Ball Four

The Final Pitch

Jim Bouton

Copyright

Ball Four

Copyright © 1970, 1981, 1990, 2000 by Jim Bouton

Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2012, 2020 by RosettaBooks, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Electronic edition published 2020 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795323249

For more information about Jim Bouton and Foul Ball, visit www.JimBouton.com.

DEDICATION

For Laurie

Contents

FOREWORD – BALL FOUR, 50th Anniversary Editoin

Preface

Editor’s Foreword

Introduction

Ball Four

Part 1  They Made Me What I Am Today

Part 2  My Arm Isn’t Sore, It’s Just a Little Stiff

Part 3  And Then I Died

Part 4  I Always Wanted to See Hawaii

Part 5  The Yanks Are Coming, The Yanks Are Coming

Part 6  Shut Up

Part 7  Honey, Meet Me in Houston

Statistics

Ball Five—Ten Years Later

Ball Six—Twenty Years Later

Ball Seven—Thirty Years Later

The Pirates Live! In Cyberspace!

Acknowledgments

About the Editor

Suggested Search Terms

Rogue’s Gallery

Personal Photos

FOREWORD

BALL FOUR, 50th ANNIVERSARY EDITION

It was 1977, an evening in the middle of October, two weeks before my fortieth birthday. I was all dressed up to attend a fundraising gala for Hackensack Hospital, to be held at the local Bloomingdale’s in Hackensack, New Jersey. I liked parties and was feeling pretty that night in a floaty lilac silk outfit and strappy high heels. Nothing could spoil my mood, not even attending the event with my increasingly estranged husband.

Bloomingdale’s had turned the entire store into a festive after hours party scene with food and drink stations in every department. A familiar smell of new merchandise and perfume hung in the air. Hundreds of people were milling about, tasting, chatting, hoping to see and be seen by the sprinkling of celebrities present. I recognized Joe Dimaggio from his Mr. Coffee commercials.

Suddenly I felt the physical awareness of someone looking at me. I turned and looked into the eyes of a man whose intense stare undid me from across the room.

What passed between us was what the French call un coup de foudre, a lightning bolt of mutual yearning and recognition. It was out of proportion to the setting and the circumstances - and beyond all my previous experience. I caught my breath and walked as casually as I could into the next department. Within moments he was in front of me again, staring into my soul from about thirty feet away, and it felt as if my entire molecular structure were being rearranged. This time I stared back, trying, and failing, to appear nonchalant. We stood there, looking at each other. Once again I moved, and once again he followed. There was no doubt now.

The voice of my then husband spoke quietly from behind my left shoulder.

Seems you have an admirer.

No… he just looks familiar…. I think I went to high school with him.

No you didn’t. That’s Jim Bouton. He’s a sportscaster in New York. You’ve seen him on TV.

Oh.

Why don’t you go talk to him? He obviously wants to talk to you, and it might be a good career connection.

My heart was pounding so loudly I couldn’t hear anything and my vision blurred.

I took a deep breath and, surprising myself, did something I’d never done before.

I walked purposefully over to this complete stranger who had been looking into the core of my being, and said, Hi. I think we’re destined to meet.

I actually said that. To a stranger. I still blush when I think about it. Jim mumbled a nervous response.

Just then a couple of people came up to him and asked for his autograph. He obliged, cordially. I think he was glad for the distraction. And so was I.

How come you’re signing autographs? I asked when they’d moved on.

Part of why I’m here. I was invited tonight because they dug up a few local celebrities for the event.

I looked at him quizzically, wondering why anyone would want the autograph of a sportscaster.

I used to play baseball, he said, reading my expression.

Oh, I said, stopping myself just in time from being stupid enough to ask well, why would that be a reason?

How do you happen to be here? he asked, having recovered a bit.

I did some lectures for Bloomingdale’s, so they sent me an invitation.

What do you lecture on?

I help people with relationship problem solving, I said.

I have a few relationships I could use some help with, he said. Do you have a business card?

There it was. I felt barely able to stand. He was clearly nervous, too. I was afraid it was visible to everyone.

Suddenly I realized that I had not taken a purse with me that evening.

I’m sorry…. I don’t have my cards with me.

I felt someone place my business card in my left hand. Oh no. I quickly reviewed the conversation we’d been having. Innocuous enough. But.

I gave the card to Jim.

Thanks, I’ll be in touch, he said, and moved away.

And that’s how I met Jim Bouton.

It was improbable. Ridiculous. How could someone like me be so powerfully attracted to a baseball player? My ignorance of, and lack of interest in, sports was total. The first half of my life had been in the performing arts. I hadn’t even played catch as a child. The second half, I’d been immersed in the sciences, and was on the faculty at Hunter College in New York at the time I met Jim. Not that there weren’t sports fanatics in academic circles. Of course there were. I just wasn’t one of them.

Afterwards, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Bursting at the seams to talk about him, I told my friend and colleague at work the next week that I had met Jim Bouton at a fundraiser.

Oh, yeah, Jim Bouton, she said.

You know who he is?

Sure. The baseball guy who wrote a book.

A book?

Yeah, she said. Ball something? Something about balls…

How do you know all this?

I read the newspapers, she said, grinning, and turned to go teach a class.

Wait a minute, I called after her, …. how do you spell his last name?

A book! I bought a copy and read it right away. That’s when I fell deeply, hopelessly and permanently in love with the man who wrote it.

