Tales from the Minnesota Twins Dugout Page 7
The way we acted, I can sure understand why Harmon thought that. I don’t think we did ourselves proud that night. I’ll always remember RD as a good teammate and friend and the guy who had the balls to clean fish in the trainer’s room.
The Offseason
MacPhail started putting his stamp on the club during that offseason with one of the best trades in team history. We sent Neal Heaton, a veteran pitcher, Yorkis Pérez, a promising young pitcher, and catcher Jeff Reed to the Expos for closer Jeff Reardon and catcher Tom Nieto. Three weeks later, we made another deal with the Expos to bring in veteran infielder Al Newman. All three helped us win the AL West in ’87, but the key, of course, was Reardon.
All of a sudden we went from having no proven closer to having Jeff Reardon, who had already established himself as one of the best in the game. Jeff was a National League All-Star in ’85 and ’86, and he saved 76 games those two years. So on paper, that was a deal that looked pretty good for us.
But the honest truth is I didn’t feel any different when February rolled around in 1987 than I did starting to think about spring training any other year. I got excited every offseason, and every year when I went to spring training I thought we were going to win. That’s just the way my mind works. Reardon was a great trade, but when we got Ron Davis from the Yankees in 1982, I got jacked up—we were getting a guy who was good enough to pitch for the Yankees.
I just always believed we could win. I loved the uncertainty of baseball because you never knew what could happen. Sometimes in baseball what looks like a minor deal turns out to be huge. Like the year we signed Kenny Schrom after he got released from Toronto, and he went out and won 15 games.
If you’re going to play this game, you have to have that kind of positive attitude. If you start getting down and doubting yourself or your teammates, you’ve got no chance. I used to have some killer batting slumps, and it’s natural that some negative thoughts start creeping in. But you’ve got to push them out because if you don’t, it will eat you up. If you dwell on it and think about it all day long, it can only make things worse.
And there were people that did. Scotty Leius, a third baseman with us in the early 1990s, always thought he was going to be released. Scotty was a heckuva player, but he was a worrier, and that might have prevented him from being the player he could have been. Another guy like that was Pat Mahomes, a young pitcher who had all the talent in the world when he joined the club in ’92. But you’d go to the mound and talk to him and he was scared to death. He’d look right through you like he couldn’t even see you. Here was a guy with as much talent as I’ve ever seen in my life—great arm, had a vertical jump like you couldn’t believe, a nice, sincere kid—and he was scared to death. You could tell on the mound that the doubts were creeping in, and he really didn’t believe he could do it. I guess his son, Patrick, the quarterback for the Kansas City Chiefs, must be a little different.
I don’t know enough about the brain to know why some guys think that way and others are able to push their negative thoughts out. I just know I was lucky enough to be a guy who could push negative thoughts out. Maybe it came from having my dad die when I was 21. I’m not the only guy that’s happened to, so I don’t feel sorry for myself. What it taught me was to stay positive and enjoy today because you don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow.
I’m the same way when I’m fishing. I’ve fished with people who, when we don’t get a bite for a while, will start talking about how the wind has changed and were not going to get anything today. Hey, you hold a cheeseburger in front of my face long enough and I’m going to eat it. I always figured fish were the same way. I figured I could make ’em bite if I held food in front of their noses long enough.
So when I went to spring training in 1987, it was no different than going any other year. I was excited, and I believed we were going to win. Of course, I’d been proven wrong before. Every year I’d played in the big leagues, in fact.
CHAPTER TEN
The New Pieces
EARS FULL OF SHAVING CREAM AND burning shoelaces.
Those are two of my favorite memories from the 1987 regular season.
On the field it was a little like ’84, where we kind of snuck up on people. We sure didn’t blow anybody away. We couldn’t win on the road, we had two quality starting pitchers, and overall we had just 87 victories. But we played in a weak division, and it was enough to get us into the playoffs.
Once again we had some real characters on that team, the difference from previous years being that the characters also had a little more ability when it came to baseball. Take Bert Blyleven. Some might add “Please” after that, since Bert could drive you nuts.
His main gig was burning people’s shoelaces. One time in ’87, during a game, he crawled all the way under the dugout bench, from one end to the other, and lit manager Tom Kelly’s shoelaces on fire. I thought it was pretty neat to be on a team where a player would feel comfortable enough to do that to his manager. TK would take that sort of thing, but you knew where the line was with him, and you didn’t go over it. But his line was pretty high, as long as you were giving him everything you had on the field.
Bert could be a pain in the ass because every time he’d burn your shoelaces you’d have to put new ones back in, and that took a lot of time. And Bert taught a lot of guys on the team how to burn shoelaces, so you always had to be alert. If they got you, you usually ended up giving the clubhouse guys a couple dollars to put new shoelaces back in. We probably had some of the best-paid clubhouse guys in the league, thanks to Bert and his followers.
Our other main schtick as a team was planting shaving cream in the ear end of the telephone. We did that one all the time. So much, in fact, that you’d often refuse to answer a phone when someone yelled that you had a call. But that would only get the guys doing the trick more determined. So they’d go get our trainer, Dick Martin, to yell out that you had a phone call. Well, when Dick called for you, it was usually important, so you’d let your guard down, run into the trainer’s room, and grab the phone. And get an ear full of shaving cream.
