Cobra, page 21
“Let’s go bust shit up,” I said, and Larry slapped me five.
“10-4, motherfucker.” We had a time at this disco in downtown LA, watching all the California girls boogie to “The Hustle.” Blew off a lot of steam that night.
Still pissed about that . . .
* * *
We lost the next night in late innings, 4–3. Dock went six, but the Dodgers’ bats got to our bullpen. Dock wanted to run around, but I was exhausted and just wanted sleep. Demery was with family for the night. I went back to our suite at the Biltmore just in time to pass out while I was watching Lola Falana sing on the Johnny Carson show. About an hour later . . .
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“Parkway! Open the fuckin’ door, man! I left my key in the car!” I could almost feel the vibrations of the humming outside my suite, like a swarm of honeybees stuck in the ceiling. I unlocked the door, and Dock walked in with like five ladies, three fellas who turned out to be half the band WAR, and two brothers who were Dock’s LA friends. He immediately walked over to the phone and dialed up late-night room service, a laundry list of adult beverages, orange juice, and lots of ice. Instant party. I woke up real fast. Some of us chilled out watching that Midnight Special music show. People were going in and out of the bathroom. I didn’t understand what that was about.
Oh, we enjoyed ourselves, hearing their stories, and Primetime Dock was always a trip. Soon, there was a funky waft in the room even with the windows cracked open. It was getting late in the night, and for me, for things like that, it was still early.
* * *
We lost four in a row to Philadelphia on the road to bring them within a game of us in second place. They were gelling very nicely. The double-barrel of Mike Schmidt and Luzinski was among the most dangerous in the game; then add in the threatening presence of Dick Allen. Besides Lefty Carlton, there was Tommy Underwood again. Every time we played them, the Phillies made sure Underwood faced us. He was 3-1 against the Pirates by the end of July, and his last two starts were complete-game wins. Rennie was dealing with a sore knee, Hebner was hurt, and Robertson was hurt, which was a shame because Bob was having a great year coming off the bench for us.
Still, we were feeling like the Buccos again. One and a half games up was a little too close for comfort. Danny decided to make some changes. Paul Popovich, who wasn’t playing much, hurt his ankle, which became a depth issue with Rennie’s nagging ailment. Joe Brown asked Popo to go down to Charleston for August. Being an eleven-year veteran, Popo had to give management his permission for the roster move. At first, he agreed, but then he decided otherwise. After trying to trade him, Joe Brown released Popovich. In his place, the Pirates recalled the International League’s leading hitter. Once we returned to Pittsburgh, Willie cleared a spot next to Demery in our corner of the clubhouse. When that kid respectfully entered the Buccos’ inner domain for the very first time, he was startled by the flashbulb of Stargell’s camera, making the goofiest face you’ve ever seen.
“Welcome back, Slick,” Stargell said to Willie Randolph, laughing his ass off.
* * *
Man, I wish I could find that photo. Willie hung it up on the clubhouse bulletin board, with the caption, “Randolph, aka ‘Goose-Neck.’” For his first month in the Major Leagues, it was all, “Goose-Neck this,” and “Goose-Neck that.” With Moosie down at Triple-A, Slick roomed with Dock on the road. One late-night dinner at Trader Vic’s in Houston, the waiter approached the table and asked for our order.
“Goose-Neck, you lead us off,” I said, staring at the menu. We just cut him up all evening. Later on, the fellas migrated over to the bar. It was just the two of us at the table.
“Why you always fuckin’ with me?” Slick asked. I butted my Kool into the ashtray and finished off my gin and tonic.
“We like you,” I told Randolph. “You’re one of us now. And you’re a damn good ballplayer. If we didn’t care about you, we’d have shunned your ass.” Then I ordered another cocktail and a beer for Slick that just sat there. He was real devoted to his wife, with a baby on the way. Slick was one of the most dedicated athletes I ever met. We all knew he was special.
After a Saturday afternoon home game against the Mets, Stargell invited some of the boys over to his house for a cookout. We made poor Slick carry in the booze and set up the backyard. After about an hour, Gene Clines showed up and brought a friend.