The sports references and jargon went right by me, of course, but it didn’t matter. The brilliance of his work was obvious and multilayered.

Ball Four was an extraordinary study of a strange, isolated tribe – from inside the tribe - which any anthropologist would be proud to have authored.

It was a universal fable, in which our hero sets out to seek his fortune, or the Holy Grail, and must do battle with those who try to stop him.

It was a man from a macho world - openly talking about his feelings and insecurities.

It was a kid calling out that the Emperor had no clothes on.

It was a union manifesto.

And last, but not at all least, it was so damn funny that even a sports ignoramus like me was laughing out loud. A lot.

This was no ordinary baseball player. This was no ordinary man.

We would spend the next forty-two wonderful years together. Joined at the hip, as friends and our five kids would say teasingly. The Professor and the Jock. Over the years I got more athletic and he did a fair bit of teaching. We took up ballroom dancing. We shared a deep pleasure in each other’s company. He was my north star and I was his. Who knew a lightning bolt could last a lifetime?

Jim talked the way he wrote. Or, more accurately, he wrote the way he talked. He’d observe something, an impish twitch would appear on his face, and the perfect quip would come out of his mouth. We’d all laugh, and he would, too. If it was particularly good, he’d repeat it to himself later on, chuckling quietly, and maybe write it down and put it in a file somewhere.

In all the years we were married, Jim lived fully in the present moment. He enjoyed playing baseball but never wanted to go back to the baseball life. Whenever someone sneezed in the baseball world the media called to see what he had to say about it. But I never once saw Jim reach out to the media to call attention to himself. He had his writing and his corporate speaking that kept him busy, his inventions and art to tinker with, and his trademarks to manage. He loved building stone walls. And he threw a ball, somewhere, almost every day.

Mostly he loved being home. Sanctuary, he’d say happily every time he walked in the door.

Of all his many accomplishments, Jim was proudest of Ball Four. As we got older, and some of the players and managers mentioned in the book died, he deeply mourned their passing. I came to love them all, he said more than once.

Ball Four is now 50 years old, and it has aged superbly. If you’re about to read it for the first time, I envy you that first experience. But if Ball Four is a book you revisit often, then welcome back, old friend.

In January of 2019, the Library of Congress acquired Jim’s archives for their permanent collection, including all his original notes, tapes and transcripts for Ball Four, with Leonard Schecter’s handwritten edits in the margins. But by then, Jim was so ill I’m not sure he ever really comprehended the magnitude of that honor.

Jim died on July 10, 2019, after years of struggle with a rare vascular dementia that cruelly took his brilliance from him, one piece at a time. His humor and his sweet nature remained to the end.

I miss him more than I can say.

By Paula Kurman, Ph.D., a specialist in the nonverbal aspects of communication, who met Jim Bouton in 1977. They fell in love, married and were together until his death in 2019.

PREFACE

WRITTEN IN 1980; UPDATED IN 1990 AND 2000.

There was a time, not too long ago, when school kids read Ball Four at night under the covers with a flashlight because their parents wouldn’t allow it in the house. It was not your typical sports book about the importance of clean living and inspired coaching. I was called a Judas and a Benedict Arnold for having written it. The book was attacked in the media because among other things, it used four-letter words and destroyed heroes. It was even banned in a few libraries because it was said to be bad for the youth of America.

The kids, however, saw it differently. I know because they tell me about it now whenever I lecture on college campuses. [These days I do motivational speaking to corporations and the kids are often gray or bald or paunchy.] They come up and say it was nice to learn that ballplayers were human beings, but what they got from the book was moral support for a point of view. They claim that Ball Four gave them strength to be the underdog and made them feel less lonely as an outsider in their own lives. Or it helped them to stand up for themselves and see life with a sense of humor. Then they invariably share a funny story about a coach, a teacher, or a boss who reminds them of someone in the book.

In some fraternities and dorms they play Ball Four Trivia, or Who Said That? quoting characters from the book. And there is always someone who claims to hold the campus record for reading it 10, 12, or 14 times. Then they produce dog-eared copies for me to sign. I love it.

Sometimes when people compliment me about my book I wonder who they’re talking about. A librarian compared Ball Four to the classic The Catcher in the Rye because she said I was an idealist like Holden Caulfield who viewed the world through jaundice colored glasses. Teachers have personally thanked me for writing the only book their nonreading students would read. And one mother said she wanted to build me a shrine for writing the only book her son ever finished.

The strangest part is that apparently there is something about the book which makes people feel I’m their friend. I’m always amazed when I walk through an airport, for example, and someone I’ve never met passes by and says simply, "Hey, Ball Four." Or strangers will stop me on the street and ask how my kids are doing.

Maybe they identify with me because we share the same perspective. One of my roommates, Steve Hovley, said I was the first fan to make it to the major leagues. Ball Four has the kinds of stories an observant next-door neighbor might come home and tell if he ever spent some time with a major-league team. Whatever the reasons, it still overwhelms me to think that I wrote something which people remember.

I certainly didn’t plan it this way. I don’t believe I could have produced this response if I had set out to do it. In fact, twenty years ago when I submitted the final manuscript I was not optimistic. My editor, Lenny Shecter, and I had spent so many months rewriting and polishing that after awhile it all seemed like cardboard to us. What’s more, the World Publishing Company wasn’t too excited either. They doubted there was any market for a diary by a marginal relief pitcher on an expansion team called the Seattle Pilots.