There wasn’t a person in the clubhouse who didn’t get busted with shaving cream. It was stupid, but it kept us loose. And there wasn’t a guy on the team who took it to heart and didn’t have fun with it.
To me, that was a really important reason that we had the success we did in ’87. I’ve always been a big believer in intangibles, and if you’re all pulling the same way—from the front office to the clubhouse guys—I think that makes a huge difference. A successful team can’t have anyone bitching about the front office or the traveling secretary. When you’ve got everyone on the same page within an organization, that gives you a chance to hit your peak. You get just one person off the page, and that makes a difference. I honestly believe one person can pull a whole team down.
Of course, there was more to our success in ’87 than practical jokes. One big reason was that the front office made some major changes before the ’87 season. We got an All-Star closer in Jeff Reardon, a set-up man in Juan Berenguer, a leadoff hitter and left fielder in Danny Gladden, and a top bench player in Al Newman. The new guys fit in, probably better than anyone had a right to anticipate. And as an added bonus, they could play a little bit. That always helps.
As it turned out, Tom Brunansky (left), Kirby Puckett (second from right), Gary Gaetti (right), and I were the right combination of talent needed for the Twins to win a World Series. Courtesy of the Minnesota Twins
The Terminator
The key addition was Reardon. Although I hate it when people blame Ron Davis for our early problems, the truth is we struggled for years to find a closer. Getting Reardon was about the first time we went out and acquired somebody who still had something left, instead of getting someone who was washed up and nobody else wanted. When we acquired Reardon, we immediately had confidence that if we could get a lead into the late innings, we had a shot to win. That’s a huge mind-set for a team to have.
/> The impressive thing about Jeff is that he struggled big-time the first two months of the season. By late May, he had an ERA over 10.00 and was struggling with his control. As a team, we were under .500, at 21–22. But Jeff kept asking for the ball. He didn’t change a bit, even when he was struggling, and I think we all gained a lot of respect for him those first two months.
Of course, the thing with Reardon is that I don’t think any of us had a read on what was going on inside of him. We called him “The Terminator,” or “Yak,” because of his big curveball that we called a yakker. I always said he looked like Charlie Manson. He was a little spooky looking with that beard and those steely eyes. Charlie Manson probably isn’t a guy you want to be associated with, and I said it just for fun, but he had that look.
Beneath the beard was a guy who was extremely quiet and shy. Nicest guy in the world, but you just didn’t talk to Term much. In fact, that whole 1987 season, I never had a long conversation with him. He always had this little laugh: “heh, heh, heh.” You’d be talking to him, and he’d give you that little, “heh, heh, heh,” and turn and walk away.
A lot of closers are a little different. Maybe a little bit like kickers and punters in football. They have their own routine to get ready for a game, and they keep to themselves a lot.
Later in life, Term ran into some real problems. He had a son who died a few years ago, and after that, Term ran into some heart problems and some psychological problems. I couldn’t believe when I heard the news that he’d been arrested for robbing a jewelry story in Florida. I knew he was a guy who would never do anything like that, and that’s what came out. He was on medication for his heart and depression and it affected his mental state to the point where he apparently didn’t even know what he was doing.
I’m rooting for Term to get his life back in order because he’s a great guy—a very sincere, sensitive guy. He might look like a guy who’s going to grab the neighbor’s cat and squeeze its head off. But Term would be the guy holding the cat and petting it.
Señor Smoke
Have you ever seen those cartoons where you see the bull with a ring in his nose, scratching the ground with his hoof, snorting fire? Every time I see one of those cartoon bulls, I think of Juan Berenguer because that’s what he was like on the mound.
He was “Señor Smoke.” He’d no more than get the ball back from the catcher and he’d be ready to throw it again. He was always jacked up on the mound because he just loved to get people out. I know during the playoffs in ’87 some people felt he was showing the Tigers up with his arm pump, and I hated to see it, but there was nothing you could do about it. That was Juanie just being pumped up—funny, colorful, and a little bit moody. But I loved watching the guy pitch.
One thing that added to Juanie’s persona is that he never really mastered the complete English language. He used to butcher little parts of it. Like instead of saying “son of a bitch,” Juanie would always say “son of my bitch.”
I know firsthand. On one of our road trips during the regular season, our charter landed late, and the team bus got to our hotel in Toronto about 4 a.m. We were going through the hotels revolving door, all of us tired as heck, just shuffling along. I had Juanie going through the door right behind me, carrying his briefcase, like he always did, and wearing one of those funny little Fedora hats. As I was going through the door, I did one of those quick stops, just to see if he was awake. He wasn’t.
His face ran right into the glass door. I looked back, and all I could see was Juanie’s nose, mustache and big teeth planted against the glass. We got out of the door, and Juanie chased me all over the lobby, screaming, “You son of my bitch! You son of my bitch!”
The funniest thing was going down the next day and seeing Juanie’s big nose print still plastered on the revolving glass door.
