Cobra, page 19
Lynn McGlothen was an African American pitcher trying to become one of the Black aces. He came to the Cardinals after the Red Sox couldn’t get Gaylord Perry the previous winter. I felt all sorts of confident coming into that game. I put up my best stats during the season against Mac, and everyone knew it. That was the problem—everyone knew it. Even Mac.
There was a reason his record was 16-9 coming into that game. McGlothen altered his plan against me. No more high fastballs, just inside junk and outside curveballs. I came up in the first with runners on the corners. I’d never been so excited for a Major League moment. But Mac had my number that night. I grounded back to the box. Then a flyout in the third. I reached on an error in the seventh and hit a sharp one-hopper to second in the ninth. The game was scoreless heading into extras, and the Cards stuck with Mac for the tenth inning. We won that game when Danny had Diloné run for Popovich and scored on a Hebner single. The Pirates were now only a half game out of first, but I was pissed about my 0-for-5. I took that back to the hotel with me, trying to understand what went wrong. It hit me the next morning, turning on the TV, finding my favorite game show of the time seemingly waiting for me.
Concentration.
I figured out the puzzle. Take no pitcher for granted. Every at bat is a battle. Now it was time to go get my prizes.
With left-hander John Curtis on the mound, Danny didn’t start me, but just before the first pitch, he told me, “Just be ready.” I knew I was gonna get into this game.
Curtis only gave up two hits over the first five innings but walked three and was looking tired by the sixth inning. We were ahead, 2–1, with the bases loaded, when the Cardinals’ skipper Red Schoendienst brought in right-hander Mike Garman to pitch to Taveras. Once Garman was announced in the game, Danny yelled over to me, “Parker! Now.”
Walking to the plate, I kept thinking to myself, “Bases loaded. We’re only up by a run. With one swing, I can put this game out of reach. Or with a smart swing, maybe extend the lead.” I could’ve thought like Willie and went for the dinger. But I thought like Scoop, and I remembered the game show.
Garman tried to deliver a fine pitch to the outside corner, and I stepped in like Scoop and popped that thing into left field. Two runs scored; 4–1, Buccos. We won the game, 7–3, and recaptured first place. The next week, we seesawed for the top of the Eastern Division, and it came down to the final series of the season at home against the Cubs.
We won the opener, 2–1, and then a tight 6–5 victory the next night, giving us sole possession of first place, so winning the last game of the season would clinch the title. The Cubbies threw Rick Reuschel against us, and to this day, I don’t know why I wasn’t in the lineup for that game. Ed Kirkpatrick started and played first. The only thing I can think of is that perhaps Danny believed Reuschel (nobody called him Big Daddy that early in his career) was still in my head from the head-hunting pitch he gave me at Wrigley the year before.
It started off a crazy night. Some fans threw beer bottles at Jose Cardenal and Jerry Morales. Murtaugh and Stargell walked to the outfield and asked the fans to behave. It was thirty-eight degrees at game time, and it felt like eighteen all night long.
The last place Cubs scored four off us in the first, but I remember Rooker telling the fellas, “I screwed up, but I got it from here. I’ll hold them down.” Rook pitched his ass off for the rest of the game. We nicked and clawed to get within two runs, making it 4–2 until the ninth inning.
Reuschel came out to finish us off. He walked Zisk—Diloné came in to pinch-run. He walked Sangy. Kirkpatrick bunted them over. Runners on second and third, one out. Danny yelled over, “Parker, hit for Taveras,” who was having the game of his life on the basepaths. Danny wanted to give me my moment of vengeance, but I wasn’t thinking home run. I just wanted a single to right to tie the game—I had so much confidence that we could win it in extras. Reuschel tried again with the inside pitch, but I backed out of the way and dug in deeper. He threw me some off-speed stuff, and I hit it toward the hole at second. It wasn’t enough for a single, but at least a run came home, making it 4–3. Two outs. Bob Robertson came up. Reuschel beared down, got him to two strikes, and tossed a mean curveball. Robertson swung and missed for strike three, but the pitch got away from Steve Swisher, the catcher, who went after the ball. Sangy raced for home, but Swisher didn’t think about throwing out Sangy and gunned it all the way to first base. The ball hit Robertson in the back and skipped into right field. The crowd just lost it, as we tied the game and went into extra innings. As the fellas grabbed their gloves to run out on the field, Stargell said to everyone in earshot, “We got ’em now.”
