Bring In the Right-Hander! Page 2

  Be True to Your School

  Toward the end of my freshman year at Ritenour Junior High, in 1964, the gym teachers announced that the junior varsity (JV) baseball team was holding tryouts. There may have been six or seven of us from Ritenour Jr. that walked the mile or so to the high school field, toting our equipment for the big day. At one time or another, each of us played with or against each other in the local ABC league, which was the only Little League in our area. Once dressed, we met JV coach Pete Hensel on the field. After a brief meeting, he told us to get loose and take our positions with the sophomores already on the field. Being a lefty, there were only five positions on the field that I could play. Each of those positions was occupied with someone from ABC who played that position better than I did, with the exception of pitcher. I knew then that the only way I would make this team would be as a pitcher, especially as I could throw a curve better than I could hit one. My career as a pitcher was born that very minute.

  Doing the Bunny Hop

  I don’t remember much about my performance during my freshman year. I know that it was good enough to impress John “Bunny” Ailworth, the head coach for the local American Legion team, Thoman-Boothe Post 338. Bunny watched many of our high school games because Thoman-Boothe drew their players from Ritenour. He knew me before I attended high school, as he coached Jim, while I was always around the park for the games.

  When our season was over I tried out for the team, and to my surprise and the chagrin of my upperclassmen, I made it. No doubt, Bunny, a former Minor League player, caught some hell from some parents for the choice, but he had his reasons for choosing a raw fourteen-year-old. He pulled me aside and told me why I made the team: “You have a real chance for a baseball career.”

  Bunny watched over me that year. He made me sit near him in the dugout as he kept a running dialogue of the game. “Watch how he pitches this guy,” he would tell me. Or, “What pitch would you throw in this situation?”

  Bunny also included me on trips with his coaches and other players to scout our Legion opponents. Usually, I sat with the pitching coach, Harry Gurley, or one of the other players behind home plate, as I learned how to find a hitter’s weakness or read his base-running tendencies.

  Bunny was right about the invaluable experience. Playing against players four or five years older worked in my favor when basketball season rolled around during my sophomore year. I was called up to the varsity early in the season and started the rest of the games that year. This was a big deal, as Ritenour played deep into the state tournament the previous year. At just fifteen, I was playing with the big boys and holding my own.

  More Than a Game

  Our JV baseball team was a good one. Not only did the freshmen play in the ABC league, but we also competed in the same league against our sophomore teammates. By the time we freshmen were juniors, we won the 1966 Missouri State Baseball Championship. For good measure, Ritenour repeated as state champions in 1967, our senior year.

  I don’t remember many individual games, but I do remember how fundamentally sound we were as a high school team. The varsity coach, Lee Engert, was a stickler for practicing fundamentals. He coached in a classic manner. First he “chalked” the drill by writing it on a chalkboard, “talked” us through our individual responsibilities, and “walked” us through every aspect as the play was practiced. More important than the play on the field was his approach regarding the proper attitude to play the game. Preparation and execution in gamelike conditions were the order every day. Of course, he had his rules, which included a curfew, no drinking, and maintaining grades. Attitude for Coach Engert was more about responsibility as an athlete, a student, and a man. He made sure that his ideals were followed. He checked grades and talked with other teachers about his players. He made it a point to know their families. If there was a problem away from school, he was there for any of his players when it counted. In many cases, he was the father figure in the lives of many of his players when there was no one else around. The lessons we learned from Coach Engert were larger than the game of baseball.

  After games I pitched, Lee would rub analgesic balm on my left arm and shoulder. Years later, I learned that ice applied to the elbow and shoulder would help recovery much quicker. But the conversations that centered on the game, the strategy he used, the key plays we made or didn’t make, and how we would focus on them during our next practice were all building blocks that helped me during my years as a player and later as a coach and broadcaster. It turned out to be much more important than a bag of ice. To this day, whenever I get a whiff of that balm used in training rooms everywhere, I still think of those high school moments.

