They both gave me an opportunity to condemn someone else when I failed. I could heap the blame on them. Such was certainly the case early in my career. Then when I gained an understanding of the science of pitching, I was still handcuffed. I could use my newfound knowledge in regard to location but I was not allowed to decide what pitch would be most effective in particular situations. And many in the media were unaware of this.
Dolgan and I always had a contentious relationship. Even after what should have been typical post-game interviews he had this habit of trying to think for me. That mindset continued in his writing. He would type up columns that made it clear he was seeking to explore my mind and making assumptions about what was going on inside my head. I did not believe that is what the readers wanted. They did not crave speculation. They sought the facts. I recall one Cleveland Press sportswriter after a Saturday afternoon game running frantically into the clubhouse seeking out my pitching mate Gary Bell to verify a quote. That was the kind of approach players respected and appreciated. The rule of the day was to write what happened and allow the readers to visualize it.
I understand that times changed as soon as all games were televised. But truth still matters, and hypothesizing the thoughts of an athlete is not truth. Dolgan was ahead of his time in constantly offering his opinion not as a columnist but as a beat writer. There is a difference. Quite often, at least in my case, he was wrong. And when I challenged him he would simply shrug his shoulders and claim it was up to the readers to decide.
That nearly led to a physical confrontation. One night I was particularly upset with a published report he wrote about me and my pitching. We nearly came to blows at a local bar (both of us were sober at the time). Though it was considered bad form for beat writers to go to bars the players they covered often frequented, he did on occasion to try to get a scoop. I got up in his face to express my anger and he grabbed my coat lapel. I swung him around and asked if he wanted to step outside. The fight never happened. I walked out the front door and waited for him. He walked out the back door and ran home. So much for barroom brawls. The drama peaked then died just as quickly.
By that time in my career my inability to partake in moderation did often result in a drunken stupor or physical altercation. I have been arrested twelve times in my life and never been convicted of a crime. In nearly all cases the police simply sat me down in the chief’s office and flooded me with coffee. I sometimes spent one night in a cell. Both the public and I were fortunate that my three DUIs did not result in accidents that caused injury or even fatalities. On one occasion my backtalk to an arresting officer led to consideration of charges for public drunkenness and disturbing the peace. But I was given a break, which has been par for the course for celebrities forever.
The difference during my career—before social media and paparazzi—was that it was easier to keep arrests hush-hush. The Indians worked to do just that. Such was the case after my first arrest in 1967 when Adcock managed the club—and this is ironic because when I was Adcock’s roommate during his one season as a player in Cleveland, we carried a fifth of whiskey in an attaché case—he warned me in no uncertain terms that he better not see any evidence of me drinking. On that fateful day in spring training I had remained back in Tucson while most of the team traveled to Mexico for an exhibition game. I became so snockered that I fell asleep on a table in a bar we often visited. Since I was only a periodic drinker at the time the bar owners did not recognize me. So they called the police. I was unaware the police knew who I was so I tried to hide my identity in the fear that it would reach the papers. I told them I was a laborer.
No dice—the cops stuck me in a cell and called the Indians, who dispatched the media director to bail me out. I was so out of it that I thought he’d also been arrested and blurted out, “They got you too, huh?” The team did the same sort of thing on other occasions as my drinking worsened. They protected their celebrity pitcher and the club from embarrassment.
I could not maintain an ideal relationship with the media, which during my career promoted the notion that the reason managers felt the need to dictate pitch selection was that I lived for challenges and that, for instance, if I knew I could strike out a weak hitter by blowing a fastball by him I would throw a changeup instead. The inference was that I found pitching boring if I simply fired heaters by everyone. But that was simply untrue. I had come to understand nearly from the moment I stepped onto a minor league mound that I could not get away with unleashing nothing but fastballs to professional hitters. Perhaps there were times when a well-placed fastball would have resulted in a strikeout, but having confidence in my ability to place a fastball or any other pitch in a specific place was beyond my belief system. I could eventually fire pitches to specific spots but my self-assuredness on the mound would come and go, thereby forcing me to try to outguess hitters. Interestingly this was part of the effect of my drinking that I thought I was controlling by not drinking two days before a start. But it was not because I was seeking to challenge myself at the expense of my team.
