Tag: Don Sutton

They’ve fallen all around me – especially during the last year or so. Friends and foes. Hall of Fame players and teammates. And a few who didn’t quite make it to the Hall. It saddens me to write about these fallen heroes, because it’s so personal and because I’m nearing that age.

Bob “Bull” Watson and I were teammates for ten years. He was built like a bull, and that’s how he got his nickname. He brooked no nonsense, and I’m glad I never had to face him, except in simulated games.

He often came down to the bullpen when I was warming up. After I got loose, he stepped up to the plate. He wanted his mind to shift from batting-practice speed to game speed. I pitched hard inside, not missing him by much. I threw breaking balls away. When I threw a good one, he nodded. I don’t know of any other hitter who would do that.

Watson’s bats — Betty, Beulah, and Bertha — were his calling cards.  They were all hefty gals: 36, 38, and 40 ounces. He used them counter-intuitively, saving Bertha for the hardest throwers. He was calling her Big Bertha before Callaway came up with its famous driver.  A lot of guys swung heavy timber back then.

The Astros had a lot of young guys in the Sixties. As an expansion team, they wanted to replace the veterans as soon as possible. The Mets did the same thing. The players made a lot of money (not by today’s standards) and most of us, myself included, had new cars and fancied loud, tailor-made clothing.

Not Bull Watson.

He was he was determined to make it big, but he was also careful not to spend what he made. He bought his suits off the rack at Sears. He kept his hair short. Bob Watson meant business from the get-go.

He married his sweetheart, Carol. She was a beautiful and creative lady, who dabbled in the arts throughout Bob’s career. She was flashy in a refined way. Bull looked stylish in his Sears suits with her on his arm.

Bull Watson was what I call an “arm hitter,” like Tony Pérez and Orlando Cepeda (The Baby Bull). He pulled the bat through the zone, using his strong torso to supply the power.

 

Jimmy Wynn was only 5’ 9” and 165 pounds, but could he pack a wallop! He, too, pulled the bat through with his left arm and torso. Columnist John Wilson nicknamed him The Toy Cannon, and we shortened it to Cannon. Jimmy came to Houston in the summer of 1964. He grew up in Cincinnati, and boy, did he ever like playing for friends and family at Crosley Field.

Old-timers at Crosley claimed he hit the longest home run at that ballpark — all the way over the tall scoreboard in left-center, over a small parking lot, and onto Interstate 75. You can watch him do it on YouTube here. If you happened to be driving along that day, you wouldn’t know where the ball came from. The ballpark was that far away.

Jimmy had all of the tools. He was fast enough to steal bases and cover center field.  And he had a cannon for an arm.

One day at Candlestick Park, he caught a fly ball to medium-deep center field. Jesus Alou tagged at third and trotted home. Was he surprised when catcher John Bateman caught the ball and tagged him out! The throw came home special-delivery: it never touched the ground!

Jimmy barely touched the ground when he slid. When he popped up, there was only a small spot dirt on the outside of his upper calf, between his left knee and his socks. His rear end never touched the ground. He could be up and running without losing much speed at all. I’ve never seen another player slide so efficiently.

We used to kid him when he launched one. “When The Cannon hits it, it stays hit,” someone would say. And Jimmy would repeat those words to beat writer John Wilson after the game. When he talked like that, he seemed to be bragging. Heck, he was bragging. But if you knew him, you also knew that he was soft-spoken, by nature — even humble.

Jimmy lockered right next to Joe Morgan. Joe had a little more pride, but he knew how to hide it. He was diplomatic. He was always “getting help from his teammates,” or “lucky to get a good pitch to hit.”

Like Watson, Cannon used a big bat: a flame-treated Louisville Slugger, R161 model, thirty-six inches long and thirty-six ounces. His bat was so big, it looked like it was swinging him.

Many players of that era smoked cigarettes, chewed tobacco, and dipped snuff, but Jimmy was clean as a whistle, except for the ever-present toothpick between his lips.

 

Like Wynn, Little Joe Morgan was called to Houston to join the Colt .45s in 1964, a couple months before I got there. “Little Joe” was an obvious, if uncreative, nickname. His Louisville Slugger P72 bat led to a better nickname: Pea Shooter.

The bat was tiny for those days: 33-34 inches and 31-32 ounces. After seeing what he could do with that little bat, someone who was more imaginative started calling him Pea, after his bat.

Like Watson, Morgan was a consummate pro. It showed in everything he did. Yes, he wore colorful, tailor-made suits, but he was no showoff. His clothing fit perfectly; his car was always freshly washed and waxed; and he even shaved his hairline at the forehead to ensure a trim appearance.