  At the end of every practice, pitchers at Ritenour ran the hill beyond right field. Back in the ’60s, I estimated the angle to be between thirty to forty-five degrees and the distance around sixty yards. (It’s been graded a bit more level since then.) We ran up the hill and jogged down backward. After five or six of these sprints, we were gassed. Gradually, running the hill became a personal challenge. I hated running up and down the hill, but I wouldn’t allow it to beat me. Six sprints became eight, then ten, then twelve. I ran the hill every day I didn’t pitch. Sometimes, it caused me to miss a ride home. Once after a game on a miserable, cold, and rainy spring day, I was running my sprints when my buddies drove by. I looked over as one of them mooned me from the passing car. I could hear them laughing as they sped off. “That’s okay,” I laughed. “One day, you’ll watch me pitch in the big leagues.”

  Watching the Pros

  I attended a number of ball games at Busch Stadium (now referred to as Busch Stadium 1) over the years. Most of the time I sat behind the Cardinals’ dugout, but I ventured out to the bleachers once or twice. When the Cardinals moved to Busch Stadium 2 downtown in May 1966, I still preferred to sit in the reserved section above the third base dugout. At the new ballpark the Cardinals moved from the third base dugout to the first base side. That was fine by me. I could look into the Cardinals’ dugout and watch my favorite players, observing how professionals handled themselves at the best as well as the worst of times.

  Now sixteen and seventeen, my friends and I were old enough to drive. The Cardinals instituted Teen Night, a Friday-night promotion that featured reserved-seat tickets for five dollars. That meant after our high school game, we changed, stopped home for a quick bite, picked up our dates, and headed to the ballpark. Sitting in our reserved seats along the third base line (where else?), we watched the Cardinals as we listened to the latest hits by local favorites Bob Kuban and the In-Men, between innings, as they were perched on the concourse near the foul pole in right field. Imagine . . . the Cardinals, Kuban, and my best girl on a warm Friday night. It didn’t get any better than that! Or did it?

  My Baseball Cards Came to Life

  In July 1966, the visiting Atlanta Braves invited me to throw in the bullpen before a game against the Cardinals. By this time I’d become an accomplished high school pitcher and was drawing attention from scouts in the St. Louis area. I remember meeting the Atlanta scout in front of the double glass doors at Busch Stadium 2, the players’ entrance. We made our way down the steps to the visitors’ clubhouse and waited for the equipment manager to get me a uniform. There I was, just seventeen years old, staring at faces of players that I had seen only on baseball cards, only this time they were in various stages of preparation for that night’s game. “This should fit,” the man told me as he handed me a Major League uniform. “Go around the corner and take one of the open lockers there,” he said. The scout said he’d meet me in the dugout.

  There I was, with my high school gym bag, which carried my shoes, glove, jock, and sweatshirt, as I walked into a Major League clubhouse for the first time. I tried to act as if I belonged. That was a tough act to pull off when my knees were knocking. There was only one open locker on the back side of the visitors’ clubhouse. It was near the end of a row, between two lockers that were occupied by players’ equipment. Because nobody
was there, I dressed quickly and quietly and made my way to the field. I was seventeen, in a Braves uniform, as I walked down the ramp to the visitors’ dugout, prepared for a tryout in Busch Stadium. I wasn’t nervous . . . I was petrified!

  I was ready in no time and cut loose with everything I had for a brief ten- or fifteen-minute session. Apparently, they liked what they saw, as they nodded when I threw a pitch. “Jerry, thanks for coming here to throw for us. We wish you the best, and we’ll keep in touch,” the scout said. I took a minute or two as I sat on the bench in the visitors’ dugout and watched the Cardinals on the field. I recognized all of them. I had their baseball cards at home. On that day I dressed in a Major League uniform and walked on the same field they did.