With a first printing of only 5,000 copies I was certain that Ball Four was headed the way of all sports books. And then a funny thing happened. Some advance excerpts appeared in Look magazine and the baseball establishment went crazy. The team owners became furious and wanted to ban the book. The Commissioner, Bowie Ayatollah Kuhn, called me in for a reprimand and announced that I had done the game a grave disservice. Sportswriters called me names like traitor and turncoat. My favorite was social leper. Dick Young of the Daily News thought that one up.

The ballplayers, most of whom hadn’t read it, picked up the cue. The San Diego Padres burned the book and left the charred remains for me to find in the visitors clubhouse. While I was on the mound trying to pitch, players on the opposing teams hollered obscenities at me. I can still remember Pete Rose, on the top step of the dugout screaming, Fuck you, Shakespeare.

All that hollering and screaming sure sold books. Ball Four went up to [500,000 in hardcover, 5 million in paperback], and got translated into Japanese. It’s the largest selling sports book ever. I was so grateful I dedicated my second book, I’m Glad You Didn’t Take It Personally, to my detractors. I don’t think they appreciated the gesture.

One way I can tell is that I never get invited back to Old-Timers’ Days. Understand, everybody gets invited back for Old-Timers’ Day no matter what kind of rotten person he was when he was playing. Muggers, drug addicts, rapists, child molesters, all are forgiven for Old-Timers’ Day. Except a certain author.

The wildest thing is that they wouldn’t forgive a cousin who made the mistake of being related to me. Jeff Bouton was a good college pitcher who dreamed of making the big leagues someday. But after Ball Four came out a Detroit Tiger scout told him he’d never make it in the pros unless he changed his name! Jeff refused, and a month after he signed he was released. For the rest of his life, he’ll never know if it was his pitching or his name.

I believe the overreaction to Ball Four boiled down to this: People simply were not used to reading the truth about professional sports.

The owners, for their part, saw this as economically dangerous. What made them so angry about the book was not the locker room stories but the revelations about how difficult it was to make a living in baseball. The owners knew that public opinion was important in maintaining the controversial reserve clause which teams used to control players and hold down salaries. They lived in fear that this special exemption from the anti-trust laws, originally granted by Congress and reluctantly upheld in the courts, might someday be overturned.

To guard against this, the Commissioner and the owners (with help from sportswriters), had convinced the public, the Congress, and the courts—and many players!—that the reserve clause was crucial in order to maintain competitive balance. (As if there was competitive balance when the Yankees were winning 29 pennants in 43 years.) The owners preached that the reserve clause was necessary to stay in business, and that ballplayers were well paid and fairly treated. (Mickey Mantle’s $100,000 salary was always announced with great fanfare while all the $9,000 and $12,000 salaries were kept secret.) The owners had always insisted that dealings between players and teams be kept strictly confidential. They knew that if the public ever learned the truth, it would make it more difficult to defend the reserve clause against future challenges.

Which is why the owners hated Ball Four. Here was a book which revealed, in great detail, just how ballplayers’ salaries were negotiated with general managers. It showed, for the first time, exactly how owners abused and manipulated players by taking advantage of their one-way contract.

It turned out the owners had reason to be afraid. It may be no coincidence that after half a century of struggle the players won their free agency shortly after the publication of Ball Four. No one will know what part the book may have played in creating a favorable climate of opinion. I only know that when Marvin Miller asked me to testify in the Messersmith arbitration case which freed the players, I quoted passages from Ball Four.

The sportswriters, on the other hand, were upset at almost all the other things Ball Four revealed. Chief among these being that ballplayers will, on occasion, take pep pills, get drunk, stay out late, talk dirty, have groupies, and be rude to fans. The irony here, of course, is that if the sportswriters had been telling what went on in baseball there would have been no sensation around my book.

David Halberstam, who won a Pulitzer Prize for his reporting on Vietnam, wrote a piece in Harper’s that was less a review of Ball Four than a commentary on the journalism of our times.

He has written… a book deep in the American vein, so deep in fact that it is by no means a sports book… a comparable insider’s book about, say, the Congress of the United States, the Ford Motor Company, or the Joint Chiefs of Staff would be equally welcome….

As the book is deeply in the American vein, so is the reaction against it. The sportswriters are not judging the accuracy of the book, but Bouton’s right to tell (that is, your right to read), which is, again, as American as apple pie or the White House press corps. A reporter covers an institution, becomes associated with it, protective of it, and, most important, the arbiter of what is right to tell. He knows what’s good for you to hear, what should remain at the press-club bar. When someone goes beyond that, stakes out a new dimension of what is proper and significant, then it is the sportswriters and the Washington bureau chiefs who yell the loudest, because having played the game, having been tamed, when someone outflanks them, they must of necessity attack his intentions, his accuracy. Thus Bouton has become a social leper to many sportswriters and thus Sy Hersh, when he broke the My Lai story, became a ‘peddler’ to some of Washington’s most famous journalists.

