Every Signature Tells a Story: Mickey Lolich, the Reluctant Met

I used to get way too attached to players when I was a kid.

And I had trouble grasping the whole concept of trading players. It seemed like the ultimate act of disloyalty. How could a guy be a Met — a hero — once day, and the enemy the next?

Naturally I got a little older and wiser as to how the game works. But I must say there was one Mets trade that horrified and befuddled me at the time. And 30 years and one month later, I can’t say I understand it much better.

That would be the Dec. 12, 1975 deal that sent hero Rusty Staub and minor leaguer Bill Laxton to the Detroit Tigers for Mickey Lolich and outfielder Billy Baldwin.

Staub was 31 and a star of the 1973 near-miracle. He was a fan favorite and seemed a perfect fit for the Big Apple.

Lolich, meanwhile, was 35 and coming off a year where he lost 18 games. The Mets still had Seaver, Koosman and Matlack — plus a young Craig Swan — in the rotation, so pitching wasn’t an issue.

It’s not that Lolich was a bum. The MVP of the 1968 World Series, Lolich was the all-time leader in strikeouts by a left-hander when he came over, though soon surpassed by Steve Carlton.

He got stiffed on two Cy Young Awards. He had 25 wins and 308 strikeouts in 1971, but lost to Vida Blue. And the next year he had 22 wins and a 2.50 ERA but lost to Gaylord Perry.

It probably didn’t help his career that Billy Martin decided a bullpen was unnecessary and dragged 376 innings out of his arm in 1971.

Lolich didn’t fare that well, posting a decent 3.22 ERA but a nasty 8-13 record. He retired after the season, sitting out all of 1977 before playing two years for the Padres.

Staub, meanwhile, went nuts in the bandbox in Detroit. He was the starting right-fielder in the 1976 All- Star Game and in 1978 drove in 121 runs and hit 24 bombs. For a guy who was supposedly injury prone, Staub seemed durable in Detroit, playing in 161, 158 and 162 games in his three full years there.

I was always curious about the trade, both why the Mets would make it in the first place and why Lolich hung ‘em up after that one season.

He’s still very popular here in Michigan and for years ran a doughnut shop in Lake Orion on the fringes of the Flint Journal’s circulation area. He used to be a regular signer on the card show circuit. I saw he was signing at a show at Madonna College near Detroit in the early 1990s and wanted to get him to sign my Mets book.

I placed it in front of him, and he smiled. He isn’t asked to sign too many Mets items.

I asked if he liked pitching in New York.

"Absolutely hated it," he said. "I’m just a big ole country boy. I never felt comfortable there.

Apparently there were some other issues, too. He’s interviewed on the Baseball Hall of Fame’s Website and spoke of disagreements with the Mets coaches.


"But I did have some troubles with the way the Mets wanted me to pitch. A good pitcher controls or calls his own game, and I didn't know the N.L. hitters. It didn't bother me too much because I figured they'd have to hit my fastball or curveball, and they were both pretty good. But the Mets wanted to sort of control the way I pitched, and I was used to calling my own game. It was difficult for me to adjust. Also, my wife and family were back in Detroit, and I didn't know anybody in New York, so it was a tough season. So after the season, I decided it was time to get out, and I retired."

Lolich’s struggles didn’t hurt the team too much. The 1976 Mets finished third with 86 wins. Of course, it was the year before all the wheels came off, the midnight massacre occurred and the team went into its second period of despair.

In Other Words...

My cousin Mike is one of New York's Finest and just started a cool blog, "Large Coffee, Cream, Four Equals." Check it out here

Every Signature Tells a Story: Gregg Jefferies, A Little Too Uptight

I was as wrapped up in Gregg Jefferies hype as anyone after his explosive call-up at the end of 1988, confident that he’d have a future of stardom and a plaque waiting in Cooperstown lacking only an inscription of his glories to be.

But maybe the scene at a baseball card show appearance that winter should have tipped us off that things wouldn’t quite work out that well.

Jefferies was the Mets first-round pick in 1985 and was a three-time minor-league MVP. The hype was already building — his Fleer and Donruss baseball cards were selling for more than $5 right out of the pack, obscene for the time — when he arrived for the 1988 pennant stretch.

He looked as good as advertised, hitting .321 with six homers in 109 at-bats. I remember the Mets were even talking about limiting his at-bats in the last couple weeks to keep him eligible for the 1989 Rookie of the Year Award.

So I was pretty excited when Jefferies made the rounds of the autograph shows during the off-season. I went to see him at a show in West Haven, Conn. and was standing on line to buy tickets when there was a bustle at the door.

Jefferies and his entourage arrived, and apparently thought they were walking in a back door only to find themselves in the main lobby.