  Back in the clubhouse I found the equipment manager, reading a newspaper. “Where should I put my uniform?” I asked. He looked up and said, “Throw it in the basket in the middle of the floor.” He went back to his newspaper. When I got to the locker, I saw the street clothes of the players who occupied the lockers on both sides of me. Both players were elsewhere.

  Because I was in no hurry, I looked inside the locker to my left. There was the uniform top with the number 44 on it. My mouth dropped. I had a locker next to Hank Aaron! By the time I caught my breath, someone sat down on the stool in front of the locker to my right. I turned to see who it was and immediately recognized Eddie Matthews. In his shorts and sweatshirt, he grabbed his paperback and started reading. Not wanting to bother a future Hall of Famer, I got undressed, grabbed a towel, and headed for the shower. I hoped by the time I returned I could regain some composure and say hello.

  Both Aaron and Matthews were at their respective lockers when I returned. Eddie was engrossed in his book, Beau Geste, the movie version playing at the local theaters. I was finally able to speak, so I asked him, “How’s the book?” I thought, “That’s a nice icebreaker.” Without looking up, he said, “Horseshit!” Well, that’s a word I never heard until that moment. If nothing else came from this tryout, I had added to my ever-increasing vocabulary. I didn’t know how powerful this word was until I played professionally. This was one of those “magic words” that could get a player tossed from a game. Shout it loud enough in an umpire’s direction, and it’ll get you an early shower and probably a fifty-dollar fine.

  “What brings you here, young man?” the voice to my left asked. I introduced myself and told Hank Aaron about the workout as I got dressed. After a few minutes he said with a smile, “I wish you all the best and good luck.” I answered, “Mr. Aaron, thank you. I wish you the best as well.” We didn’t know then how our paths would cross in the future.

  “Were you the kid warming up in the bullpen a little while ago?” asked Eddie Matthews, who closed his book and placed it in his locker to my right. I turned and answered, “Yes, sir, that was me,” I said quietly. “I heard you were really bringing it,” he said, looking me in the eye with a smile on his face. “Thank you” was all I could manage. I wanted to ask him why he was still reading a book if it was horseshit, but thought better of it.

  As I gathered my gear and put it in my gym bag, I thanked both of them, wished them the best, and walked out of the clubhouse and back to reality. Years later, I met both Hank and Eddie on several occasions. I reminded them once that we met in St. Louis that July day. I can understand why they didn’t remember. Me . . . I never forgot.

  There’s a postscript to this story. Whenever I played in St. Louis as a visiting player, I was always assigned one of those three lockers. On my last road trip as a player in 1990 with the Pirates, I dressed in that same middle locker. I thought about that first visit then, but haven’t told the story until now.

  College Scholarship or Professional Baseball?

  June 6, 1967: Drafted by the Cardinals in the second round of the amateur draft

  Sometime during my junior year at Ritenour, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, paying the bills. She stopped me as I entered the kitchen and said, “Sit down.” She began in a businesslike tone. “Dad and I looked at our savings and realized that it won’t be possible for us to send both you and John to college.” She continued, “Even with Jim working, it cost us more than we budgeted. For both you and John to attend college, one of you will have to get a scholarship.” She looked me straight in the eye and said, “You have the grades and athletic ability. I’m depending on you to make it happen.” Because my focus throughout high school was to get a college scholarship or sign a baseball contract, this was something that had already crossed my mind. What surprised me was Mom’s straightforward talk. Most of the time her approach to anything was to test the waters and ease into what was on her mind. This time, she just dove in. “Mom, it’s already in the works,” I told her.

  Since the start of my sophomore year, I had received letters from different schools around the Midwest, inquiring about my college plans, with full-ride commitments from both Southern Illinois University and the University of Missouri coming during my senior year. During the spring of 1967 both Mom and Dad breathed a bit easier when I committed to SIU to play both baseball and basketball.