That was especially true in the major leagues. If I thought—after Dark took over in 1968 and gave me the freedom to call my own game—that based on pitch selection I could strike out a weak hitter with nothing but fastballs, I threw nothing but fastballs. But it is rare when any pitcher does not have to mix in breaking balls or something off-speed even to weaker batters. I understood that a “fastball-only” approach would be disastrous against the vast majority of big leaguers. They were simply too quick with the bat, and I knew from very painful experience that hitters who saw nothing but 100 mph fastballs tended to send them back soaring over the outfield fence at 110 mph.
And keep in mind that though pitch count was not a thing in the 1960s, I was probably averaging about 160 pitches per start and often won games in which I threw at least 170. I recall one victory at the front end of a doubleheader in Detroit after which I was told that I unleashed over 200 pitches. I lost so much weight from perspiration that Dark sent me home rather than have me accompany the team to Chicago.
Fortunately, as hitters were quite aware, I got stronger and faster as each game progressed. It was known that if you were to get to McDowell, it would be in the first three innings. If not I would gain confidence and sharpen location and become stronger. I was so conscious of getting hitters out that I pitched tentatively in the first couple innings. Once past the third I was relaxed and confident in my pitching. That made a world of difference.
But it didn’t stop folks from complaining. Veteran catcher Del Crandall asserted that I wanted to throw my changeup too much. He claimed I was not as impressed with my fastball as opposing hitters were overwhelmed by it. That was true to the extent that my self-doubt and fear resulted in me underrating my talent in general. But I had discovered by trial and error that I achieved my greatest successes when I mixed in my entire repertoire and used what I had learned in 1964 and beyond about changing speeds, locating, and taking advantage of hitter weaknesses. And there seemed to be great confusion among players about my pitch selection after Dark allowed me the opportunity to actually own it. Super-slugger Reggie Jackson opined that I had the greatest fastball, curveball, slider, and changeup in the sport but that he did not mind hitting against me because our battles were strength against strength—fastball pitcher versus fastball hitter. So what was it? Was I throwing too many fastballs or not enough? Nobody could figure it out.
I have been told by serious baseball fans that when I pitched they loved the mano y mano battles because they all knew what I was going to throw to the likes of Mantle or Horton or Jackson. But I must admit that I cheated a bit with Reggie and would drop down to throw sidearm so his right knee would buckle.
I understood where Jackson was coming from when he said he liked to face me because it was going to be strength against strength. But when I told the media that I lived for challenges, I did not mean it the way it was interpreted. I would not throw pitches I believed had a greater chance of getting pounded simply for the sake of a challenge. I did not want to try to outguess hitters. I preferred to learn their tendencies, their strengths, and their weaknesses and then attack them based on that information. The science of pitching that was ingrained in me after my spring-training demotion in 1964 had an impact for seasons to come. Pitchers are best served with a short memory, and I did from pitch to pitch. But I always remembered getting clobbered before my professional awakening and did not want to relive that. So I was determined to pitch scientifically. If critics interpreted that as overthinking, so be it. I knew in my heart and mind that it was the best approach for me.
Eventually the outside noise became maddening. I threw myself into every endeavor that piqued my interest. I opened a family billiard parlor in Pittsburgh called Jack and Jill Cue and Cushion. I tried to learn the guitar. Both ventures had me thinking about my eventual retirement despite the fact that when those businesses were revealed publicly in 1966 I was just twenty-three years old. When I told reporters that I could just as well have chosen another career, I was speaking the truth. I began building miniature ships in bottles. I had long before started a gun collection that grew to around forty-five pieces. Because I could not put back together a lever-action rifle, I went to a gunsmithing school near Pittsburgh. I was not interested in bluing a gun or learning how to temper steel to a certain strength but I did learn how to fix guns. And of course, I was increasingly embracing my other hobby—drinking.
It is no wonder that I wanted to get away from baseball after my starts had been completed. It is also not surprising that I remained in that alcoholic fog, that malaise that continued to plague me. From about 1966 to 1968 I drank periodically, staggering my bouts with booze to prevent it from wrecking my starts. But I more often drank now to get inebriated. It was a temporary escape from reality, and though I was not out getting smashed nightly by any means, I was becoming a nastier drunk.
Freedom of choice and peak performance were right around the corner. A year of sobriety would follow before the grip of alcoholism destroyed my career and almost my life.