After the Cubs went down easy in the tenth, Scoop once again went the other way and smacked a one-out triple to left field, putting the division-winning run on third. The Cubs weren’t gonna let Will beat them. Intentional walk. Danny sent Gene Clines up to pinch-hit. Intentional walk. Bases loaded for Sangy. With one strike, the Cubs pitcher Oscar Zamora tried to hit the outside corner, but Sangy swung and tapped a slow roller down the third base line. Bill Madlock, the Cubs’ third baseman, raced to the ball, Scoop barreled for home, Madlock reached the ball, tried to barehand, missed. Scoop crossed the plate—
We won the division! Teammates jumped on Sangy and Scoop, Willie hugged Danny, Dock hugged Demery, I joined the pile, fans ran onto the field, and then, as the old beer commercial announced, it was Miller time.
Inside the clubhouse, Sangy sprayed me, Rennie sprayed me, I sprayed Dock, me and Baby Brother sprayed each other—everyone got that precious sip. Robertson poured a pitcher of milk over Danny’s head as our skipper hugged his players and told us, “This is the sweetest victory I’ve ever tasted. My other teams were always in first or second the whole season, but we battled back, came from twelve, thirteen games under, to win this thing. You guys are special.” I made sure to spray Zisk—he deserved it, producing a killer season, batting over .300, and driving in a hundred runs. We roared and cheered each other that night, traveling to bars on Sixth Street and drinking with fans. Tom joined us for a couple of cocktails, and then Dock, Demery, and I went up into the Hill District for our own, personal celebration.
It was bittersweet for several reasons. Moosie was down in Bradenton at Pirate City, recovering from his blood clot and working out with the prospects. I didn’t contribute as much to the cause as I would’ve liked. And Bill Flowers was never brought up to the club like he should’ve been. That bothered me all season. Me and Demery drank to him, a great player and a better friend. The three of us closed down the bar that night and then crashed at my place. I woke up the next morning mentally preparing for the series against the Dodgers, realizing that there was still more work to do against the best pitching in baseball.
Oh, and as for Willie, the class act who never spoke publicly about the All-Star snub in his hometown, he went on to hit .326 in the second half of the season, with a .423 on-base percentage, the highest second-half numbers of his entire career. Don’t tell me slights don’t matter.
* * *
The Dodgers never beat us at home in the ’74 regular season, but they were still a 102-win team. And we barely got into the playoffs. They had the best starter in the league, Andy Messersmith; the hottest starter in the league, Don Sutton; and the best reliever in the world, Mike Marshall. This was that year when Marshall pitched in over one hundred games, something that was never done before or since. We felt like we had the Dodgers’ number, but their great right-handed hitting was a concern. Ron Cey was a talented, young third baseman. Steve Garvey had an MVP-level season, his first year playing every day. They also had Jimmy Wynn, who finally escaped the Astrodome to resurrect his career by hitting over thirty dingers. They had defense, they had pitching, and they feasted on left-handed pitching, which was our specialty.
Before the first game of the series, we were all pretty loose. We were home, with friends and welcome voices in the stands—we were ready to get it on. Rolls Reuss pitched his heart out and only gave up a run over seven innings. But nobody was touching Don Sutton that night, and we wound up with a 3–0 loss. In the four-hit shutout—we just couldn’t get anything cookin’. I batted for Reuss in the seventh, and I was handcuffed every pitch. Sutton threw me nothing but junk. An amazing performance.
The next day, before the second game of the series, I walked out to the dugout and checked the lineup card.
Danny was starting me in right field, batting fifth. He sat Zisk. In a playoff game.
By now, you know that confidence was never an issue for me. At all. I just always wanted to play. I didn’t go to Danny and say, “Are you sure?” That’s the last thing you wanna do, but I didn’t get it. Zisk hit .313, drove in 100 runs, batted .303 against right-handed pitching—a dynamite season.