Joe never missed batting practice or infield practice. He seldom missed a game. And he could turn on anyone’s fastball. I saw him take Sandy Koufax deep into the mezzanine seats in the Astrodome. He did the same thing to Jim Maloney, the only pitcher of that era who approached Koufax’s velocity, until Nolan Ryan came along.

I blame myself and Astros third-baseman Doug Rader for the trade that ignited the Big Red Machine. Doug and I were having a drink in a little bar that was kitty-corner to the Jack Tar Hotel in San Francisco. Reds scout Ray “Snacks” Shore was staying at the same hotel. He joined us, and the conversation became a comparison of second-basemen. We said Joe was a better hitter than Reds’ second-sacker, Tommy Helms. We ended up betting Snacks that Joe would outhit Tommy that year. We lost in more ways than one.

Helms did, indeed, hit for a slightly better batting average. We lost our bet. But Morgan was far more productive with his power, his speed, and with his batting eye. He walked a lot, and Helms did not.

During the 1971 offseason, The Trade was consummated: Lee May, Tommy Helms, and Jimmy Stewart came to Houston; Joe Morgan, Jack Billingham, Denis Menke, Pat Darcy, and Cesar Geronimo went to Cincinnati. Boy, did I live to regret touting Joe.

For me, he was the toughest hitter in the league. His two NL MVP awards suggest that I wasn’t the only one he terrorized. He just presented so many problems.

His eye for balls and strikes was well-known. It seemed like the umpires called every close corner pitch his way. There wasn’t much room from the top to the bottom of his zone, either – maybe a little more than a foot. He had home-run power, but he could also bunt for a hit. If you pitched too carefully, he took his walk and often stole second base. It was exasperating.

Joe was a student of the game. Most players don’t pay close attention to the details. And most weren’t as expressive as Joe. His speaking skills were evident on network TV for many years. He explained the nuances of the sport as well as anyone.

Joe had several offers to manage teams. I know the Reds and Astros put out feelers. But he was too smart to get caught in that buzzsaw. Knowing him, he may have been too impatient to do the job. I found that to be a problem when I managed the Astros. I know he wouldn’t like modern baseball, with most of the nuances treated as anachronisms. I don’t like it either, even though I can’t mount a good argument against powerball.

The middle of that Big Red Machine lineup featured Tony Pérez, Johnny Bench, and George Foster. They may have hit for a little more power than Morgan, but I’d face any and all of them all day long if I could get out of facing Joe.

I didn’t have as much trouble with Jimmy (.176) as I did with Joe (.421). The Pea Shooter did more damage than the Cannon.

In the beginning, Joe was not a good fielder. His hands were stiff and his arm was weak. From that sandy foundation, he became a Gold Glove second-baseman. Year by year, he stationed himself slightly farther toward second base so he could make the throw from up the middle. And he set up facing just a bit toward the on-deck circle and used his great speed to get to ground balls in the hole. He found his solid ground.

(Tony Gwynn did the same thing. He didn’t rest on his hitting laurels. He kept working on his defense until he won a Gold Glove. He said he was more proud of that than all his Silver Bats.)

 

Phil Niekro The king of the knuckleball, Phil Niekro, died in 2020, joining his brother Joe in baseball heaven. The two of them won more games (539) than any brothers in baseball history.

Big Knucksie was born on April Fool’s Day in 1939. But the joke was on most batters who faced him. “The ball kind of giggles as it goes by,” Rick Monday said. It had the last laugh most of the time.

What baseball players call “late life” happens when a pitch changes direction at the last moment — after the batter has started swinging. It’s hard to describe a knuckleball with late life; a butterfly comes to mind.

Knucksie coughed up the first official upper-deck homer in the Astrodome in 1971. When it doesn’t knuckle, it just yells, “Hit me!” And Jimmy Wynn did. We won that game, and I won another against him on Opening Day in 1975. He was in the “hit me” mode that day too, which didn’t happen very often.

I pitched the best game of my career against him in September 1969. We were chasing the Braves, and it was the opener of a critical series in Atlanta. I didn’t give up a hit until two were out in the ninth inning. He didn’t allow a run. He went eleven innings and I went twelve.

We scored the first two runs of the game in the thirteenth. It figured to be my 20^th win of the season. The Braves had other ideas. They scored three in the bottom of the inning off relief pitcher Fred Gladding, and won the game. Here’s an audio interview I did with Jim Haught about that game:

They didn’t lose many after that. It was the closest thing to a turning point I’ve ever seen. We took a nosedive, and they won the division. We went home.

