“So tell me, Randy,” Jackie said at one point. “Did you ever make it up to the big leagues?”
There it was. I knew it would come up eventually. I certainly wasn’t going to mention it myself.
“Why, yes,” Randy said. “As a matter of fact, I did make it up to the big leagues. I pitched in one game.” By this time, Jackie had pulled a couple of the tables over by the fireplace, and at least twelve men were sitting there listening to him. “You want to tell this story, Alex?”
“I wasn’t there,” I said. And that’s all I said, because I didn’t want to touch it. I had never even heard him tell it before, because after that September call-up, I never saw him again. Until tonight.
“September 1971,” he said. “You guys know how they expand the major-league rosters from twenty-five to forty in September, right? The minor-league seasons are over by then, and most of the clubs like to bring up some of the players to the big club, let them see some action. You know, maybe think about them for the next year. Well, I got called up to Detroit in 1971. Alex should have been brought up, too. But they blew that one.”
Everybody looked at me.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Keep going.”
“Detroit had a good team that year. They won like what, ninety-two games or something? But that was Baltimore’s year and the Tigers were already out of it, with a couple weeks left. So Billy Martin-he was the manager then-he decides he’s gonna take a look at this hot-shit left-hander up from Toledo, right? A lot of managers, they’re not gonna start a guy right out of triple-A. They’re gonna put him in to mop up a couple innings the first time out. But Martin gives me a start. God, I’m thinking, this is it. This is my big chance.”
He paused to take a breath and a long drink. When he put the bottle back down, it was empty. Jackie hopped up to get him another one.
“It just so happens we’re playing Baltimore,” he went on. “Best team in the majors. And I’m thinking, Okay, no problem. If I can get these guys out, then I’m gonna make the roster next year for sure. It was a day game. A Saturday. I’m in the bull pen warming up-aw hell, they don’t even have a real bull pen in Tiger Stadium. They just have this area down the third-base line. You’re right out on the field. Anyway, I’m warming up and I just can’t believe any of this is happening. It’s like an out-of-body experience. And then when the game starts, I get right out there, because we’re the home team, right? I throw my last warm-ups. Bill Freehan is catching me. You guys remember Bill Freehan?”
Which of course we do. The best catcher in Tiger history. And just one more reason why I didn’t see any time in the big leagues. Not with Bill Freehan catching 150 games every year.
“Okay, so the first was Don Buford. First pitch I throw as a major leaguer, he takes right down the middle. Strike one. Next ball, he fouls off. Strike two. I nibble on the corner a couple of times; Buford lays off. Now it’s 2–2. Freehan calls for the curveball. I shake him off. There’s only one pitch I’m gonna throw now. Am I right, Alex?”
I cleared my throat. “The slinky.”
“The slinky?” Jackie said. “What the hell’s that?”
“Go ahead, Alex,” Randy said. “Tell the man about the slinky.”
“It was his money pitch,” I said. “It was kind of a hard slider, but he’d sort of drop down and throw it sidearm. When he had it working, left-handed batters were dead meat. It wasn’t exactly a treat for righthanders, either. It would ride right in on their hands.” I stopped right there, because I didn’t want to ruin his story. I didn’t tell them that the slinky was once my worst nightmare, because when he started to lose it, he’d start bouncing it five feet in front of the plate.
“Buford fans on it,” Randy said. “And I’m thinking, This is gonna be easy. If the slinky’s working, I’m unhittable. I’m already seeing the headlines in the paper the next morning. ‘Unknown Rookie Throws No-Hitter,’ something like that.”
“I don’t like this,” Jackie said. “I got a bad feeling about what’s going to happen next.”
“Merv Rettenmund comes up,” Randy said. “I throw him a couple right on the corner, but the umpire calls balls. I’m nobody, right? I’m not going to get a close one. I’m starting to get a little upset. So I bring the slinky again, but this time I bounce one in front of the plate. The slinky’s a tricky pitch. It can get away from you once in a while.”
Tell me about it, I thought.
“So now I’m a little rattled. It’s a 3–0 count. I figure he’s taking, so I put one right down the middle. At least it looked like it was right down the middle. Umpire calls ball four and now Rettenmund’s on first. So I start yelling at the umpire and the umpire is looking at me like he wants to run me. Two batters, and I’m already this close to being ejected. So Freehan comes out to talk to me, says, ‘Everything’s okay. Calm down, kid, relax. Don’t let the umpire get to you,’ and all that.”
Which was exactly the wrong thing to say to him, I know. But how was Freehan to know that? He’d never seen the kid before in his life. If it was me, I would have gone out to the mound, grabbed him by the jersey, and told him to stop acting like a two-year-old. Because getting him mad was the only way to get his head back in the game.
“Next batter is Boog Powell. God, I knew he was big, but not that big. He looked like a freakin’ building standing next to the plate. But he bats left-handed, so I figure, What the hell, the slinky is what got me here. I’m gonna keep riding it. Freehan calls for a fastball; I shake him off. He calls for a curveball; I shake him off. I want the slinky. I see him sneak a look into the dugout, like Who the hell is this kid, anyway? But finally, he gives me the slinky. And I throw it.”
He stopped and took a drink again. A born showman.
“So what happened?” Jackie said.
“Boog Powell hits it into the upper deck.” He took another drink and gave everybody a chance to groan.
“Did they pull you out of the game?”
“No,” Randy said. “They didn’t. The pitching coach came out and talked to me. Then Frank Robinson came up and I threw the slinky again. Freehan didn’t even call for it. I just threw it. Robinson hit it onto the roof in left field. Now it’s three to nothing. Freehan comes out and just about tears my head off. Tells me the next time I throw that pitch, he’s gonna break me in half. They’ve got two guys working in the bull pen already, and I’m in a daze by then. I walked Hendricks and then I walked Brooks Robinson, and it was just like a nightmare. I kept looking into the dugout, waiting for Billy Martin to come out and get me. But he’s just sitting there looking at me. With that look on his face like he’s got a bad case of gas. I walked Davey Johnson, and now the bases are loaded. Still, Martin’s just sitting in that dugout. So Mark Belanger comes up. And I’m thinking, Okay, finally, here’s the one guy in the lineup who doesn’t hit. I’m gonna settle down and get this guy and get myself out of this. First pitch, Belanger hits this high pop-up down the left-field line. Any other stadium in the world, it’s an easy out, but this is Detroit, so it sneaks over the fence. A grand slam. By Mark fucking Belanger. So finally, Billy Martin comes out and he says to me, ‘Okay, that’s enough, kid. We’re gonna run out of baseballs.’ ”
When he stopped, nobody said anything. It was almost thirty years ago. Billy Martin was dead now. But you could still imagine what it must have felt like.
“So I gave up seven runs in one inning,” Randy said. “Actually in one-third of an inning, because I only got one out. My lifetime ERA is 198. You can look it up.”
And then he laughed. It broke the spell, and gave everyone else in the room permission to laugh with him. We had a few more beers. We talked some more-about what he had been doing since leaving baseball. Something about him selling commercial real estate, something about coaching baseball at a local high school. More about his divorce, his kids, especially his young son the catcher. He talked a lot that night, and made everybody around him feel glad to be there. Which was always his genius.