“Angry’s here!” Stargell yelled out. John Milner, the Mets’ sometime first baseman, sometime outfielder, came with Gene. They called him Hammer, because he looked like Hank Aaron and had some home run power. Sitting outside at the patio table, I offered Milner a Kool, and he pulled out his own pack at the same time. Hammer was a real Pirates-type player, versatile in the field and could win a game with one swing. He was laid back and didn’t take life too seriously. We ate ribs and BBQ chicken and talked about the old days. For Gene, it was the same old story.
“I was sitting in the dugout today,” Gene began, “and I saw you boys across the field laughing and having a good time. No one’s helping the rookies in New York. They treated Cleon like shit. It’s just me and Milner and Tom Hall. They don’t talk to us at all. No one’s lookin’ out for anybody. No one.”
* * *
We were in Atlanta, in the middle of a skid, having lost six out of seven games. Our lead in the NL East was down to three over Philadelphia. Me and Demery hung out at the Marriott hotel bar with some of the other fellas for a little bit before heading up to our suite. It was 1:30 in the morning. The lights were out, but neither of us could sleep.
“When we gonna turn this shit around?” Larry asked me.
“Like I said, it’s just a slump,” I replied. “We haven’t had one of these all season. We’ll turn it on soon.”
“Man, I hope so.” There was a knock at the door. I clicked on the lamp and just looked at Demery. We were both thinking the same thing. Larry, shaking his head, got up and answered the door.
It was Slick, in a T-shirt and pajama pants, carrying his pillow.
“There’s ten people in my room,” Randolph said, stomping in, planting himself on the small couch beside the sliding balcony door. Slick rolled over and tried to sleep. I just shut off the light, and we both went back to bed. Three minutes passed by before Demery spoke softly. “Yo, Slick, any foxy mamas up there?”
Randolph just sighed and mumbled something. Dock’s after-parties were becoming more and more frequent.
* * *
The slide continued with us losing two of three from the Braves. Dock got knocked out in the first inning for his second straight start. It had been a real erratic season for him. We were still three games ahead of the Phillies, because they kept losing too. The next night, we were in Cincinnati. Rolls was having a rough fourth inning. The Reds got us for three runs. I came back into the dugout and felt some static in the air. Later, Larry told me that Danny had asked Dock to go warm up and that Dock refused. The following night, the Machine got us for 6 runs in the first. When the inning was over, Larry was sitting there on the bench, silent. Too silent.
“What happened now?” I asked quietly.
“Danny sent Dock back to the hotel.”
“He wouldn’t pitch again?”
“Dock said he’s had it with the bullpen bullshit.” Me and Demery stayed out of it. Danny and Joe Brown knew Dock since he was nineteen. This was between them. Just wasn’t our business.
The next morning, Joe Brown suspended Dock without pay. After cooling off a bit, Dock called Danny and told him he’d do as he was told. Later in the afternoon, I saw Dock talking with Willie in the hotel lobby. He seemed fine to me. I left both of them alone and went to see Mama and Dad before heading to the ballpark. When I got to the clubhouse at Riverfront Stadium later that afternoon, I walked in as Dock was standing in front of our teammates and Danny. I was expecting a charismatic apology of some sort.
Nope.
“I know I’m gone after this season, so fuck it,” Dock said to the team and Danny. “And I ain’t sayin’ shit that y’all don’t say in the bar. This game’s passed you by, Danny. You’re managing scared, and you’re fuckin’ everybody up. Joe hasn’t signed Pollacko yet, and now he ain’t hittin’ for shit. He’s got Parkway all messed up; Scoop’s all messed up. I don’t think you know what you’re doing anymore. But we can still win this shit. We all know Hebner can’t field, but he can’t take that to the plate.” Then Dock said to us, while pointing at Danny and the coaches, “Just get them outta your heads, and just play ball, man.” Danny didn’t let it go on long and got right in Dock’s face. I thought Danny was gonna take a swing at him.
