up I landed in Triple-A and he stayed in the big leagues. When I was sent down I had a record of 1–0. Talbot was 1–8. I still think about that.
The mindless grind of spring training produces, as you might guess, a sort of mindlessness. This morning Mike Hegan and I were partners in calisthenics and were locked in something that looked like the Twist. And I said to Mike, “Hey, this gives me an idea for a dance.”
“Hey, that’s right,” he said. “We’ll call it the Twist.”
“Right, and we’ll open a string of dance halls.”
“Yeah, and we can call them the Peppermint Twist.”
“Right.”
“But we need a front man with a great name. How about Chubby?”
“Great. We’ll call him Chubby Checker.”
This conversation actually took place, Doctor.
Then some guy farted and everybody laughed, and about five minutes later, in a sudden burst of quiet, he farted again and somebody hollered, “Will somebody answer the phone! Some ass keeps calling.”
Uniform-measuring day. This is always a waste. They measure everybody carefully and the uniforms arrive three sizes too big. Part of the reason is that everybody is wearing tight-fitting uniforms these days. Pepitone refuses to take the field if his uniform isn’t skintight. Phil Linz used to say that he didn’t know why, but he could run faster in tight pants. And I understand that Dick Stuart, old Dr. Strangeglove, would smooth his uniform carefully, adjust his cap, tighten his belt and say, “I add 20 points to my average if I know I look bitchin’ out there.”
Mike Marshall is a right-handed pitcher who was 15–9 in the Tiger organization last season. He’s got a master’s degree from Michigan State. He majored in phys. ed., with a minor in mathematics. He’s a cocky kid with a subtle sense of humor. He’s been telling everybody that the new lower mound, which was supposed to help the hitters, actually shortens the distance the pitcher has to throw the ball. It has to do with the hypotenuse of a right triangle decreasing as either side of the triangle decreases. Therefore, says Marshall, any psychological advantage the hitters gain if the pitcher doesn’t stand tall out there will be offset by the pitchers knowing that they are now closer to the plate.
Clever fellow, Marshall. He has even perfected a pick-off motion to second base that’s as deadly as it is difficult to execute. He says one reason it’s effective is that he leans backward as he throws the ball. I asked why, and he said, “Newton’s Third Law, of course.” Of course. Except the last time I tried his pick-off motion I heard grinding noises in my shoulder.
Steve Hovley sidled over to me in the outfield today and whispered into my ear, “Billy Graham is a cracker.”
Although I’ve enjoyed being in Arizona, there are things about training in Florida I’ll miss. Every spring Phil Linz and I would have dinner at Las Novedades in Tampa and we’d order Cuban black-bean soup and
Pompano en papillot
and we’d have a bottle of wine and talk about our old days in the minor leagues (and the time Joe Pepitone stole an elevator). Even when Phil was with the Mets we’d make it a point to meet in Tampa and go to Las Novedades.
I had the same kind of relationship with Roger Repoz and Fritz Peterson, two others guys I roomed with on the Yankees. Roger and I had this one spot in Detroit, the Italian Gardens. We’d go there for linguine with white clam sauce and we’d have a bottle of wine, and then some more linguine and another bottle of wine, then maybe another bottle of wine, and we’d stagger back to our room. When Roger was sold we made a pact that any time we got to Detroit we’d go alone to the Italian Gardens and order linguine and drink wine and stagger back to the hotel in memory of the good times we’d had.
I know when I’m in Anaheim next I’ll do what Fritz Peterson and I used to think was a lot of fun. We’d rent a little car and speed along the freeways
The mindless grind of spring training produces, as you might guess, a sort of mindlessness. This morning Mike Hegan and I were partners in calisthenics and were locked in something that looked like the Twist. And I said to Mike, “Hey, this gives me an idea for a dance.”
“Hey, that’s right,” he said. “We’ll call it the Twist.”
“Right, and we’ll open a string of dance halls.”
“Yeah, and we can call them the Peppermint Twist.”
“Right.”
“But we need a front man with a great name. How about Chubby?”
“Great. We’ll call him Chubby Checker.”
This conversation actually took place, Doctor.
Then some guy farted and everybody laughed, and about five minutes later, in a sudden burst of quiet, he farted again and somebody hollered, “Will somebody answer the phone! Some ass keeps calling.”
Uniform-measuring day. This is always a waste. They measure everybody carefully and the uniforms arrive three sizes too big. Part of the reason is that everybody is wearing tight-fitting uniforms these days. Pepitone refuses to take the field if his uniform isn’t skintight. Phil Linz used to say that he didn’t know why, but he could run faster in tight pants. And I understand that Dick Stuart, old Dr. Strangeglove, would smooth his uniform carefully, adjust his cap, tighten his belt and say, “I add 20 points to my average if I know I look bitchin’ out there.”
Mike Marshall is a right-handed pitcher who was 15–9 in the Tiger organization last season. He’s got a master’s degree from Michigan State. He majored in phys. ed., with a minor in mathematics. He’s a cocky kid with a subtle sense of humor. He’s been telling everybody that the new lower mound, which was supposed to help the hitters, actually shortens the distance the pitcher has to throw the ball. It has to do with the hypotenuse of a right triangle decreasing as either side of the triangle decreases. Therefore, says Marshall, any psychological advantage the hitters gain if the pitcher doesn’t stand tall out there will be offset by the pitchers knowing that they are now closer to the plate.
Clever fellow, Marshall. He has even perfected a pick-off motion to second base that’s as deadly as it is difficult to execute. He says one reason it’s effective is that he leans backward as he throws the ball. I asked why, and he said, “Newton’s Third Law, of course.” Of course. Except the last time I tried his pick-off motion I heard grinding noises in my shoulder.
Steve Hovley sidled over to me in the outfield today and whispered into my ear, “Billy Graham is a cracker.”
Although I’ve enjoyed being in Arizona, there are things about training in Florida I’ll miss. Every spring Phil Linz and I would have dinner at Las Novedades in Tampa and we’d order Cuban black-bean soup and
Pompano en papillot
and we’d have a bottle of wine and talk about our old days in the minor leagues (and the time Joe Pepitone stole an elevator). Even when Phil was with the Mets we’d make it a point to meet in Tampa and go to Las Novedades.
I had the same kind of relationship with Roger Repoz and Fritz Peterson, two others guys I roomed with on the Yankees. Roger and I had this one spot in Detroit, the Italian Gardens. We’d go there for linguine with white clam sauce and we’d have a bottle of wine, and then some more linguine and another bottle of wine, then maybe another bottle of wine, and we’d stagger back to our room. When Roger was sold we made a pact that any time we got to Detroit we’d go alone to the Italian Gardens and order linguine and drink wine and stagger back to the hotel in memory of the good times we’d had.
I know when I’m in Anaheim next I’ll do what Fritz Peterson and I used to think was a lot of fun. We’d rent a little car and speed along the freeways
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