That was more typical of Niekro’s pitching against us, and everyone else. He won 318 games and pitched more than 5,000 innings.

It takes big stones to live and die throwing 75 MPH pitches to major- league hitters. Occupational hazards include a lot of pitches getting by the catcher, allowing all runners to move up; a lot of walks; and a lot of stolen bases.

But the walking and stealing didn’t bother Knucksie. He great control of his slow fastball. Low-and-away whenever he either needed a strike, or if he felt like throwing a surprise party. He also had a lightning-quick pickoff move to first base. He was a good hitter, if not a powerful one, and he was a good fielder. Other than pitches going through to the backstop and the occasional knuckleball that didn’t have late life, he was hard to beat.

Lobbing knuckleballs up there would make me way too nervous. It takes blind faith to do it. Who knows when the next knuckleball practitioner will appear? Lots of guys can throw knuckleballs, but few have the guts to take that pitch to the mound. When the next one comes along, he may look a little odd.

Hoyt Wilhelm was the first knuckleball pitcher to make it to Cooperstown. His features were lopsided, and he looked lost on the mound. Charlie Hough looked a little shady. When I picture Phil Niekro, I see those sleepy eyes, that poker-player’s half-grin; I sense the devilment behind them.

 

Bob Gibson was a different kind of cat. He had fire in his eyes. His body language said, “Get back in the dugout. I don’t have time for you.” His pace was faster than any other pitcher in the league. It was a rapid-fire dose of darting fastballs and sliders.

His pitches’ late life was different. It was more side-to-side than up-and-down. And they rushed upon you.

There is another phrase that speaks to the perception of a pitch: “Come again.” Gibson’s fastball seemed to pick up speed. Just when you thought you had it timed, the second stage kicked in and it zoomed on by. A really good change-up does the same thing in reverse. Just when you think you have it timed, it screeches to a halt, and falls like a shot bird.

One day during my rookie year, I was running in the outfield and Gibby was out there running too. As he passed by, I said, “Hi, Bob.” He didn’t respond; didn’t even notice that I was on the planet. I never spoke to him after that, until I was broadcasting and our pitching careers were over. He was often in the press box in St. Louis, and we would chat it up like long-lost friends. His sparkling eyes and smile were engaging.

I began to understand why his Cardinals teammates all said he was a great guy: When you’re on his team or in the press box, you’re no threat. When you’re an opponent, there is no smile to accompany the flashing eyes. They send quite another message.

Gibby’s fearsome aura was natural; it’s how he competed. And he didn’t waste much time. Vin Scully said, “He pitches as if he’s double-parked.” Indeed, most of his games lasted less than two hours. Like Niekro, he was a good fielder and hitter. But he had some power.

His fierce disposition is what everyone talked about. Our hitters were constantly concerned about getting hit. Many years later, I looked it up. He hit six batters in an average season — about one every 38 innings — just a little more than the average pitcher. Nobody remembers him that way. Maybe fear made them better prepared to get out of the way. Maybe he led the league in near-misses — which is not a statistic, but could very well be an advantage.

In 1968, Gibson had one of the best seasons ever. His 1.12 ERA is a modern-day record. He went 22-9, and it’s amazing that he lost that many games. I was lucky enough to be one of the nine. We scored three runs – one of the highest run-totals he gave up all year.

Another way to understand how he lost nine times is that he completed 28 of his 34 starts. At least six times, he completed a game that he lost.

It’s one thing to intimidate; yet another to make it stick. As with Niekro’s fearlessness when lobbing knuckleballs up there, Gibson was fearless. Period! No one ever charged the mound. I think they would have come after me if I’d sent so many guys flying.

In 1967, Roberto Clemente lined one up the middle and broke Gibson’s leg. He got up and threw three more pitches before crumbling to the ground. The injury required surgery and Gibby missed two months of the season. Throwing three pitches with that injury says about all you need to know about Bob Gibson.

 

Tom Seaver broke in to the major leagues in 1967. They nicknamed him Tom Terrific, and he fit the bill. Like the fictional character Frank Merriwell, who excelled in every sport and even solved mysteries, Seaver always seemed to win the day.

In one game, he hooked up with Gibson. Gibson hit a batter. Seaver threw at Gibson. Gibson threw at Seaver. Cardinals catcher Tim McCarver remembers it being the only time anyone stood up to Gibson. “Seaver yelled, “you have better control than that!” “So do you,” Gibson said. I could picture myself in Seaver’s spikes, but I couldn’t imagine myself yelling at Gibson.

