Rage. Peter Golenbock
sport?”
The Mets decided that I was still too raw to begin my career in Double-A, and rather than send me to Williamsport, they assigned me to Single-A Auburn, in upstate New York. Auburn played in the New York-Penn League. I hadn’t been hit hard in the spring, but I didn’t throw a lot of strikes either, and I had yet to master my new pitching mechanics.
When I arrived in Auburn, I focused on becoming a major league ballplayer. I made sure I got my rest, at least at first. I would get to bed early two days before I pitched. The night before, I might go out and have a drink or two with my buddies, but it was only a couple of drinks, and then I was off to bed.
All I wanted to be was a major league ballplayer. That was the expectation I had for myself. I had read all the articles about my potential, and I was determined to fulfill that promise. I knew I’d only get one shot, and I wanted to make the best of my opportunity.
In one of my early starts for Auburn, I pitched against the Wellsville Red Sox. When I warmed up, I had great stuff. My ball was tailing, my curve was sharp, and I was throwing strikes. I started the game with two strikeouts, but then I couldn’t get anyone else out, and manager Clyde McCullough had to come to the mound to get me. I went into the clubhouse, had a beer, then another, then another, and by the time the game was over I was tipsy. After the game, McCullough called me into his office. Not only was I drunk, but I was feeling sorry for myself, down in the dumps, and despondent.
Clyde and I both were staying at the Auburn Hotel. Clyde was another old-timer. Twenty years earlier he was the scout who had brought Jackie Robinson to speak to Branch Rickey before Rickey signed Robinson to play for the Brooklyn Dodgers and break major league baseball’s color barrier. Clyde had a world of experience, and he saw how uptight and nervous I had been, and he wanted me to relax and not be so grim about my job.
Clyde said to me, “I’m going to be in the lobby at five o’clock in the morning, and if you come in one minute before five, I’m going to fine you one month’s salary. I don’t care what you do, but it would be best if you went out and had a good time. Here are the keys to my car. See you later.”
“Okay, Coach.”
I spent most of the night drinking, and I came in as the sun was coming up. I spent much of the rest of the next day throwing up. I had my washboard abs from throwing up after drinking too much. That day was as painful as any day I ever spent. I drank some chicken noodle soup, but not much else.
I arrived at the ballpark, and Jimmy Callahan, our trainer, told me that Clyde wanted to see me. I walked into his office, and Clyde looked up from his desk, and he said, “You look terrible.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind if you let me stay in the clubhouse during the game and sleep it off.”
“I’d like to,” Clyde said, “but you’re pitching tonight.”
I went out and pitched six innings, which was as far as I could go before keeling over. It was my first win in pro ball. Clyde’s message to me was that I was too uptight. I was too focused on making it to the big leagues. I wanted to win too badly, and I needed to relax.
“I don’t want you doing this before every start,” he told me, “but every so often between starts you need to go out with the guys and have a few beers and relax.”
Clyde was warm, sincere, and funny.
He told a story about how he had once played for the Chicago Cubs. It was opening day and he was out in the bullpen. It was so cold, he said, that he and a number of the Cub players carried glass flasks in their back pockets, and they’d take a nip every so often. He was called on to pinch-hit in the eighth inning. He went up to the plate and hit the ball off the ivy of the Wrigley Field outfield wall. He slid into second base, and he could feel something warm running down his leg. It was the whiskey. The flask broke into pieces during his slide.
“I spent the next two hours in the training room pulling shards of glass from my ass,” he said.
I loved Clyde. He was as good a manager of first-year players as you could find in the game. He was easygoing and had an infectious smile, and yet he’d give you the rough-tough voice when he felt he needed to. He was a real players’ manager.
I kept my nose clean during my year at Single-A Auburn, though I did find myself at the wrong end of a gun.
One night, Bob Johnson and I decided to drive from Auburn to Syracuse to have some fun. Bob was a starting pitcher with tremendous potential, but he was also a magnet for trouble. He had a long scar along the side of his face, and he told me that one time in Chicago he got caught up in a race riot. He also had had his front teeth knocked out.
He was a nice guy if he liked you, but if he didn’t like you, watch out! For example, Bob developed a burning hatred for the scout who had signed him. The scout had given him $10,000 to sign, but then gave another pitching prospect, Dennis Musgraves, a bonus of $100,000. Bob, Musgraves, and the scout were together in the Instructional League one year, and Bob and the scout were watching Musgraves warm up.
“You gave that motherfucker $100,000 and only gave me $10,000!” Johnson said to the scout. “My changeup is faster than his fucking fastball. I ought to kill you,” he said as he chased the terrified scout into the clubhouse.
We arrived in Syracuse and drove to a strip club where we began drinking zombies, which contained ten different types of liquor. If you could drink five zombies, the drinks were on the house. Clyde McCullough had shown me that I could get good and looped and still pitch, and so Bob and I both decided we’d accept the zombie challenge.
There was an acrobatic pole dancer performing, and she did things on that pole that I haven’t seen again to this day. She could flip over and do things that are hard to describe. Bob and I were drinking pretty heavily, and he started talking to this pretty young stripper who was sitting at the bar, and before I knew it, Bob said to me, “This gal is going to go back to Auburn with us.”
“How is she going to get back to Syracuse?” I wanted to know. Syracuse is a good twenty-five miles from Auburn.
“Who gives a fuck?” Bob said.
Bob and I, with the stripper close behind, headed for the parking lot. I started to open the car door when a man with a gun jumped out from behind a car.
“What are you doing with my wife?” he wanted to know. “What’s going on?”
Bob and I were standing together, and the man pointed the gun first at Bob and then at me. Both of us had the same bright idea: When the gun was pointed at the other guy, we’d attack him. The gun was pointing at me when Bob made his move. Bob was catlike, and he punched the husband in the face before the man could pull the trigger, knocking him out cold. The woman ran off, and Bob and I jumped in my car and drove back to Auburn.
In the newspapers the next day it was reported that a man had been attacked by two men who broke the man’s jaw, his collarbone, and his nose. But, in reality, it was only one man.
The Single-A Auburn team would travel from town to town by bus. The bus didn’t have great air conditioning. Clyde would sit in the front of the bus, wearing a shirt and boxer shorts. On the trip from Auburn to Jamestown, the longest of the season, I walked to the front of the bus and said, “Skip, a couple of the guys and I have to take a piss.”
“Good idea,” Clyde said. “I have to take a piss too. I’ll show you how to do it.”
“You guys thought we were going to stop,” he said in a loud voice. “We’re not going to stop.” He was laughing when he said it. Then he said, “We can’t afford to stop the bus. We have to get to the game.”
“So how do we do it?” I asked.
Clyde walked down the two steps leading to the door of the bus and had the driver crack the door open, and he peed out the opening as we traveled down the highway.
“That’s how you do it,” Clyde said. And when any of us had to pee, we did the same thing. I often wondered what the cars traveling