Ron Guidry - Gator: my life in pinstripes

WHERES GATOR!?

George Steinbrenners voice boomed through the clubhouse like a drill sergeants at a marine corps boot camp. George always wanted to let you know how he felt. Sometimes he wanted to cuss at you. He liked it if you cussed back at him. He wanted to motivate you. To him, the cussing and the motivating were one and the same. It happened to so many guys, so many days. Especially this season. But this wasnt just any other day during the 1978 New York Yankees season. This was hours before the biggest game of the year. One of the biggest games in Yankees history. Arguably one of the biggest games in baseball history. George being George, the loudmouthed, pushy, in-your-face owner of the Yankees, he wanted to have words with his starting pitcher before the game. That starting pitcher was me. And I wanted none of it.

WHERES GATOR!? he bellowed.

It wasnt a question so much as a demand. If he wanted to talk to you, he expected an audience. In a couple of hours, we were set to play a one-game tiebreaker to decide the American League East. This was the first tiebreaker since baseball adopted divisions in 1969. And it wasnt against just any team. It was against the Boston Red Sox.

The game was straight out of a Hollywood script. Forget all of our internal mayhem from that seasonthe constant drama surrounding Reggie Jackson, the departure of our fiery and disagreeable manager, Billy Martin, and more. Boston against New York transcended all of that. There was the historical aspect: the Curse of the Bambino and the Red Sox spending decades, over half a century, nipping at our heels. There was what had happened this year: baseballs Boston Massacre, in which the Red Sox led the division by fourteen games during the middle of the summer, only to give it away. Then, in the final week, they won eight in a row to tie it back up on the very last day. We were both 99-63. A coin was flipped, and the tiebreaker would be played at Fenway Park. A 163rd game in a 162-game season. One game to settle it all.

WHERES GATOR!?

My teammates didnt know where I was. Neither did our manager, Bob Lemon. Only one person in the clubhouse, our trainer, Gene Monahan, knew where I was hiding out. I had snuck into the training room to take a nap. I lay down beneath the training table, and Geno threw a couple of sheets over it so nobody could see me. People popped in and out of the clubhouse asking Geno if he had seen me. Geno shrugged and said he hadnt. When George got around to asking him, Geno said I might be collecting my thoughts out on the field. So off George went, furiously stomping around the dewy Fenway grass in search of his starting pitcher. Meanwhile, I was sound asleep.

I knew George would be coming for me. But I didnt need anybody screaming at me. I knew exactly how big this game was; nobody had to remind me. So I didnt read the papers. If I was watching TV and a story about the game came up, Id change the channel. I knew the entire country would be watching. Red Sox broadcaster Ned Martin said it best: If there is anything going on in the world today, he mused, I dont know what it is.

There were a bunch of reasons I couldve been worried. Probably shouldve been worried. The Red Sox were every bit as good as us. The ninety-nine wins apiece said it all. Normally, ninety-nine wins would have won the division running away. Their lineup may have been the best in baseball. And they were red hot, winners of eight in a row. Moreover, the game was being played on their turf, Fenway Park. I was pitching on three days of rest, as opposed to my customary four. I knew I wouldnt have my best stuff.

But every step that had led me to this point in the season told me to ignore all of that. If you get caught up in it, youre likely to forget what your job is. I was brought up to be self-reliant and patient, something my long road to the majors reinforced, like crossbeams in a renovation. Thats the reason I was here. The fact that I was able to take a nap underneath the training table two hours before the first pitch should tell you everything you need to know about how worried I was.

The 1978 Yankees season might have been the most famous soap opera in baseball history. The lead actors in the drama: owner George Steinbrenner, who fought and fired his manager, Billy Martin, after Billy told the press that Reggie Jackson and George deserved each otherones a born liar, the others convicted. The manager who feuded with his players, suspending Reggie for five days after a game against Kansas City in which Reggie defied Billy by attempting to bunt. The players who butted heads with one another. The hurt feelings and catfights. The drama had a full complement of characters. Come to think of it, Im not sure whether it was a soap opera or a three-ring circus. And it all took place on the biggest stage in sports, New York City, and on the most popular team in the history of Americas national pastime. The fireworks and explosions rocked the entire country, on the front and back pages of the newspapers, on television, and on sports radio.

In the span of a couple of years I had gone from relative anonymitya good old boy from Lafayette, Louisianato become the ace of the pitching staff. I knew the team depended on me, as much as anybody, to win. On the other hand, I was never the source of the teams drama. The reasons varied, but other folksfrom Reggie to Billy to George to Sparky Lylewere central figures of the discontent. I didnt have a beef with anybody. I tended to keep to myself and focus on doing my job in the best way I knew how. But that didnt mean I didnt observe what was going on. I was never far from it, but because I wasnt personally involved, I felt like I had the right distance to get some perspective about not just what happened but why it turned out the way it didwith us winning it all. You see, Im not sure we would have won the World Series if all of that didnt go down. We may not have won if Billy remained our manager. We may not have won if our guys had issues but didnt hash them out.