standing ovation from the crowd. He squinted out at the stands and said, “Those people don’t know how tough that really was.”
Another thing about Mantle. He was a pretty good practical joker. One time he and Ford told Pepitone and Linz that they’d finally arrived, they were ready to go out with the big boys. Mantle told them to get dressed up, tie and all—this was in Detroit—and meet them in a place called The Flame. Mickey gave them the address and said to be sure to ask for Mickey Mantle’s table.
Pepitone and Linz were like a couple of kids at Christmas. They couldn’t stop talking about what a great time they were going to have with Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford. They got all fancied up, hopped into a cab and told the driver to take them to The Flame. After about a half-hour the cab pulled up in front of a place that was in the heart of the slum section—a hole in the wall with a broken plate-glass window in front and a little broken-down sign over the door: The Flame. No Mantle. No Ford. No table.
Tommy Davis was in the training room having the ankle he broke in 1965 taped. I asked him if he thought it would ever be the same again and he said he doubted it, because it’s supposed to take two years for a fracture and dislocation to heal and he was back playing after one. I’m sure that’s true of a lot of injuries that athletes suffer. They come back too soon and the injury keeps recurring. Like I say, you can’t beat the hours.
Freddie Velazquez was in the trainer’s room too. He caught a foul ball on his big toe and it looked like a ripe tomato. The toenail was peeling off. He never made a sound while it was bandaged. Then he went out and played on it. Later Velazquez was talking Spanish to some of the other players and someone—I don’t know who—yelled, “Talk English! You’re in America now.”
It was 55 degrees and blowing out there today, so I only watched a couple of innings of the intrasquad game. I was there long enough to see Marshall get hit pretty hard. Evidently the shorter hypotenuse didn’t help him much. He just ran into Doubleday’s First Law, which states that if you throw a fastball with insufficient speed, someone will smack it out of the park with a stick.
As penance for going home early I spent some time considering the possible fortunes of this ballclub. It’s early, but it doesn’t look bad at all. Except we’re going to be hurting for starting pitchers. Gary Bell is probably the only legitimate starter we have. Which isn’t bad for number 56.
In the back of my mind I see myself as a starter for this team. I think a knuckleball pitcher is better off starting. One reason is that there are usually men on base when a relief pitcher comes in. If his knuckleball is working well, you might get a passed ball and a run. If it’s not working well—and often it’s not—you get hit. With no one on base, though, this isn’t too important. The argument is simple and crystal clear. If only somebody would listen.
I asked one of the sportswriters if Joe Schultz had said anything about the way I threw today and he said, “Yeah.”
“Well, what?”
“He said, ‘It’s too early to tell.’”
My reporting late has made this the first spring I’ve ever been behind anybody getting into shape. Usually I’m ready to pitch in the early games, but it looks like I’m not going to be ready here. It’s quite different from my last spring with the Yankees in 1967. I was really impressive, right from the beginning. I led the club in innings pitched with 30, and I gave up the fewest hits, fifteen, and no homers and only two or three extra-base hits. My ERA was .092, which means less than one run per game, and in one stretch I went nine innings without giving up a hit. At the end of spring training a newspaper guy said to Houk, “Wow, didn’t Bouton have a great spring?” and Houk said, “You can’t go by that too much. He always has a good spring.” (The spring before
Another thing about Mantle. He was a pretty good practical joker. One time he and Ford told Pepitone and Linz that they’d finally arrived, they were ready to go out with the big boys. Mantle told them to get dressed up, tie and all—this was in Detroit—and meet them in a place called The Flame. Mickey gave them the address and said to be sure to ask for Mickey Mantle’s table.
Pepitone and Linz were like a couple of kids at Christmas. They couldn’t stop talking about what a great time they were going to have with Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford. They got all fancied up, hopped into a cab and told the driver to take them to The Flame. After about a half-hour the cab pulled up in front of a place that was in the heart of the slum section—a hole in the wall with a broken plate-glass window in front and a little broken-down sign over the door: The Flame. No Mantle. No Ford. No table.
Tommy Davis was in the training room having the ankle he broke in 1965 taped. I asked him if he thought it would ever be the same again and he said he doubted it, because it’s supposed to take two years for a fracture and dislocation to heal and he was back playing after one. I’m sure that’s true of a lot of injuries that athletes suffer. They come back too soon and the injury keeps recurring. Like I say, you can’t beat the hours.
Freddie Velazquez was in the trainer’s room too. He caught a foul ball on his big toe and it looked like a ripe tomato. The toenail was peeling off. He never made a sound while it was bandaged. Then he went out and played on it. Later Velazquez was talking Spanish to some of the other players and someone—I don’t know who—yelled, “Talk English! You’re in America now.”
It was 55 degrees and blowing out there today, so I only watched a couple of innings of the intrasquad game. I was there long enough to see Marshall get hit pretty hard. Evidently the shorter hypotenuse didn’t help him much. He just ran into Doubleday’s First Law, which states that if you throw a fastball with insufficient speed, someone will smack it out of the park with a stick.
As penance for going home early I spent some time considering the possible fortunes of this ballclub. It’s early, but it doesn’t look bad at all. Except we’re going to be hurting for starting pitchers. Gary Bell is probably the only legitimate starter we have. Which isn’t bad for number 56.
In the back of my mind I see myself as a starter for this team. I think a knuckleball pitcher is better off starting. One reason is that there are usually men on base when a relief pitcher comes in. If his knuckleball is working well, you might get a passed ball and a run. If it’s not working well—and often it’s not—you get hit. With no one on base, though, this isn’t too important. The argument is simple and crystal clear. If only somebody would listen.
I asked one of the sportswriters if Joe Schultz had said anything about the way I threw today and he said, “Yeah.”
“Well, what?”
“He said, ‘It’s too early to tell.’”
My reporting late has made this the first spring I’ve ever been behind anybody getting into shape. Usually I’m ready to pitch in the early games, but it looks like I’m not going to be ready here. It’s quite different from my last spring with the Yankees in 1967. I was really impressive, right from the beginning. I led the club in innings pitched with 30, and I gave up the fewest hits, fifteen, and no homers and only two or three extra-base hits. My ERA was .092, which means less than one run per game, and in one stretch I went nine innings without giving up a hit. At the end of spring training a newspaper guy said to Houk, “Wow, didn’t Bouton have a great spring?” and Houk said, “You can’t go by that too much. He always has a good spring.” (The spring before
Similar Books