What was strange was the Gregg was surrounded by four goons — and I mean that literally. They were huge. Two stood in front of him, two behind. They were on him like Velcro. In fact, the two in behind were holding him by the shoulder pads of his coat, pushing him.

They were all so close it looked like they were one 10-legged creature, all with wide-eyed looks of dread when they saw all the fans in the lobby.

It was so strange that there was a brief awkward silence, as people stood there in disbelief. It seemed like the security people expected some kind of Beatlemania scene of crazed fans rushing the young star.

But no one stepped off the line. I think there was some applause and maybe some "Hey, Gregg!" type of calls.

I remember thinking, "What’s with the goons? Do they think we’re going to hurt the guy we expect to be our biggest star?"

Jefferies overestimated his need for security. Then again, it soon became apparent he overestimated a lot of things.

The Mets moved 1986 hero Wally Backman to install Jefferies as the team’s starting second baseman. But he seemed to become derailed by a horrible slump and finished with a modest .258 with 12 homes and 56 RBI. He finished a distant third in the Rookie of the Year balloting, losing to Jerome Walton, who I don’t think has been heard from since.

He also seemed to go into tantrums after making an out and couldn’t get along with his teammates or the media. He never looked like he was having fun playing baseball, like every groundout added to the weight of crushing expectations.

The next two years were better, but not too much, hitting .283 with 15 homers and 68 RBI in 1990, a long way from the mega-star we all expected.

It didn’t take too long for the Mets to tire of his act, and shipped Jefferies and Kevin McReynolds, another disappointment, off to the Kansas City Royals for Bret Saberhagen in December 1991. I was stunned that the Mets gave up on this guy so quickly, but it’s not like he did much to prove them wrong either.
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Jefferies finally found some success in St. Louis, hitting .342 in 1993 and .325 in 1994, making the All-Star team. But instead of staying in St. Louis, where fans loved him and he thrived under Joe Torre, he chased the dollars and signed with the Phillies as a free agent, irked that the Cards wouldn’t throw a no-trade clause in his deal.

He wasn’t as good in his four seasons with the Phils, bounced to the Angels in 1998 and then again to the lowly Tigers in 1999.

When I saw him in Detroit that year he looked pudgy, slow and older than he should have looked — nothing like the kid I remembered.

Jefferies retired at 33, completely unimaginable to those of us standing on line in New Haven that day. Then again, it was obvious that day that something wasn't quite right.

Flippin' Sweet Griffins Update:

I was still worked up after my rant about the Napoleon Dymanite fiasco at the Grand Rapids Griffins hockey game, so I fired off an e-mail to the team.

I've only written a letter like that twice before. I didn't expect to hear back from the team, figuring the staff there didn't give a darn.

Well, that's not the case. The team's vice president for marketing responded within an hour, asking me to call him, which I did the next day.

He explained that the evening had quite gone as planned from the team's perspective either. he said he actor who played Kip arrived just as the gates opened, was not feeling well and had not eaten. He said the team couldn't control people cutting in line, and tried to make good by asking the actors to sign later in the game.

The gentleman said he's not sure what happened with the shirts, and perhaps workers started distributing them early to people who were standing in the lobby before the gates opened.

He offered to have us come to another game as guests of the team, which is very nice. And the next day a "Vote for Pedro" shirt appeared on my desk at work.

I still think there were some things that could have been handled better that night, but I was impressed that the team responded so quickly and wanted to make things right.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Losing the 1969 Mets

It's one thing when members of the original 1962 Mets depart to their heavenly reward, players I know only from reading Mets history books.

But when we start to lose members of the World Champion Miracle Mets, it means something entirely different. It means I’m getting old.

The 1969 team was still slightly before my time. I was in kindergarten when the Mets took the series from the Orioles in five games. My first game at Shea was Banner Day in 1971, I got my first baseball cards in 1972 and it wasn’t until the 1973 season that I leaped headfirst into that all-consuming fanaticism.

But a big chunk of that 1973 "Ya Gotta Believe!" team was holdovers from the first pennant-winners — guys like Tom Seaver, Jerry Grote, Jerry Koosman, Bud Harrelson, Kranepool — so I felt bonded to that version of the team, too.

We’ve already lost a number of people associated with the 1969 champs. An Oldtimers’ Day celebration would have some pretty big holes.

Manager Gil Hodges, of course, died in spring training in 1972. I’ll always wonder if the Mets in the mid-70s would have fared better under Gil's firm command.

Reliever Danny Frisella was appeared in just a handful of games in 1969, but was a contributor in the years before and after. He died in a crash in 1977.

Pitching coach Rube Walker died in 1992, just months after Tom Seaver praised him during his Cooperstown induction speech.