The Astros and Mets had a rivalry in the late 1960s. It started when Tommy Agee slid late into second base to break up a double play. The collision broke Joe Morgan’s leg. Don Wilson threw at Cleon Jones. Seaver hit Jimmy Wynn. For the rest of that season and into the following year, the knockdown war continued.

I remember a photo from one of those games. A brawl broke out in the Astrodome and the cover photo in the next day’s paper showed Seaver on the mound directing traffic. Pitchers are always encouraged to “take command” of the game. That was Seaver. In one 1970 game against San Diego, he struck out the last ten batters – a commanding performance.

Yes, he was talented, thoughtful, a good husband and father. He had boyish charm. But he was essentially a warrior.

Seaver was compared to the great Giants pitcher Christy Mathewson, and even favored him. They were both college men, and they were more enlightened than most of their teammates. And of course, they were among the best pitchers in the league — year after year.

I managed to beat him, mostly because the Mets didn’t have a very good hitting team until 1969. In 1967, when he won 16 games and the Rookie of the Year Award, he was not considered a hard thrower. But oh, could he pitch! He could hit the outside corner at the knees to both sides of the plate and throw his curve ball around the knees for a strike most of the time. He was a control pitcher.

As he got older, he started throwing harder and harder until he was among the fastest guns in the game. His heater had that late life where the ball seems to speed up and ride over the bat. He picked up a slider. And he ended up keeping his ERA below three for his entire career.

After the 1998 season, I was named Manager of the Year in the National League. I received the award at a banquet in New York, and I was seated at the head table, next to Tom Terrific. We talked about pitching, and especially the meticulous game plans for facing the various hitters.

He said that he tried to pitch to those plans in his first two starts with the White Sox, near the end of his career. He got hit hard in both games. Before his third start, he asked if he could provide the game plan. Who was going to say no to Tom Seaver?

“So,” he said, “we’re going to pitch hard in and soft away. Hard up and soft down. And we’re going to pitch hard ahead in the count and soft behind. We’re going to pitch every hitter that way. End of meeting.”

He won that game. I laughed.

That summed up everything I knew about pitching in just a few words. He wrapped it up and put a bow on top. Of course, it’s not easy to pitch that way. You have to have Terrific control.

Seaver had strong legs and dropped his weight onto his right leg when he delivered a pitch. The style was named “drop and drive.” Because his arm followed his body, his release point was closer to the mound than most pitchers. You could see a spot of dirt on his right knee, just like the spot of dirt on Jimmy Wynn’s left knee.

When he gained velocity, it seemed like his fastball was heading uphill. The backspin gave it a lot of riding action, and batters had trouble staying on top of it. I thought he would hit a wall and be finished when he inevitably lost velocity. He did not. He stopped striking out so many batters, but he kept getting them out. I didn’t think he could throw a sinking fastball with his low release position. He didn’t have the angle to do it. But he learned to do it. And he kept on winning.

In 1972, the players refused to start the season when the owners wouldn’t allow allow us to move some money from the disability section of our benefits agreement to the pension section. It was silly, because it didn’t require them to contribute one red cent.

After about a week, A’s owner Charley Finley, who made his fortune in insurance, joined an owners meeting and showed his brethren the error of their thinking. All of the player reps were in New York, and I was sitting next to Seaver when we broke for lunch. He had left an almost-finished New York Times crossword puzzle on the table, and I finished it up. When he came back, he asked if I had done it, and when I admitted it, he said, “Figures.”

In the end, he pitched 231 complete games, and I pitched 106. He was more likely to finish what he started than I was. He probably would have finished that crossword puzzle too, if I’d let him.

 

Al Kaline was Mr. Tiger. That’s all he was. He never played for another team — not even a minor-league team. (Well, he did play for the American League All-Star Team 18 times.)

I faced him in an exhibition game in the Astrodome in 1966. The first pitch I threw him was a good slider on the outside corner at the knees. He hit it sharply up the middle for a single. He had a great year in 1966; hell, he had a great year every year until he died in 2020.

I guess I shouldn’t have felt bad about that base hit. In 1968, when Bob Gibson pitched the Cardinals to the World Series, Kaline was hurt half the year — but he was still Al Kaline. Gibson fashioned a 1.12 ERA that year. He pitched a five-hit shutout in Game One of the World Series, and struck out 17 batters. Kaline went 1-4 with a double. Gibson beat them again in Game Four. Kaline went 2-4. Kaline didn’t get a hit in Game Seven, but the Tigers finally broke through and beat Gibson, with Mickey Lolich going all the way to become the World Series MVP.