“You want to take this outside with me?” Danny said without flinching.
“I ain’t gonna fight you.” Then Don Leppert, one of our coaches, got up to defend Danny, but what he really wanted was to get some licks in on Dock. Danny held Leppert back, telling Dock, “Get the hell outta here. And don’t come back until you learn how to act.” Dock was fuming as he grabbed his stuff and left the clubhouse. Danny was all worked up, which almost never happened. Everyone left him alone. After the game—another loss, our fifth straight—the writers tried to get thoughts from Demery and me.
“It’s strictly between Danny and Dock,” I told them, speaking for both of us. “We don’t want to be involved. We don’t want any part of it.” Dock was suspended indefinitely without pay. Me and Demery hung out at the Netherland Plaza hotel bar after the game, down the street from Stouffer’s Inn, where we stayed, thinking maybe Dock would join us, but he left and returned to Pittsburgh.
Cincinnati swept us. Our lead over the Phillies was down to a half game.
* * *
We met the Reds again the following week in Pittsburgh. After sweeping the Giants, the Buccos needed to make a statement, not just to the Reds, but to the rest of the league, and Baby Brother got it done, pitching into the ninth, with five strikeouts and two runs, and putting out small fires along the way. I went through a small slump in August—my average fell from .338 to .316. In the second game, Candy kept it close for eight innings, down 2–0. Slick scored to bring us within a run, and then Cincinnati brought in their lefty reliever, Will McEnaney. I didn’t think he had the gas to beat me, so I was guessing slider. He tried to sneak that breaking shit by me, but I took it for a ride. My twentieth dinger of the year and the game winner. We won three of four from the Machine, to get us somewhat back on track. Stargell was in and out of the lineup in August, which had also been hurting us. But now he was back, and his presence turned things around somewhat.
Danny and Joe Brown had a decision to make. Would they lift Dock’s suspension? If things stayed the same past August 31, Dock would’ve been ineligible for the postseason. Demery hung out at my place the morning after throwing a complete-game win against the Braves.
“Dock apologized to Danny,” Demery said to me over breakfast, game show background noise coming from the small TV in my kitchen. “I think they’re gonna let him come back.” Murtaugh and Joe Brown weren’t vindictive cats. Their chill attitude really set a tone for the organization. We were a family. Families fight, make up, and move on. I hung out with Dock in the clubhouse on August 31.
“You good with Danny?” I asked him.
“Yeah, the Irishman’s cool and the gang with me. We good now.” Both Murtaugh and Joe Brown told the writers that it didn’t make much sense to keep punishing Dock after he apologized. So everyone moved on, but here’s a funny little observation about the whole thing.
Dock came in as a reliever in each of the next two games. Draw your own conclusions about that.
Our August record was 12-17, but we came out of it up four games on the Phillies. After Kison beat the Astros at home to close out the month, Stargell was enjoying some wine at his locker, a mile-wide smile on his face.
“I think the tide has turned back,” he said.
* * *
We won eleven games in the first half of September. My batting average bounced around a five-point range, but I was driving in runs by the bunches. Most of y’all remember Rennie’s game, going 7-for-7 as we beat up the Cubs, 22–0. I drove in five runs and hit a dinger. The team charter was pretty lively leaving the Windy City that night.
The Phillies were six games out on September 17, with twelve to play. They needed a sweep to realistically still be in the hunt for the title. They threw their best starters at us—Tommy Underwood and then Steve Carlton. Murtaugh countered with our big-game boy: Kison.
Wasn’t even close.
We zapped Underwood repeatedly in the third, with single after single after single—Rennie, Willie, Zisk, me, Taveras—next thing you know, 4–0, Buccos. Then in the fifth, I used my concentration and went with the curveball tailing away from me, taking the pitch to deep left-center for a two-run double. Kison went the distance, and we came out with a 9–1 victory. Up seven games, with eleven to play. Even though Carlton bested Dock the next night, it was getting late for the Phillies. We were up six games, with ten to go.