But what a great guy to have on your staff. Juan would have pitched every day if they let him. One of the classic interviews was Juanie talking after Game 6 of the ’87 Series. The reporter asked Juan if he’d be able to pitch tomorrow, and Juan didn’t hesitate: “I pitch tomorrow. I start tomorrow if they need me.” He was a classic. His arm always hurt him, but he’d throw until it fell off. He loved pitching that much.
Newmie
We picked up Al Newman from Montreal during the offseason about three weeks after we got Reardon. I knew nothing about Newmie, and when he reported to spring training, there was no guarantee he was even going to make the team.
Funny the way things work out in this game. Newmie was in about a five-player battle for the backup infielder spot, and one of his prime competitors was Ron Gardenhire, who we had picked up from the Mets. Newmie had a little more speed and was a little more versatile than Gardy. So Newmie made the team, and Gardy got cut.
Newmie probably cost Gardy a major-league job, but it turned out to be a good move on a couple fronts. Gardy became a minor-league coach, then a minor-league manager, and found his true calling. I think Gardy is one of the best managers in the game today. To me, he’s a lot like Tom Kelly when it comes to respecting the game and emphasizing fundamentals. About the only difference is Gardy is a little more media-friendly.
Newmie became an important part of two World Series championship teams. Not only was he a very good player coming off the bench, he was one of those chemistry guys. Al always had a smile on his face and was always happy just to be wearing a major-league uniform. He had a great sense of humor, and he turned out to be a very good friend of Kirby Puckett and Danny Gladden, the last, but certainly not the least, of the new faces added before the start of the ’87 season.
Wrench
We picked up Gladden in a trade with the Giants just before breaking spring camp. The first time he came walking through the clubhouse door, I gave him the nickname “Wrench.” He looked like he’d just finished doing an oil job and greasing somebody’s car in the parking lot, like Mr. Goodwrench.
It’s hard to know where to begin when you talk about Danny. He was a little troublemaker. He was that kid on the block who would light a fire and burn a garbage can up, and then another kid would get caught for it, and Danny would throw up his hands and say, “I had nothing to do with it.”
He was a big-time instigator on a daily basis—just a ton of little things. Like he’d walk over to you in the clubhouse before a game, and say, “Geez, I heard you had a few too many cocktails last night.” So you’d go find the guy you were out with and say, “Why the hell would you tell Danny I had some cocktails last night?” And of course, no one had told Danny a thing. He’s just trying to stir something up. Every day he was trying to stir something up.
I think Danny was the guy who got TK thinking about giving guys a rest if there was a day game after a night game. Danny over the years got a reputation that he didn’t play on Sunday. It got to be kind of a joke. You’d see Danny out on Saturday night, and you’d think he better slow down. Then you’d remember that he didn’t play on Sundays.
TK learned that was a good idea pretty quick. That was the kind of thing Billy Gardner would never think of. Heck, I made all the bus trips and played every inning of every spring training game with Billy. I just didn’t know anything different. I’m not sure any of us did, until Danny came along.
But Danny had a little fire to him, and I loved the way he played the game. He reminded me a lot of Johnny Castino with his drive. Danny was the kind of guy you hated playing against. He had a little cockiness about him, with that long blonde hair and a little bounce to him when he ran. He was also another guy who was a lot softer than he appeared to be. Danny was fun-loving, but he was also a puppy dog at heart.
Not In Our Clubhouse
Of course, even puppy dogs get angry once in a while. And Danny had a temper, which Steve Lombardozzi can attest to. Late in the ’87 season Lombo got mad about being taken out of a game, and Gladden said something to him in the clubhouse about being a man and accepting things. Well, Lombo stewed on that and ended up driving to Danny’s house and knocking
on the door to tell him that he was, indeed, a man. One thing led to another, and they ended up in the backyard wrestling. Danny told me that his daughters were screaming, trying to get their mom, because Daddy was fighting some guy in the yard.
Lombo ended up getting a black eye out of it. But I thought it was pretty manly of Lombo. He didn’t want to bring a problem into the clubhouse, so he went and knocked on Danny’s door. OK, maybe it wasn’t the brightest thing to do. But give them credit: When they got back to the clubhouse the next day, you never knew anything had happened, other than Lombo had that nice shiner. A lot of guys would have had it out in the clubhouse, but that didn’t happen. I’m not saying they were ever best friends, but our clubhouse was always a great place to be.
You just had to keep close tabs on your shoelaces and the shaving cream.
The Last Stand?
When we got to spring training, the media focus was as much on the so-called Class of ’82, as the writers dubbed the six of us who had been rookies in 1982—Gary Gaetti, Tom Brunansky, Tim Laudner, Randy Bush, Frank Viola, and me—as on the offseason additions. The six of us had never done a thing as a team other than mount a brief challenge in 1984. From the start of 1982 through the 1986 season, the Twins had a record of 359–451, which isn’t much to hang your hat on.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this was a make-or-break season for us. Management had surrounded us with some talent, and if we didn’t produce, the Class of ’82 was going to be split up. We’d been in the league long enough that we were starting to make some decent money. Although our new owner, Carl Pohlad, had more cash than Calvin Griffith, Carl wasn’t into pouring money into losing propositions.