When Kaline signed out of high school in Baltimore in 1953, Tigers scout Ed Katalinas brought him to Detroit to show him off. Manager Fred Hutchinson liked what he saw. The kid could do everything. He could hit for contact and with power; he could run; and his arm was the AL’s version of Roberto Clemente. He won 10 Gold Gloves as a right-fielder.

When Hutch saw him that first day, he knew what John McGraw felt when Mel Ott came up from New Orleans to try out for the New York Giants. McGraw did not allow Ott to go to the minor leagues. He was afraid someone would mess him up with advice. Hutch didn’t let go of Kaline, either. At 18, he held his own as a major-leaguer. In 1955, at age 20, he hit .340 and became the youngest batting champion. He was enshrined in the Hall of Fame after his election on the first ballot in 1980.

Ty Cobb had a career batting average higher than .340! He went in on the first ballot too. I guess Kaline could have been Mr. Tiger II. Among the few who saw Cobb and Kaline play, Kaline would still get some votes. He was far-and-away more likeable. I’m not sure how it would come out, but if Kaline even “almost” won, it would be because being Mr. Tiger conveys more than just a .366 lifetime batting average.

 

The first time I faced Lou Brock was at the old Sportsman’s Park in St. Louis. I pitched a pretty good game. The next day, Lou strolled over during batting practice and said some nice things to me. I was an 18- year-old kid, and those words went straight to my head. The next time, he got three or four hits and beat me.  I couldn’t tell if I’d been buttered on one side or both. So the next time, I hit him. I never had much trouble with him after that.

When I was traded to the Cardinals, Lou was still on the team. What a great guy. He never mentioned getting hit. In fact, he would be on my All-Happy Team, along with Willie Mays and a few others.

Funny how it goes with pitchers and hitters who face each other a lot. I mostly got Lou out with sliders down-and-in. He would swing at them, even in the dirt. It’s probably because he liked fastballs down-and-in. Or maybe it was just one of those things.

I saw Fergie Jenkins strike Matty Alou out twice with that same pitch. Matty was tough on me, so the next time I tried the slider on him, and he jerked it down the right-field line for a double.

Lou could be funny too. In 1977, my only year in St. Louis, manager Vern Rapp insisted that everyone have short haircuts. That edict was highly unpopular. A few guys just kept letting their hair grow until Vern challenged them. So one day Lou came out for batting practice with an ape mask on his head. It was a good facsimile, and it was huge.

I actually don’t recall how it ended, but no comedian ever got as many laughs as Lou did that day.  What was Rapp going to do – bench him?

Lou was mostly quiet. No clubhouse lawyer, for sure. But every so often, he would interject some subtle humor that had a little barb in it, but was also amusing.

The amazing thing about his short-lived stolen-base record is that he seemed to break Maury Wills’ single season record (104) effortlessly. Maury beat himself up diving and sliding. He stole more than 100 bases, but it was painful.  Lou did it with acceleration, not intensity. He took a relatively short lead, so there was no reason to throw to first. You couldn’t pick him off. And he slid feet-first into second base, never trying to avoid the tag.

Rickey Henderson, who broke Brock’s record, was far more intense. He fought for every inch of his lead, and he usually had to dive back to first. Pitchers threw over a lot. Lou got thrown out some, but most of the time he made it easily. He did against me. I felt my only defense was to quick-pitch and get a grounder before he had a chance. Sometimes that worked, but mostly, he just stole the base. My only real defense was to get him out.

Obviously, a lot of guys had more trouble keeping him off base. He got more than 3,000 hits.

Another bit of trivia: In the long history of the Polo Grounds, only three  players hit home runs over the centerfield fence. There on the short list of sluggers is Lou Brock (Joe Adcock of the Braves did it too, as did Luke Easter in a Negro League game).

One thing that characterizes these fallen heroes, and those in Cooperstown who have already passed away, is durability. You almost always have to play at least 18 years to get into the Hall. In one sense, it seems that just having a little more talent allows most of these stars to continue shining, because their declining skills are still major-league caliber and their experience helps them compete. In another sense, it is hard work – or a lot of practice.

(I really don’t like athletes attributing success to hard work. Sure, you have to practice a lot. But practice isn’t really work. Sure, it saps your energy. And sometimes it’s boring. But who cares? Would they trade with the guy who nails shingles to roofs all day in the hot summer sun? I don’t think so. That’s the real hard work.)