When they came to town five days later, the Phils tried to throw Underwood at us one more time. Danny went with Kison again. The rookie was almost lights out at Veterans Stadium early in ’75, but he got hit hard on the road. He was gone by the fourth inning, with Philadelphia down, 4–0. I went 3-for-5, drove in four runs, and hit my twenty-fifth dinger of the year. I reached one hundred RBIs, which was a personal goal. We won the game, 11–3, clinching the division. Tekulve seemed as excited as anyone with throwing around the champagne. Some of the fellas started calling him Teke. I nicknamed him Ichabod Crane, from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, for his tall, skinny frame and those glasses. He was a good sport and a real tough competitor. Danny took it from Rooker over his head. Not everyone was in a festive mood, though. A few players just went back to their lockers like it was nothing. I cherished my second sip and gave Demery a spray. Dock took a sip, but he was much more subdued since the incident in Cincinnati. I gave Stargell a hug—he always got emotional at the end of seasons, win or lose. I went out that night to celebrate with Demery and Slick. Dock and Tom Reich joined us later in the evening for a final drink or two. Toward the end of the night, Dock beckoned me away from the table to hang out over at the bar. He lit me a Kool and then ordered two screwdrivers. He raised his glass, didn’t say a word, and toasted me. I didn’t really know what it all meant at the time.
Dock knew.
* * *
What’s there to say about the ’75 NLCS? We won 92 games. The Cincinnati Reds won 108. We were a great team, but they were just . . . wow. I scored from first on a Hebner two-run double off Don Gullett, their starting pitcher in Game One, to take the early lead, but after that, it was all Cincinnati. The Reds won it, 8–3, and even Gullett had two hits, including a homer. They beat us in Game Two as well, 6–1, where Fred Norman kept the ball in the park. That was the strategy—throw lefties at the Pirates in the postseason and you’ll win. We had a chance in Game Three. As a rookie, Candy pitched his ass off, just three hits, two walks, and fourteen strikeouts. We finally got to Rawly Eastwick, the Reds’ closer, tying the game in the ninth to send it to extras, but the Reds scored twice in the tenth to complete the sweep, 5–3. We just didn’t hit, in this series or against the Dodgers the year before. As a team, we batted .196. In the ’74 series, it was .194.
I said goodbye to most of the fellas and the coaches and thanked Danny for his support during the season. I was scheduled to play in Venezuela again with Slick, Demery, Craig Reynolds, and Sadowski. For me, at this point, it was less about conditioning than the nice money the Magallanes club was paying me as an All-Star-caliber presence.
Me and Demery had a time that winter, playing ball and running all over the countryside. I always knew that Larry had the biggest heart in the league, but I remember one time, after being in Venezuela for a couple of weeks, the two of us were driving through a poor section of Valencia, kids begging for food in the streets, trying to stop cars and everything. It really upset Demery.
“Shit just ain’t right,” Larry said. As soon as we got paid, Larry cashed his check, ran down to the local market, bought a ton of groceries, and delivered them to as many families as he could. We didn’t talk much about this with the club because of safety concerns, but Demery didn’t care. He gave everything he had to the Venezuelan poor that winter. For all our misadventures, the ball games, the antics, the fun, this is what sticks with me when I remember Larry Demery.
Back in Pittsburgh, a giveaway of a different kind was happening.
Joe Brown offered Dock to the Indians for Jim Bibby. Cleveland passed on the deal.
He offered Dock, Slick, and Zisk around the league in the hopes of receiving a right-handed, frontline starter.
The Yankees offered Sparky Lyle for Slick. At least a half dozen teams asked about Slick’s availability. I was told that Randolph was the most sought-after prospect in baseball that winter. By the time Joe Brown and Danny arrived at the Hilton in Hollywood, Florida, for the baseball winter meetings, the Pirates had lined up two major trades.
Joe inquired about George Brett, the Kansas City Royals’ young third baseman. KC refused but offered their star center fielder Amos Otis . . . and then asked for Scoop.
This time, Joe didn’t pass. He just requested an additional player—Cookie Rojas, their aging second baseman.