I was swinging in the on-deck circle, with Stargell working the count against Messersmith. I looked in the dugout and saw Zisk sitting there, clapping for Will, being a good teammate, but I recognized the frustration all over his face, the same expression I noticed over the years with Charlie Boo, with Satch. With Bill Flowers. What do I gotta do to play? And then it hit me.
I was the man in his way. I never brought it up to Zisk, but I understood his perspective on the whole thing.
The Dodgers grabbed the early lead, but we got to Messersmith in the seventh to tie the game. Zisk hit a pinch single to center, but LA got to our bullpen, scoring three runs to go back ahead. We lost the game, 5–2, and we flew out to LA with our backs to the wall, down 2–0.
As a manager, Danny always went with his memory. Kenny Brett threw good for us in ’74. He had a 13-9 record, and his raw pitching was even a little better than that. And Brett had been to the postseason before, but Danny went with a family member who he knew had won games like this for us.
He started Bruce Kison. Dock was still hurting, or else he would’ve gotten the ball. Buster didn’t have a great year, so he wasn’t really in the starting rotation. But he had won three big postseason starts for the Pirates before the age of twenty-four. Danny went with his gut. The Dodgers threw a lefty, Doug Rau, so naturally Zisk was back in the lineup. I got that. Neither of them let us down.
Zisk went 2-for-5 and scored a run. Stargell and Hebner hit dingers. Kison got us into the seventh inning, giving up only two hits while pitching around a few hitters. We won, 7–0, to keep the following day meaningful.
* * *
Most of y’all have read baseball books like this before. They’re written by men who’ve played the game, who want to tell their side of things. Sometimes, they’re written to settle scores or a beef about some slight, professional or personal. I didn’t have a great Game Two. It happens sometimes, but my manager stuck by me, right or wrong. Walking into the visitor’s clubhouse at Chavez Ravine, I saw Zisk sitting at his locker quietly. He didn’t make a fuss or bitch, but I could tell from his body language that he wasn’t happy. I went out to check the lineup.
Danny started me again for Game Four. I know Sutton struck out Zisk three times, but man, Pollacko had earned the right to face him again. In the end, it didn’t matter. Sutton pitched amazing that series. I don’t recall if the league announced MVPs for the playoffs back then, but if they did, I’d be shocked if Don didn’t get it.
The Dodgers got to Rolls pretty quickly, scoring three runs in three innings and then another two off Kenny Brett. Our bullpen just couldn’t contain them. Davey Lopes hit Larry good that series. Garvey smacked two dingers in the game. Bill Russell, their light-hitting shortstop, drove in three runs. We lost the game, 12–1, and the series. The fellas were upset in the clubhouse afterward. Stargell just sat on his stool quietly. Dock was frustrated at his inability to contribute. No one said much, but I walked over to Danny’s office. We had heard talk that Murtaugh was gonna retire. I didn’t want that at all.
“Hey, Skip,” I said to him, as he sat with his feet up on the desk, “we ain’t done yet. Let’s go get ’em next year.” Danny smiled warmly and shook my hand, expressing his appreciation.
I stayed in a LA for a couple of days, hung out with Dock and Demery, met their families, ate chicken dinner with Demery’s folks. Both of us had a tough series against the Dodgers, but I knew in my heart that this wouldn’t be the last time we’d have a shot at this thing. One day, we hung around Venice Beach, played some pickup basketball, and just cooled out before jetting to Venezuela for winter ball. The Pirates told me to focus on first base and center field while I was down there. Joe Brown said that the only thing that was gonna keep me from five hundred at bats was injury. The organization would find me a spot somehow.
Me and Demery spoke to Stargell on the phone before we left. Willie used to do that sometimes—check on the players, make sure families were okay, that sort of thing. We heard some serious trade talk. The San Francisco Giants were having money troubles, and their owner, Horace Stoneham, was close to Joe Brown. He let the Pirates know that Bobby Bonds was available. You know what Joe Brown said?
“If you really wanna talk Bobby Bonds, we’re willing to talk Richie Zisk.”
The Giants came back and said, “If you’re willing to talk Al Oliver, we can make a deal for Bonds.”