Tommie Agee, who made those amazing catches in centerfield, died in 2001.

And we lost charismatic Tug McGraw to cancer last year, as well as announcer Bob Murphy, whose voice was part of the soundtrack of my youth.


Donn Clendenon, who died from leukemia at 70 on Saturday, has been called the final piece of the Mets puzzle. His numbers overall weren’t that impressive — a .252 average with 12 homers and 37 RBI in 72 games after arriving in mid-season. But he was a veteran presence on a team of kids and anchored the lineup with a big bat.

But on a team with two future Hall of Famers — and Koosman, who falls just short — it was Clendenon who was the World Series most valuable player, hitting three homers in the five games.

I forget that these players get on in years after their playing days. To me, they are forever young on baseball cards and in yearbook photos. And when another slips away, as Clendenon did this week, it’s a reminder of how much time has really passed — 36 years — and that I’m getting older too.

I was fortunate to meet Clendenon at a late 1980s gathering of Miracle Mets at a baseball card show in Manhattan, the same one where I ran into Johnny Ramone. Agee was there, too, and he frequently appeared at shows around the New York area. He was always a friendly guy with a big smile.

It was a strange show because as the players were trying to talk to fans — how often does a guy like J.C. Martin get asked to one of those things? — the show promoter was screeching at them to sign these posters she wanted to sell. I remember a lot of eye-rolling among the players, and it kind of "stole the fun" -- my daughter's phrase -- from the fans who paid for a fleeting moment with their heroes.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Clem Labine and Flint Journal Softball

Clem Labine pitched for two champions -- and the lowly 1962 Mets.

I was showing off my glorious flannel Mitchell & Ness reproduction of Tom Seaver’s 1969 jersey at a card show where members of the 1962 team were signing autographs.

Clem Labine looked up after signing my Mets history book and smiled.

“Hey, you’re wearing my jersey,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know if the old guy had kind of lost it, but I didn’t want to be rude.

“I think this is Tom Seaver’s jersey, Mr. Labine,” I carefully responded.

“Nope. I was No. 41 first. Look it up.”

It finally sunk in. For some reason it never occurred to me that other Mets had worn No. 41. I assumed it was the exclusive property of “The Franchise” – and me.

I’ve been wearing No. 41 as a tribute to Tom for as long as I’ve been wearing anything with a number.

One of the responsibilities of being the coach of the Flint Journal’s coed softball team all those years was ordering our jerseys. Being a certifiable uniform junkie, I put great effort into designing our gameware each year. I’d spend the winter planning. We didn't always play well, but we looked awesome!

Our colors were black, red and white because we were a newspaper team. You know the joke from the era before USA Today: “What’s black and white and red (read) all over?

And of course, I got first choice on the numbers. It was a given that No. 41 was locked up.

Looking through the history books, it might have been better if the Mets had locked 41 in the closet until Seaver arrived.

Labine had a nice career, finishing with a 77-56 record in 13 years winning World Championships with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1955 and Pittsburgh Pirates in 1960 -- beating vile Yankees both times!

But his magic was gone by the time the expansion Mets were grabbing former Dodgers and Giants. Labine appeared in 3 games, pitching 4 innings and posting an ugly 11.25 ERA before being released.

No. 41 didn’t fare much better the next year, when Grover Powell wore it in 20 games, wrapping up with a 1-1 record and 2.72 ERA.

Jim Bethke wore the number in 1965, with a 2-0 record and 4.28 ERA. But he gave way to Gordon Richardson later that year, who went 2-4 in 50 games over the remainder that season and 1966.

Of course, Seaver debuted in 1967, and today it hangs on the wall at Shea Stadium with Casey, Gil and Jackie.

At the press conference when Seaver announced his retirement in 1987, a reporter asked him how he game upon the number that would be as identifiable to him as No. 3 is with the Babe, No. 44 with the Hammer and No. 9 with the Splinter.

“It’s a very romantic story,” Seaver said with a smile. “I arrived at my locker on my first day and it was hanging there.”

That equipment manager in 1967 had no idea about the important role he’d play in Journal coed softball uniforms somewhere down the line.

In Other Words...

Thanks to the folks at Mets by the Numbers, an amazingly detailed site about every number worn by every Mets player and more. It's one of those site that you start reading, then suddenly realize an hour has gone by.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Richie Ashburn, Frank Thomas and Coed Softball

I sure can’t blame the other outfielders on The Grand Rapids Press coed softball team if they want to wear football pads when they play along side me.

We’ve had a couple issues with collisions this season.

One of the complexities of the seemingly simple slowpitch coed ball is that you don’t want to appear to be a ball hog, which inherently implies that you don’t think the women teammates can make the plays.