  I was working at Boyd’s in nearby Northwest Plaza, selling men’s clothes, when Mom called me at work that day in early-June 1967 and told me that the Cardinals had drafted me. I was surprised it was the hometown Cardinals because their scouts had stayed in the background. George Silvey, the Cardinals’ scouting and farm director, lived about a mile away from us, and his son, Tim, was a high school teammate. Maybe the Cardinals had decided a low-key approach best suited their interests when it came time to draft and sign me. For me, it was the first step toward a career as a Major League Baseball player.

  2.

  Turning Pro

  Being drafted by the Cardinals meant that I might have to rethink my commitment to SIU. Both Coach Engert and Bunny talked to me about my future. Coach spoke more about the right fit for me both academically and for sports. “Both are equally important,” he started. “You don’t know where a career in professional sports will take you. No matter where you go, however, you can take your education with you.”

  Bunny’s approach was more pedestrian. I told him the scholarship offers were split between baseball and basketball. “Look, you’re a good high school basketball player. But as far as major college material, you’re too small and too slow. As a baseball player, you’re one of the best pitching prospects I’ve seen in years. If you sign a contract, within a few years you will be pitching in the Major Leagues. You can attend school in the off-season.”

  I had two different opinions and two different points of view. Both were valid. Both were made with my best interests at heart. Before I made my decision, I wanted to hear what the Cardinals had to say.

  My parents and I met with the Cardinals at Busch Stadium 2 on Sunday, June 25. While the Cardinals were playing the Phillies in a doubleheader, we met in the general manager’s office with George Silvey and scouts George Hasser and Joe Monahan. The general manager in 1967 was Stan Musial, his only year at the helm.

  We were at a definite disadvantage because none of us had any experience in negotiating baseball contracts. There was no information available to make any kind of valid judgment on what was or wasn’t fair. The Cardinals, who did this every day and knew what kid got what and when they got it, weren’t about to share anything. So we sat in Stan’s office, admiring the pictures and citations on the wall and the trophies on his bookshelves, as the Cardinals put together a proposal.

  This was what they offered: $15,000 cash, $7,500 payable upon contract approval and the other $7,500 payable in January 1968; a progressive bonus that paid $1,000 after ninety days on the Double A (AA) roster, $1,500 after ninety days on the Triple A (AAA) roster, and $5,000 after ninety days on the Major League roster; and a college scholarship of $1,000 a semester for eight semesters, with strings attached. If I met all the criteria, the signing bonus would be a maximum $30,500. That figure overwhelmed Mom and Dad. They had no idea that a Major League Ba
seball team would give a high school kid that kind of money just to sign a contract. Hell, it was more than they paid for the house!

  Then, out of nowhere, Mom asked if there was any money for her and Dad to spend on a vacation. I sat there with my mouth wide open. I wasn’t the only one. George and the scouts were speechless as they looked at one another. George cleared his throat and said, “Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” They needed some time to talk and invited us to sit in Stan’s box and watch the ball game.

  We walked from the glass doors of the reception area to Stan’s seats behind the Cardinals’ dugout. While sitting there for a few moments, I saw Orlando Cepeda miss a home run (HR) by a few feet as he drilled a Jim Bunning pitch foul off a window in the Stadium Club in left field. On the next pitch he hit another window of the Stadium Club; this time it was fair, as he connected for his tenth home run of the season.

  As “ChaCha” rounded the bases, Dad finally spoke, “That’s a lot of money!” He paused and then said, “When I started working at eighteen, it took years before I earned what they offered you today.” At least he had an idea. My thoughts were on the game. How I wanted to be out there. That first step on the road of opportunity awaited me on the other side of those glass doors.

  I told Dad that I’d have to pass on the scholarship to SIU if I signed. Who knew what that scholarship was worth in terms of future dollars? Dad didn’t. He never completed high school. The guidance counselors at Ritenour knew and explained the numbers to me in detail. They also told me the life experiences in college were as equally valuable and couldn’t be measured by any metric.