By establishing new boundaries, Ball Four changed sports reporting at least to the extent that, after the book, it was no longer possible to sell the milk and cookies image again. It was not my purpose to do this, but on reflection, it’s probably not a bad idea. I think we are all better off looking across at someone, rather than up. Sheldon Kopp, the author and psychologist, wrote, There are no great men. If you have a hero, look again: you have diminished yourself in some way. Besides, you can get sick on too much milk and cookies. And as far as damaging baseball goes, I haven’t noticed any drop-off in attendance. The most obvious impact of Ball Four has been on sports books, although I’m not sure I want to claim credit for those results. Traditionally, sports books are written like this: Joe Shlabotnik has a good year (wins 20 games, bats .300, etc.). At the end of the season a sportswriter comes over to Joe’s locker and says that money could be made from a book. The sportswriter says don’t worry, he’ll do the writing; all the player has to do is answer some questions into a tape recorder. The star’s picture goes on the cover, the writer cranks it out in a month-and-a-half, and they split 50/50.

Publishers like sports books because, while they rarely make a lot of money, they never lose money. Quality is not important. Any book with a big-name player on the cover is guaranteed to sell 5,000 copies, enough to recoup the printing costs.

These books usually talk about how important it is to get a good night’s sleep because the team sure needs to win that big game tomorrow. Since Ball Four things have changed. Now when an athlete and his ghost go in to pitch a book the publisher is likely to say, How much are you willing to tell? If you’re not going to open up, we’re not interested.

Of course the player and the ghost promise to write things which have never been written before, with the result that each new book promises to go further than the last. There seems to be a contest to see which book can be the most shocking. I’m always startled to see these books advertised as, "More revealing than Ball Four, or More outrageous than Ball Four."

What’s interesting is that while the content of sports books has changed, the process for writing them remains the same. Where before a jock mouthed platitudes into a tape recorder for a few hours, now he tells raunchy stories into the recorder for a few hours. Sensationalism has become a substitute for banality. We’ve gone from assembly-line gee-whiz books to assembly-line exposés.

And people tell me I started it all. Sigh.

In spite of everything, I’m glad I wrote Ball Four and not because of the money or notoriety it has brought me. I’m glad I have it for myself. Here, presented forever in one place, are all those memories from a special time in my life. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I’ll just open the book and read whatever is on that page. I almost always laugh out loud, not because I’m funny, but because the ballplayers are funny. People sometimes ask me if I made up all those stories and I tell them of course not. I can’t write that well. I just quoted other people.

In 1969 I thought it would be a good idea to write a book and share the fun I’d had in baseball. The notion that it would someday change my life never occurred to me. Before I tell you about that in Ball Five and Ball Six and Ball Seven you should probably read Ball Four. It follows, along with the editor’s foreword and the introduction, exactly as it was thirty years ago, unchanged except for typos and minor factual corrections.

But these concerns were far outweighed by my longing to immortalize this colorful cast of characters. Particularly the Seattle Pilots players who seem to have been sent to that expansion team for the express purpose of being in Ball Four. It’s as if somebody had said, This team’s not going to win any games, but if someone writes a book it’ll be a great ball club.

What is the attraction of the Seattle Pilots? I think the fact that they existed for only one year has made them special. Unclaimed by town or franchise, the Pilots are like the Flying Dutchmen, doomed to sail aimlessly without a harbor.

Or, as the decades pass, more like Brigadoon, the enchanted village that comes alive every hundred years. The Pilots played just one magic summer, then disappeared, existing now only in the pages of a book.

EDITOR’S FOREWORD

I can’t even say this book was my idea. I’d known Jim Bouton since he first came up with the Yankees, was familiar with his iconoclastic views and his enthusiastic, imaginative way of expressing them, and it occurred to me that a diary of his season—even if he spent it with a minor-league team as he had the season before—might prove of great general interest. As usual, he was ahead of me. Funny you should mention that, he said when I first brought it up. I’ve been keeping notes.

Bouton talked into his tape recorder for more than seven months. Our typist, Miss Elisabeth Rehm of Jamaica, N.Y., did herculean work to keep up with the flood. There is nothing inarticulate about Jim Bouton. Before the season ended Miss Rehm had typed the equivalent of 1,500 pages (about 450,000 words) of double-spaced Bouton. From the beginning there was, fortunately, great rapport between us. I quickly found I did not need to spend a lot of time with Bouton pulling truth and anecdotes out of him. They were there, in abundance, starting with the very first tape from Arizona. We spent no more than five days together all season.

It may seem odd in an effort of this sort, but there were no disagreements between us. From the first we shared the opinion that the only purpose to adding to the huge volume of printed material that had been produced about baseball, was to illuminate the game as it had never been before. We resolved to reveal baseball as it is viewed by the men who play it, the frustrations and the meanness as well as the joy and the extraordinary fun. The difficulty is that to tell the truth is often, unfortunately, to offend. Bouton never flinched. It was not our purpose to offend, of course, but if in the process of telling the truth we did, so be it.

We had to make a decision, too, about the use of language. There is earthiness in baseball clubhouse language. To censor it, we felt, would be to put editorial omniscience between the reader and reality. Besides, we were not aiming this book at juveniles. Rate it X. The only thing we left out was repetitiveness.

The hardest part of editing Bouton’s 1,500 pages was deciding what to leave out. There was so much that was so good, so incisive, so funny, that the choices were most difficult. In the end I managed to take it down to about 650 pages. The final cut, to about 520 manuscript pages, was made by both of us at the very last. We spent eighteen hours a day together for weeks, cutting, editing, correcting, polishing. There were arguments sometimes and frayed nerves, and we came to know each other in that special, complicated way that people who have worked very hard, very closely on a project they consider important come to know each other. I’m not sure how Bouton feels about it, but I believe I came away a better man.