I’ve seen a few guys make it to the major leagues with great talent, but without practicing much and with little intensity. One of them almost made it to Cooperstown before he cashed in his chips in December 2020.

 

Dick Allen was going by Richie Allen when I first saw him. And he was something to behold. He hit a home run off Bob Bruce in the first official game in the Astrodome. It was a line drive to right-center that landed in the first row of the pavilion seats, 390 feet from home plate. I never saw another one like it an all my Dome days, which was almost all of them. The ball didn’t carry well in the Dome. I saw a few opposite-field homers there, but none of them were line drives.

In the early part of Allen’s career with the Phillies, I had some juice and he had one of those big logs many players swung back then. I was able to get it by him up-and-in. I mean, if you ever held Allen’s bat, you would automatically pitch him up-and-in.

I got my hands on one of his bats in 1965. It weighed about 40 ounces, was 36 inches long, and had an extremely thin handle. I took that bat to UC Santa Barbara, where I joined my high-school best friend and third baseman for the fall semester. Near the end, as spring training approached, I brought it with me when my friend went to an informal workout with the baseball team.

“This is the kind of lumber we use in the big leagues,” I announced, as I passed the bat around. You should have seen their faces.

I saw a photo of Allen preparing to swing. His front leg was up, and the business end of the bat was pointing at the pitcher. I couldn’t imagine him getting around on a good fastball up-and-in. His numbers suggest that he was able to do that, but I had a lot of success pitching him that way.

Many years later, in an old-timers game, Allen was playing for the American League All-Stars, and I was pitching for the National League.

When I saw Allen in the locker room, and realized I might have to face him, I was concerned. I didn’t have that fastball anymore — not by a long shot.

When he walked by, I told him I hoped not to face him that day. He was easygoing until he got in the batter’s box. “It’s just a practice game,” he said.

Bob Gibson started the game, and he went after them as he always did. In fact, he told me that unless I wanted to be embarrassed in front of my hometown fans, I’d better crank it up.

“You have no defense,” he said. “These guys can’t run and they can’t throw, but they can still hit.”

I did face Allen that day, and I learned that he had lost some power. He hit a line drive off the wall in left-center at the 390 sign. It didn’t carry over, as it had 21 years earlier. But I still couldn’t remember anyone hitting a ball harder off me.

I struck him out four times in a game at Connie Mack Stadium, as part of my career-high 14 Ks. I got on first base late in that game. When he came over to hold me on, he said something about the way I was throwing. The game was close, and I said I hoped I didn’t lose it in the end. He told me not to worry. “We can’t hit the stuff you have tonight.”

It turned out he was right. But I can’t think of another player who would say something like that. Of course, I can’t think of another player who would draw letters on the infield with his spikes.  The one I remember was BOO. He wrote it in big block letters so everyone in the stands could see it. And he had a point. Phillies fans had a reputation. It was said that they would boo the Easter Bunny. They were wicked on me coming back to the dugout from the mound. And they let the hometown boys have it as well.

Allen was one of the more popular guys in his day — especially with the players. Managers and general managers were not so fond of his habits. He often showed up late, and he didn’t take batting practice. It was said that there was a hint of alcohol on his breath from time to time. He was once asked what he thought of AstroTurf. He said that if horses couldn’t eat it and he couldn’t smoke it, he didn’t like it. Many players laughed when they saw that quote. I did. But how would you feel if one of your players said that?

No, GMs usually traded him after a few years, even after he had posted good numbers for them.

Most guys admired his nerve. Who among us had the self-confidence to do the things he did or utter the words? He certainly put the pressure squarely on his own shoulders. And he carried the load lightly.

His managers didn’t like players who showed up late — especially because most players showed up early. But even if he wasn’t at the ballpark when the lineup was posted in the clubhouse, those same managers never failed to put his name on that card, hoping he would show up. He always did. And they hoped he would come up with the game on the line, just as opposing pitchers dreaded it. It was impossible to ignore the way the ball sounded when it came off his bat.

Richie Allen won the rookie of the year award in Philadelphia in 1964. And Dick Allen was the American League MVP in 1972. For me, Dick is the better name for a power hitter. Richie should be a shortstop or a centerfielder.

Allen made the All-Star team seven times. And if you look at his lifetime hitting numbers, you will see that he should already be in the Hall of Fame. My guess is that he kept falling short because he didn’t have as many at-bats, hence RBI and runs scored, as most corner infielders. And he wasn’t a gifted outfielder. The voters, baseball scribes all, were aware of his reputation, and I don’t think that helped him. The Veterans Committee may still let him in. But it’s too late, just as it was for Ron Santo.