They wanted Scoop. Brown didn’t think twice. No deal. I don’t know why the Pirates were so quick to let Zisk go. I know it was for another star player—a superstar coming off a bad year—but still. Zisk was quickly becoming a star hitter himself, and his fielding was better than what the beat writers said. Didn’t make sense to me.
The Oakland A’s beat the Dodgers four games to one in a World Series that was much more competitive than what you see in a one-line recap. A few days later, the Pirates finally traded Gene Clines, sending him to the New York Mets for Duffy Dyer, the topflight backup catcher to give Sangy a break. Ol’ Angry would at last be getting a real chance to start. Clines was thrilled to tears about leaving the Pittsburgh outfield log jam. He was a good teammate, a great roommate on the road, and someone who taught me stuff like which room service items wouldn’t get cold on the trip up the elevator. The sad part of this story was that while Clines enjoyed the early off-season months dreaming of roaming spacious Shea Stadium center field, the Mets went out in December and traded for the Phillies’ Del Unser, who played 141 games in ’74, all in center. Clines was right back where he started.
Before I left for winter ball, I saw Stella in Los Angeles. We met up a few times during the season, and I found myself looking forward to her company more and more. I asked her to move in with me once next season began. Boarding the flight to Caracas, I felt satisfied with the direction of my life, eager to see what 1975 would bring me.
Once me and Demery arrived in Venezuela, we met up with our teammates at the ballpark in Valencia, mostly alongside other Pirates rookies. We all ended up at a local bar to close out the night. They played a lot of American music, mostly Stevie Wonder. We enjoyed ourselves, having more than a few drinks, when in midsentence, Demery just stopped talking and looked around at the other fellas, as a long-lost thought captured his attention.
“Wait a sec, man. Where the fuck is Flowers?”
12
Me and Baby Brother
Pirate City? Ha, there wasn’t a whole lot to do there back then. You had a grade school and a small farm across the street. A lot of the players didn’t have cars with them, but I did. I drove a gray 1973 Monte Carlo with the swivel bucket seats. One night, I was in my dorm room around 11:00 p.m., about to go to sleep. Someone’s banging on my door.
“Yo, Candy! You up? It’s Parkway! Gimme your keys, man! I need the Monte!” I didn’t ask any questions. I was a rookie. I gave him my keys.
—John Candelaria, Pittsburgh Pirates
“Yo, guys, look at me!”
Five months later, at spring training, me and Demery walked out of the back exit of Pirate City one afternoon. About six of our teammates standing in a group tilted their heads toward the sky. We all felt good about our chances to get back to the playoffs, but these upward glances had nothing to do with baseball.
One of the rookies was standing on the roof of the complex. The fellas were yelling a mix of, “Get down from there!” and, “What the hell are you doing?”
“That Candy is crazy,” Larry said to me quietly. John Candelaria was a six-foot-seven Puerto Rican kid from Brooklyn. He owned a Major League fastball, elite off-speed stuff, and a curveball that could win Game Seven. He was just twenty-one years old, the real deal, and out of his mind.
“He ain’t gonna jump, man,” I replied. “That boy’ll kill himself.”
Candy jumped all right, dropped a good twenty feet to the thin grass below. He rolled his body once he hit the ground and yelped in pain for a moment.
“The cat’s got balls,” I told Larry, as we kept walking toward the fields.
* * *
The beat guys were asking me if I was cool with playing first base. The truth was that Danny wanted me to get as much work in center field as possible. I was out there taking fly balls during morning drills early in the spring. Later, Dock came out toward me as everyone was going in for lunch. I could tell from his body language that he wasn’t happy.
“Why ain’t you in right?” he asked me with some aggression. Kind of took me by surprise.
“Danny wants me here.”
“But you ain’t a center fielder. That’s Scoop’s position.” Dock was very protective of me, but he also had Oliver’s back. Even though Scoop didn’t run around with us, there was a deep bond between Al and Dock—the two of them and Moosie were Double-A teammates in Macon back in 1967. I appreciated his love for the boys, but in the moment, well . . .
“You got a problem, go talk to Danny. Don’t bring that shit to me.”
“If you’re in center, I ain’t pitchin’.” Then it escalated. I had spent half a decade working toward this point, and one of my teammates, one I nearly idolized, was gonna muck up the works? Nope.