LEONARD SHECTER

New York City, January 1970

INTRODUCTION

FALL 1968

I’m 30 years old and I have these dreams.

I dream my knuckleball is jumping around like a Ping-Pong ball in the wind and I pitch a two-hit shutout against my old team, the New York Yankees, single home the winning run in the ninth inning and, when the game is over, take a big bow on the mound in Yankee Stadium with 60,000 people cheering wildly. After the game reporters crowd around my locker asking me to explain exactly how I did it. I don’t mind telling them.

I dream I have pitched four consecutive shutouts for the Seattle Pilots, and the Detroit Tigers decide to buy me in August for their stretch drive. It’s a natural: The Tigers give away a couple of minor-league phenoms, and the Pilots, looking to the future, discard an aging right-handed knuckleballer. I go over to Detroit and help them win the pennant with five saves and a couple of spot starts. I see myself in the back of a shiny new convertible riding down Woodward Avenue with ticker-tape and confetti covering me like snow. I see myself waving to the crowd and I can see the people waving back, smiling, shouting my name.

I dream my picture is on the cover of Sports Illustrated in October and they do a special Comeback of the Year feature on me, and all winter long I’m going to dinners and accepting trophies as the Comeback Player of the Year.

I dream all these things. I really do. So there’s no use asking me why I’m here, why a reasonably intelligent thirty-year-old man who has lost his fastball is still struggling to play baseball, holding on—literally—with his fingertips. The dreams are the answer. They’re why I wanted to be a big-league ballplayer and why I still want to get back on top again. I enjoy the fame of being a big-league ballplayer. I get a tremendous kick out of people wanting my autograph. In fact, I feel hurt if I go someplace where I think I should be recognized and no one asks me for it. I enjoy signing them and posing for pictures and answering reporters’ questions and having people recognize me on the street. A lot of my friends are baseball fans, as well as my family and kids I went to school with, and I get a kick out of knowing that they’re enjoying having a connection with a guy in the big leagues. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.

Like someone once asked Al Ferrara of the Dodgers why he wanted to be a baseball player. He said because he always wanted to see his picture on a bubblegum card. Well, me too. It’s an ego trip.

I’ve heard all the arguments against it. That there are better, more important things for a man to do than spend his time trying to throw a ball past other men who are trying to hit it with a stick. There are things like being a doctor or a teacher or working in the Peace Corps. More likely I should be devoting myself full-time to finding a way to end the war. I admit that sometimes I’m troubled by the way I make my living. I would like to change the world. I would like to have an influence on other people’s lives. And the last time I was sent down to the minor leagues a man I consider my friend said, only half-kidding, I guess, Why don’t you quit and go out and earn a living like everybody else, ya bum ya?

I was piqued for a moment. But then I thought, what the hell, there are a lot of professions that rank even with baseball, or a lot below, in terms of nobility. I don’t think there’s anything so great about selling real estate or life insurance or mutual funds, or a lot of other unimportant things that people do with their lives and never give it a thought. Okay, so I’ll save the world when I get a little older. I believe a man is entitled to devote a certain number of years to plain enjoyment and driving for some sort of financial security.

You can always be a teacher or a social worker when you’ve reached thirty-five. That gives me five more years and I’m going to use them all. You can’t always be a major-league baseball player. There are only a certain number of years—and I know how few they are—in which you can play baseball. And I think you can be a better teacher if you have played baseball, if only for the fact that the kids will listen to you more. I think I’ll have more value at anything I do later on for having been a baseball player. I believe that, foolish as it is, Stan Musial has more influence with American kids than any geography teacher. Ted Williams is better known than any of our poets, Mickey Mantle more admired than our scientists. Perhaps I can put my own small fame to work later on.

Right now, the fact is that I love the game—love to play it, I mean. Actually, with the thousands of games I’ve seen, baseball bores me. I have no trouble falling asleep in the bullpen, and I don’t think I’d ever pay my way into a ballpark to watch a game. But there’s a lot to being in the game, a lot to having those dreams.

A lot of it is foolishness too, grown men being serious about a boy’s game. There’s pettiness in baseball, and meanness and stupidity beyond belief, and everything else bad that you’ll find outside of baseball. I haven’t enjoyed every single minute of it and when I’ve refused to conform to some of the more Neanderthal aspects of baseball thinking I’ve been an outcast. Yet there’s been a tremendous lot of good in it for me and I wouldn’t trade my years in it for anything I can think of. If you doubt me, take a look at my fingertips; I’m growing calluses on them.

So what follows, then, is not so much a book about Jim Bouton as it is about what I’ve seen and felt playing baseball, for a season, up and down with an expansion team, and for what has been for me so far, a lifetime.

Part 1

They Made Me What I Am Today

NOVEMBER

15

I signed my contract today to play for the Seattle Pilots at a salary of $22,000 and it was a letdown because I didn’t have to bargain. There was no struggle, none of the give and take that I look forward to every year. Most players don’t like to haggle. They just want to get it over with. Not me. With me, signing a contract has been a yearly adventure.

The reason for no adventure this year is the way I pitched last year. It ranged from awful to terrible to pretty good. When it was terrible, and I had a record 0 and 7, or 2 and 7 maybe, I had to do some serious thinking about whether it was all over for me. I was pitching for the Seattle Angels of the Pacific Coast League. The next year, 1969, Seattle would get the expansion Seattle Pilots of the American League. The New York Yankees had sold me to Seattle for $20,000 and were so eager to get rid of me they paid $8,000 of my $22,000 salary. This means I was actually sold for $12,000, less than half the waiver price. Makes a man think.