When you only play the corner positions, you are expected to do a lot of damage at the plate. Allen did plenty, but many others, by virtue of having longer careers, did more. But I’ll give him this: He played three years in the AL after 1973, and he only appeared in three games as a DH. Apparently his managers thought he was a good-enough fielder to use other players as designated hitters.

Some analysts think the major-league pitching was at its zenith during the years Allen played. I would venture a guess that none of the great pitchers from that era liked to see Allen step into the batter’s box.

I don’t think he hit me that hard (.213). But I still didn’t like facing him.

 

Two more Hall of Fame players I competed against barely survived 2020. While I’m at it, a few words about them:

 

Henry Aaron: The Hammer! By way of contrast, Henry Aaron just about doubled everything Allen did at the plate. And he faced the same pitchers. He was a good, if not sensational, right-fielder. And he was about as controversial as box of chalk.

I read Howard Bryant’s fine biography of him (The Last Hero), which is how I learned that Henry preferred his given name to the one he got from his nickname (Hammerin’ Hank).

Henry hit the first pitch I threw him into the left field bleachers at County Stadium in 1965, the last year the Braves played in Milwaukee. He hit me just about as well in Atlanta as he did in Milwaukee.

In one game, I started slowly and had runners on base when he came up in the first inning. He hit a long fly ball down the third-base line. I breathed easier when a fan caught the ball about ten feet foul. Umpire Al Barlick twirled his arm. He called it fair! I was over at third base arguing before I knew what I was doing. (What was I doing? I never argued with umpires.)

I suppose Henry might have still hit a home run, given another chance. After all, he hit seven off me — more than any other batter. He hit another one down the line in the Astrodome. I was sure it was going to hook foul, but it didn’t. It didn’t hook at all. It’s almost impossible to hit a pitch that far inside and that hard without hooking it. In fact, the only other guy I remember doing it was Albert Pujols at Minute Maid Park. You may be a good hitting coach, but you can’t teach that.

I can’t remember the other four homers; believe it or not, most of us remember only bits and pieces of our careers. I do, however, remember the general nature of our confrontations over time:

Early on, he waited me out, looking for a fastball from the middle of the plate in. He usually got one. And he hammered it. After my control improved, I kept the ball away from him, and had some success. At that juncture, he was determined to break Babe Ruth lifetime home run record. He started trying to pull the ball more. Pitches down-and-away could take the sting out of his bat.

Henry struck the ball like a rattlesnake. Lightning fast. And he did not swing hard. I never recall him throwing himself off balance, dropping to his right knee, or doing any of the things some home-run-hitters do. Ernie Banks was the same way: nice and easy. In fact, if I were scouting, I would look for batters who swung easy and hit hard, and pitchers who threw easy and threw hard. These players have a gift. It cannot be given; cannot be taught.

Aaron was fast. During his prime years, he stole 15-30 bases a year. He once said that he could steal more, but he preferred to wait until it really counted. That statement said a lot about him. He didn’t try to do anything but win.

Another way he explained it was by comparing himself with Willie Mays. He said that if he was going to pay to watch a game, he would watch Willie. But if he was going to watch the whole series, he’d watch himself. He also said that he went after every fly ball that came his way. “But,” he said, “I don’t run back and climb the fence on balls that are fifteen rows back in the seats.”

Statistically, Aaron and Mays were just about even as hitters. I would give the nod to Willie overall, because he played center field. It’s hard to find sluggers who can play that position. Plus, he was disruptive as a baserunner. In one game in the Astrodome, he bunted for a hit (something Aaron never did), and when out third baseman Bob Aspromonte watched it, hoping it would go foul, Willie turned first and set sail for second. Aspro heard the commotion and rushed his throw. Willie was safe at second. He was really fun to watch. But if I had to choose which one I would prefer to face in a critical situation, I would pitch to Willie.

One thing I learned after my career was over, and I got a chance to meet and speak with Mays and Aaron, was how they generated so much power. Neither of them were big guys. But they both had big, strong hands. Big enough to impress me, which isn’t easy. I’m sure there are others, but the only players I know who could have crushed my hand were J. R. Richard and Johnny Bench.

In remembering Henry, there is a sad note. As he approached Babe Ruth’s record, he had to endure the ugly face of prejudice, on the field and through the mail. He even got death threats. The same thing happened in New York when Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris were challenging Babe Ruth’s single-season home-run record. The fans liked Maris, to a point; but they loved Ruth and Mantle. Maris was a soft- spoken, decent man. But the fans bothered him so much, he started losing his hair.

