OFTEN WE WERE IGNORED

My sixth victory in a row to open the season with Appleton in 1964 was almost finished and possibly, my fourteenth strikeout. I pushed off the mound a little harder, stretching my left leg a little further than normal. There was a flash of pain and I was on the ground unable to move. All the muscles in my lower back had been torn by the effort and, at this moment, I was paralyzed. What followed should provide a feeling as to the disregard for players and their well being during this era.

There were so many stock responses to injuries by the “good old boys” coaching, it was ridiculous. Their favorite was, “Rub some dirt on it”. This could come after a player had been hit by a pitch or having broken his leg sliding, it didn’t matter. There were no trainers at the lower levels and we had to administer to each other. No park below the AAA level had an ambulance available and most were far away from medical facilities.

Mike Andrews’ compound leg fracture during our game in Waterloo, Iowa was the worst injury I would ever see during my career. Waterloo gained a lot of negative press during the 1963 season due to a brawl when players went into the stands battling their fans and our club was next to play in their stadium. Andrews was on the ground for twenty minutes when his spikes locked into a rotted first base bag. Another fight ensued when some drunk yelled “Throw a sheet over him, he’s dead”. Finally, an ambulance arrived and we continued the game.

Instead of being taken to the nearest hospital in Dubuque, my manager instructed teammates to carry me to the team bus, telling everyone to hurry their showers. The pain had lessened but there was a ten-hour ride ahead with all the terrible thoughts about whether my career was over. We arrived at the park in Appleton and now I had to get to our apartment in the center of the city.

My two roommates, Steve Huntz and Eddie Hawkins, carried me in a locked, seated position from the bus to my car since the injured muscles had tightened during the night. I could operate the pedals but once at the apartment they had to extract and carry me to my bed on the second floor. Within minutes, I called out for help since nothing was going to get better lying there for any period of time.

Given the popularity of baseball in Appleton, word spread quickly in the hospital on my arrival and I was afforded VIP attention. Someone from staff called the front office demanding a representative be at the hospital because of the serious nature of my injury. My manager, Billy Demars, arrived as I was being taken to x-ray. Now he became concerned and, with permission from my doctor, placed a call to Baltimore while I was lying on my side, unable to straighten.

Baltimore was awaiting the diagnosis when Billy shouted, “What the hell is that”? The doctor had posted x-rays on the display board and the one person who shouldn’t have been in the room was offering his diagnosis before the professional. Hearing this exclamation, I knew I was done not only professionally but also personally, never to walk again.

“Calm down, this indicates his bones are still growing. There are no skeletal problems, it is muscular”. Demars passed this diagnosis to whomever was on the other end of the line with a false sincerity of concern. Twelve hours earlier he could have cared less. Rub some dirt on it. For the first time I was able to relax both body and mind.

Appleton’s hospital was booked solid and the only room available was in a psychiatric wing. Nights proved to be interesting since nurses on duty tended to congregate in my room for relief. Once the traction device straightened my body and the morphine injections stopped, it was an ideal setting for someone famous. There were two weeks of intense therapy and I was ready to leave after a date with one particular nurse had been confirmed.

Ultra sound located the initial six major trouble spots and my therapist marked these with an X, using a ballpoint pen. A nurse armed with a large needle loaded with a muscle relaxant stabbed me at each indicated spot. If I didn’t react by jumping off the table, she would stab again. Electric stimulation was soothing until the person running the machine increased amplification. My favorite therapy was the whirlpool and late night back rubs were a bonus. I was repaired and continued on to the 14-2 record, including our playoff game.

Pressures building from the war in Viet Nam caused me to make a decision at season end. While many college students were considering going to Canada, mine was whether I could afford time away from the game. I wasn’t afraid of fighting and since I felt strongly about commitment, the only obstacle was the long interruption to my career if I were to be drafted.

Most players joined a Reserve program of the various services. There would be eight weeks of basic training followed by regular monthly meetings in their community. During each summer of obligation, their unit would go to a major base for two weeks of training. This is the route I chose.

Basic training was held at Ft. Jackson, SC requiring a long bus trip from Appleton. Our group of forty arrived at two am and gathered in front of barracks that were to be our temporary home. Diversity in our small population was amazing. Long hair, short hair, no hair, black, white, Oriental, hippy garb and even a sport coat. The unknown aspect of our future caused a bonding at the bus station and increased during the trip. The next person to join us was downright scary because he was lean, mean, and in total control of our lives.

“Alright you sons of bitches, get off your ass and try to come up with some kind of formation. I doubt you’re smart enough to understand my simple request, but we’ll see. You’re all mine from here on and I own your souls”! Never had I heard words delivered like these and could only wonder how much worse it could get.

“This is your last chance to get rid of any pornographic materials, drugs or drug paraphernalia. While I’m you babysitter, none of this shit is going to happen”. Everyone was waiting for the first to make a move, but there wasn’t a twitch. Not until I realized the bottom of my duffel bag held a shaving kit and in that kit was a hypodermic needle.