In the middle of August I went to see Marvin Milkes, the general manager of the Seattle Angels, and the future general manager of Pilots. I told him that I wanted some kind of guarantee from him about next year. There were some businesses with long-range potential I could go into over the winter and I would if I was certain I wasn’t going to be playing baseball.

What I would like, I told him, is an understanding that no matter what kind of contract you give me, major league or minor league, that it will be for a certain minimum amount. Now, I realize you don’t know how much value I will be for you since you haven’t gone through the expansion draft and don’t know the kind of players you’ll have. So I’m not asking for a major-league contract, but just a certain minimum amount of money.

How much money are you talking about? Milkes said shrewdly.

I talked it over with my wife and we arrived at a figure of $15,000 or $16,000. That’s the minimum I could afford to play for, majors or minors. Otherwise I got to go to work.

To this Milkes said simply, No.

I couldn’t say I blamed him.

It was right about then, though, that the knuckleball I’d been experimenting with for a couple of months began to do things. I won two games in five days, going all the way, giving up only two or three hits. I was really doing a good job and everyone was kind of shocked. As the season drew to a close I did better and better. The last five days of the season I finished with a flurry, and my earned-run average throwing the knuckleball was 1.90, which is very good.

The last day of the season I was in the clubhouse and Milkes said he wanted to see me for a minute. I went up to his office and he said, We’re going to give you the same contract for next year. We’ll guarantee you $22,000. This means if I didn’t get released I’d be getting it even if I was sent down to the minors. I felt like kissing him on both cheeks. I also felt like I had a new lease on life. A knuckleball had to be pretty impressive to impress a general manager $7,000 worth. Don’t ever think $7,000 isn’t a lot of money in baseball. I’ve had huge arguments over a lot less.

When I started out in 1959 I was ready to love the baseball establishment. In fact I thought big business had all the answers to any question I could ask. As far as I was concerned club owners were benevolent old men who wanted to hang around the locker room and were willing to pay a price for it, so there would never be any problem about getting paid decently. I suppose I got that way reading Arthur Daley in The New York Times. And reading about those big salaries. I read that Ted Williams was making $125,000 and figured that Billy Goodman made $60,000. That was, of course, a mistake.

I signed my first major-league contract at Yankee Stadium fifteen minutes before they played The Star-Spangled Banner on opening day, 1962. That’s because my making the team was a surprise. But I’d had a hell of a spring. Just before the game was about to start Roy Hamey, the general manager, came into the clubhouse and shoved a contract under my nose. Here’s your contract, he said. Sign it. Everybody gets $7,000 their first year.

Hamey had a voice like B.S. Pully’s, only louder. I signed. It wasn’t a bad contract. I’d gotten $3,000 for playing all summer in Amarillo, Texas, the year before.

I finished the season with a 7–7 record and we won the pennant and the World Series, so I collected another $10,000, which was nice. I pitched much better toward the end of the season than at the beginning. Like I was 4–7 early but then won three in a row, and Ralph Houk, the manager, listed me as one of his six pitchers for the stretch pennant race and the Series.

All winter I thought about what I should ask for and finally decided to demand $12,000 and settle for $11,000. This seemed to me an eminently reasonable figure. When I reported to spring training in Ft. Lauderdale—a bit late because I’d spent six months in the army—Dan Topping, Jr., son of the owner, and the guy who was supposed to sign all the lower-echelon players like me, handed me a contract and said, Just sign here, on the bottom line.

I unfolded the contract and it was for $9,000—if I made the team. I’d get $7,000 if I didn’t.

If I made the team?

Don’t forget you get a World Series share, Topping said. He had a boarding-school accent that always made me feel like my fly was open or something. You can always count on that.

Fine, I said. I’ll sign a contract that guarantees me $10,000 more at the end of the season if we don’t win the pennant.

He was shocked. Oh, we can’t do that.

Then what advantage is it to me to take less money?

That’s what we’re offering.

I can’t sign it.

Then you’ll have to go home.

All right, I’ll go home.

Well, give me a call in the morning, before you leave.

I called him the next morning and he said to come over and see him. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, he said. We don’t usually do this, but we’ll make a big concession. I talked with my dad, with Hamey, and we’ve decided to eliminate the contingency clause—you get $9,000 whether you make the club or not.

Wow! I said. Then I said no.

That’s our final offer, take it or leave it. You know, people don’t usually do this. You’re the first holdout we’ve had in I don’t know how many years.

I said I was sorry. I hated to mess up Yankee tradition, but I wasn’t going to sign for a $2,000 raise. And I got up to go.

Before you go, let me call Hamey, Topping said. He told Hamey I was going home and Hamey said he wanted to talk to me. I held the phone four inches from my ear. If you were within a mile of him, Hamey really didn’t need a telephone. Lookit, son, he yelled. You better sign that contract, that’s all there’s gonna be. That’s it. You don’t sign that contract you’re making the biggest mistake of your life.

I was twenty-four years old. And scared. Also stubborn. I said I wouldn’t sign and hung up.

All right, Topping said, how much do you want?

I was thinking about $12,000, I said, but not with much conviction.