I got caught up in a similar scene at Minute Maid Park when I was managing. The Giants came into town, with Barry Bonds chasing Mark McGwire’s single-season home-run record. Every time we walked Barry, the fans booed. Some were intentional walks, some were not. In the dugout, it was hard to stomach. It felt like our own fans were booing us, and we needed only one win in that series to clinch a playoff spot. I said something about it after the game, and was roundly criticized. They say you shouldn’t pick a fight with a man who buys ink by the gallon. Good advice.

Don’t pick a fight with the fans, either.

Early in my career, I realized that the fans were paying my salary when they bought tickers and listened to broadcasts. The wonderful life I’ve had in baseball, I attribute solely to those fans. But there is no doubt they can make you forget that when they turn on you. If they could do it to Maris and Aaron, they could certainly do it to me.

And by the way, insiders often had another nickname for Aaron: Bad Henry.

 

Don Sutton Baseball is a difficult game to play well. You have to master many skills to make it to the major leagues. But if you remember the Hall of Famers you’ve seen, most of them make it look easy.

Another opponent and friend, Don Sutton, barely made it to 2021, like Aaron. Sutton made pitching look like fun. He usually had that devilish grin on the mound — the one that made hitters think he was going to trick them. That was part of his craft: the mental part. He also had the best command of the curve ball I have ever seen.

Most pitchers just try to get that pitch over the plate, and low. Perhaps Don was that way at first. But by the time he came to the Astros in 1981, he had perfected it.

I was broadcasting his games in Houston, and I marveled at how he could work the curve in-and-out and up-and-down. Most people think it’s a mistake to hang a curve ball, but Don got a lot of called strikes up there. When the pitch appears to be too high, the hitters relax. By the time it drops into the top of the strike zone, it’s too late to swing.

This is not a pitch most pitchers should employ. The curve that starts a little high and breaks into the middle of the zone is the real hanger. I’ve seen many pitchers throw the one that sneaks into the zone by accident. It takes a lot of nerve to throw that pitch on purpose.

I lost a game to Sutton in 1966 — his rookie year and my second season. That game was in Los Angeles. I stayed with my parents when we were there, and I remembering telling them that I thought he would have trouble in the long run, because he was so thin. Twenty-three years later, he finally retired. And boy, what a pitcher he became.

At first, his fastball was quick, but not too fast. But he could spot it in, out, up, and down — right from the start. He finished his rookie season 12-12 with a 2.99 ERA. Then he kept reinventing himself and kept getting better. He learned to cut and sink his fastball. Some hitters thought he was scraping the baseball, and maybe he was. That just made his cryptic grin more infuriating.

The movement of his pitches was one thing. The location was quite another. In that way, he was a prototype of what Greg Maddux became. They both threw pitches that looked like strikes but moved out of the strike zone; the batters swung at them. Then there were the pitches that looked too far inside or out. The batters watched those pitches move to the corners for called strikes. Sutton and Maddux were masters of the art. They made hitters swing at balls and take strikes. If you can do that, you will win – a lot.

I know I beat Don on opening day in the Astrodome one year. And I may have beaten him again at home. But I never beat Don Sutton at Dodgers Stadium in 12 years of trying. He went on pitching for ten more years. I guess he wasn’t too thin.

Part of being clever is having a lot of different arrows in your quiver. Most starting pitchers back then became good bunters, because they got a lot of practice. Don was no exception. I’ve seen him drop squeeze bunts. And I’ve seen him bunt for a hit. But the thing he did against me that was especially galling was to fake a bunt and punch a little looper over or between the infielders for a hit. It got to where the infielders were expecting him to do it and he did it anyway.

He was also bright. Broadcasters learn which guys make for good interviews, and avoid those who don’t. Don was great. And because he was almost always beating us, he was a logical choice.

One time, when he was nearing the end, I asked him about his delivery. It went something like this:

“You’ve been pitching for twenty years, and you still throw the ball straight overhand. What’s the secret of your youth?”

“Well, I just have my own way,” he said. “They say that Tom Seaver has a drop-and-drive delivery, and he does. I like to call my motion ‘tilt and topple.’” And that’s exactly how it looked.

I might call Nolan Ryan’s delivery “load and explode.” In 1981, Nolan and Don were both in the Astros rotation. As a manager, I would prefer to have hard throwers like Nolan. But as a broadcaster and former pitcher, I preferred to watch Maddux and Sutton.