Out of the question, Topping said. Tell you what. We’ll give you $10,000.

My heart jumped. Make it ten-five, I said.

All right, he said. Ten-five.

The bastards really fight you.

For my ten-five that year I won 21 games and lost only 7. I had a 2.53 earned-run average. I couldn’t wait to see my next contract.

By contract time Yogi Berra was the manager and Houk had been promoted to general manager. I decided to let Houk off easy. I’d ask for $25,000 and settle for $20,000, and I’d be worth every nickel of it. Houk offered me $15,500. Houk can look as sincere as hell with those big blue eyes of his and when he calls you podner it’s hard to argue with him. He said the reason he was willing to give me such a big raise right off was that he didn’t want to haggle, he just wanted to give me a top salary, more than any second-year pitcher had ever made with the Yankees, and forget about it.

How many guys have you had who won 21 games in their second year? I asked him.

He said he didn’t know. And, despite all the podners, I didn’t sign.

This was around January 15. I didn’t hear from Houk again until two weeks before spring training, when he came up another thousand, to $16,500. This was definitely final. He’d talked to Topping, called him on his boat, ship to shore. Very definitely final.

I said it wasn’t final for me; I wanted $20,000.

Well, you can’t make twenty, Houk said. We never double contracts. It’s a rule.

It’s a rule he made up right there, I’d bet. And a silly one anyway, because it wouldn’t mean anything to a guy making $40,000, only to somebody like me, who was making very little to start with.

The day before spring training began he went up another two thousand to $18,500. After all-night consultations with Topping, of course. Ralph, I said, real friendly, under ordinary circumstances I might have signed this contract. If you had come with it sooner, and if I hadn’t had the problem I had last year trying to get $3,000 out of Dan Topping, Jr. But I can’t, because it’s become a matter of principle.

He has his rules, I have my principles.

Now I’m a holdout again. Two weeks into spring training and I was enjoying every minute of it. The phone never stopped ringing and I was having a good time. Of course, the Yankees weren’t too happy. One reason is that they knew they were being unfair and they didn’t want anybody to know it. But I was giving out straight figures, telling everybody exactly what I’d made and what they were offering and the trouble I’d had with Dan Topping, Jr.

One time Houk called and said, Why are you telling everybody what you’re making?

If I don’t tell them, Ralph, I said, maybe they’ll think I’m asking for ridiculous figures. They might even think I asked for $15,000 last year and that I’m asking for thirty now. I just want them to know I’m being reasonable.

And Houk said something that sounded like: Rowrorrowrowrr. You ever hear a lion grumble?

You know, players are always told that they’re not to discuss salary with each other. They want to keep us dumb. Because if Joe Pepitone knows what Tom Tresh is making and Tresh knows what Phil Linz is making, then we can all bargain better, based on what we all know. If one of us makes a breakthrough, then we can all take advantage of it. But they want to keep us ignorant, and it works. Most ballplayers in the big leagues do not know what their teammates are making. And they think you’re strange if you tell. (Tom Tresh, Joe Pepitone, Phil Linz and I agreed, as rookies, to always tell. After a while only Phil and I told.)

Anyway, on March 8, my birthday, Houk called me and said he was going to deduct $100 a day from his offer for every day I held out beyond March 10. It amounted to a fine for not signing, no matter what Houk said. What he said was, Oh no, it’s not a fine. I don’t believe in fining people. And I’m sure it never occurred to him just how unfair a tactic this was. Baseball people are so used to having their own way and not getting any argument that they just don’t think they can be unfair. When I called Joe Cronin, president of the league, to ask if Houk could, legally, fine me, he said, Walk around the block, then go back in and talk some more.

After walking around the block and talking it over with my dad, I chickened out. Sorry about that. I called Houk and said, Okay, you win. I’m on my way down. I salved my wounds with the thought that if I had any kind of a year this time I’d really sock it to him.

Still, if I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have signed. I’d have called him back and said, "Okay, Ralph, I’m having a press conference of my own to announce that for every day you don’t meet my demand of $25,000 it will cost you $500 a day. Think that one over."

Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten $25,000, but I bet I would’ve gotten more than eighteen-five. I could tell from the negative reaction Ralph got in the press. And I got a lot of letters from distinguished citizens and season-ticket holders, all of them expressing outrage at Houk. That’s when I realized I should have held out. It was also when Ralph Houk, I think, started to hate me.

The real kicker came the following year. I had won eighteen games and two in the World Series. Call from Houk:

Well, what do you want?’

Ordinarily, I’d say winning eighteen and two in the Series would be worth about an $8,000 raise.

Good, I’ll send you a contract calling for twenty-six-five.

But in view of what’s happened, last year and the year before that, it will have to be more.

How much more?

At least thirty.

We couldn’t do that. It’s out of the question.

A couple of days later he called again. Does $28,000 sound fair to you?

Yes it does, very fair. In fact there are a lot of fair figures. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-two. I’d say thirty-three would be too high and twenty-seven on down would be unfair on your part.

So you’re prepared to sign now.

Not yet. I haven’t decided.

A week later he called again and said he’d sent me the contract I wanted—$28,000.

Now, wait a minute. I didn’t say I’d sign for that.

But you said it was a fair figure.

I said there were a lot of fair figures in there. I said thirty-two was fair too.

Are you going back on your word? You trying to pull a fast one on me?

I’m not trying to pull anything on you. I just haven’t decided what I’m going to sign for. I just know that twenty-eight isn’t it.

By now he’s shouting. Goddammit, you’re trying to renege on a deal.

So I shouted back. Who the hell do you people think you are, trying to bully people around? You have a goddam one-way contract, and you won’t let a guy negotiate. You bulldozed me into a contract my first year when I didn’t know any better, you tried to fine me for not signing last year, and now you’re trying to catch me in a lie. Why don’t you just be decent about it? What’s an extra thousand or two to the New York Yankees? You wonder why you get bad publicity. Well, here it is. As soon as the people find out the kind of numbers you’re talking about they realize how mean and stupid you are.

All right. Okay. Okay. No use getting all hot about it.

When the contract came it was like he said, $28,000. I called and told him I wouldn’t sign it. I told him I wouldn’t play unless I got thirty.

No deal, he said, and hung up.

Moments later the phone rang. Houk: Okay, you get your thirty. Under one condition. That you don’t tell anybody you’re getting it.

Ralph, I can’t do that. I’ve told everybody the numbers before. I can’t stop now.

Softly. Well, I wish you wouldn’t.

Just as softly. Well, maybe I won’t.

When the newspaper guys got to me I felt like a jerk. I also felt I owed Ralph a little something. So when they said, Did you get what you wanted? I said, Yeah. And when they said, What did you want? I said, Thirty. But I said it very low.

Now, I think, Ralph really hated my guts. Not so much because I told about the thirty but because he thought I went back on my word.

Four years later Ralph Houk was still angry. By this time I had started up a little real-estate business in New Jersey. A few friends, relatives and I pooled our money, bought some older houses in good neighborhoods, fixed them up and rented them to executives who come to New York on temporary assignment. Houses like that are hard to find and Houk, who lives in Florida, needed one for the ’69 season. After a long search he found exactly what he wanted. Then he found out I owned it. He didn’t take it. Too bad, it might have been kind of fun to be his landlord.

Of course, I may misunderstand the whole thing. It’s easy to misunderstand things around a baseball club. Else how do you explain my friend Elston Howard? We both live in New Jersey and during my salary fights we’d work out a bit together. And he always told me, Stick to your guns. Don’t let them push you around. Then he’d go down to spring training and he’d say to the other guys, That Bouton is really something. Who does he think he is holding out every year? How are we gonna win a pennant if the guys don’t get in shape? He should be down here helping the club.

I didn’t help the club much in 1965, which was the year the Yankees stopped winning pennants. I always had a big overhand motion and people said that it looked, on every pitch, as though my arm was going to fall off with my cap. I used to laugh, because I didn’t know what they meant. In 1965 I figured it out. It was my first sore arm. It was my only sore arm. And it made me what I am today, an aging knuckleballer.

My record that year was 4–15, and we finished sixth. It wasn’t all my fault. I needed lots of help and got it. Nevertheless my spirits were high waiting for my contract because of something Houk had said. He’d been painted into a corner with Roger Maris. There was a story around that after Maris hit the 61 home runs he got a five-year, no-cut contract. But he’d had a series of bad years and should have been cut. So to take himself off the hook with Maris, Houk said that anybody who had a poor year because of injuries would not be cut. Fabulous, man, I thought. That’s me.

When I got my contract it called for $23,000, a $7,000 cut.

But, Ralph, I was injured and you said…

You weren’t injured.

The hell I wasn’t.

Then how come you pitched 150 innings?

I was trying to do what I could, build my arm up, trying to help the team.

Somehow he remained unmoved. I guessed it was my turn to be humble. Look, Ralph, I know that people think you lost the battle with me last year and I know some of the players are upset that I got $30,000. So I know there are reasons you have to cut me. Tell you what. Even though I could stand firm on the injury thing if I wanted to, I’ll make a deal with you. Cut me $3,000 and we can both be happy. He said okay.

After that, it was all downhill. Which is how come I was happy to be making $22,000 with the Seattle Pilots.

Part 2

My Arm Isn’t Sore, It’s Just a Little Stiff

FEBRUARY

26

Tempe

Reported to spring camp in Tempe, Arizona, today, six days late. I was on strike. I’m not sure anybody knew it, but I was.

I had signed my contract before I knew there was going to be a players’ strike and I was obligated to report on time. I found that out at the big meeting the players had with Marvin Miller, the players’ union leader, at the Biltmore in New York earlier this month. I’m much in sympathy with what Miller is doing and I think, given the circumstances, he won a great victory. I think the owners understand now that we’re going to stick together—even the big stars, who don’t have that much at stake. Still, I was going to live up to my contract and report on time. What made me change my mind was a phone call I made to Lou Piniella, a twenty-six-year-old rookie who’d been in the Baltimore and Cleveland organizations.

Since the Pilots were not a team yet we had no player representative, so the three or four Pilots at the meeting in the Biltmore were asked to call four or five teammates each to tell them what happened. I reached Lou in Florida and he said that his impulse was to report, that he was scared it would count against him if he didn’t, that he was just a rookie looking to make the big leagues and didn’t want anybody to get angry at him. But also that he’d thought it over carefully and decided he should support the other players and the strike. So he was not reporting.

That impressed the hell out of me. Here’s a kid with a lot more at stake than I, a kid risking a once-in-a-lifetime shot. And suddenly I felt a moral obligation to the players. I decided not to go down.

The reason nobody knew I was on strike, though, was that I’d asked