So the other extreme tends to happen, where you hang back and don’t go after balls that you probably should catch. You get points for being a gentleman -- but those are not reflected on the scoreboard.

That happened once this season, and a ball that both a teammate and I each of us could have handled dropped in for a hit. In the next game, I assumed a ball was mine and April — trying not to repeat the prior incident — ran right into me. Luckily, she wasn't hurt, though we got a lecture about calling for the ball.

But two games later there was a gapper that both Gayle and I went charging for. This time I called it, but I don’t think she heard me. Wham-o! We collided at full speed, Gayle’s knee into my thigh.

I gimped off the field -- I think more embarrassed than hurt. Gayle toughed it out and stayed in the game. But later her knee started swelling up, and after a trip to the doctor learned she ruptured something, leaving her with a dark purple brusie that stretches from her calf to lower thigh.

Naturally, I feel horrible. She's wearing some kind of brace and I cringe when I see her limp across the newsroom.

But the crash reminds me of my favorite story about the 1962 Mets. It’s told wonderfully by author Roger Angell in Ken Burns’ epic Baseball documentary.

Centerfielder Richie Ashburn, a future Hall-of-Famer, was forever crashing into shortstop Elio Chacon, who didn’t speak English and didn’t understand when Ashburn was calling for the ball.

So teammate Joe Christopher pulled Ashburn aside and taught him some Spanish. “Yo lo tengo!” which roughly means “I got it!”

So the next time there was a fly ball between them, Ashburn put his new skills to the test, shouting “Yo lo tengo, yo lo tengo.” It worked perfectly, as Chacon backed off.

Except that Ashburn was then knocked flat by leftfielder Frank Thomas, who spoke no Spanish.

I was lucky to meet both Ashburn and Thomas at a card show in the late 1980s that featured a good chunk of the 1962 team, the original Mets.

Photo Updates

A little knowledge, of course, is a very dangerous thing. Now that I've learned how to add photos, I've gone back into some of the earliest posts and updated them. Here are links (which I've fixed, sorry about that) if you are interested:

Pop Shortell, Dave Winfield and Richard Nixon

Terry Nichols and the Rockies (Part One): Coors or the Keynote?

Terry Nichols and the Rockies, (Part Two): Wrangling for a Seat.

Wiffle Balls and the Meaning of Life

Every Signature Tells a Story: Tom Seaver

One of my favorite possessions is a book, “The New York Mets — The First Quarter Century.”

It’s not particularly well-written, though the photos are nice. It was a Christmas gift from parents in 1986, which makes it special in and of itself.

But the book as been my companion to dozens of ballgames and card shows. Every time I meet anyone connected with the Mets — or might potentially meet anyone connected with the Mets — I ask them to sign the book.

There are easily more than 150 autographs in there by now, from owner Fred Wilpon to former back-up catcher Brent Mayne, Hall-of-Famers to guys up for a cup of coffee.

Don’t worry, I’m not one of those freaky autograph stalkers. I usually get signatures at card shows or spring training, were everyone is relaxed and doesn’t mind signing.

I like to shake hands with people after they sign, maybe ask a question or two. That way, the book is a collection of experiences, not just autographs.

And some of experiences are true adventures. Like the first one: Tom Seaver.

The Franchise was my baseball hero. Actually, it might not be accurate to put that in the past tense. Most of my basement baseball shrine is dedicated to chronicling his career. OK, so I wear No. 41 on my softball jersey. And my first cat’s middle name was Seaver. And the kids’ middle name...well, my wife drew the line somewhere.

But I’d never met the man in person until a baseball card show in Trumbull, Conn., in 1987.

I stood in line with three things I wanted Tom to sign: the book, a baseball and my ticket stub from win No. 300. My wife held our camera in case Tom wouldn’t mind posing for a snapshot.

And as I got closer, I realized was absolutely terrified.

I’d met ballplayers before. But this was Tom. Much of my childhood was spent trying to look like him and be like him. I’m still scarred from June 15, 1977, when he was traded to the Reds.

What if, when we got up to him, he was a jerk? A lifetime of hero worship wasted.

So I was probably shaking when it was my turn to approach the table.

“Hi, Tom,” I said, holding out the ball and laying the book in front of him. “Could you write: 'To Dave?'”

“Hello,” he said in a warm, friendly tone.

“I’ve been a fan since I was.....” and I just couldn’t get the words out, but motioned my hand about waist high.

Seaver smiled. “When was that, last week?”

I handed him the ticket stub.

“That was a good game. I brought my whole family.”

“It was a good game,” Seaver said, and wrote his name and “#300” on the stub.

Then I got really bold.

“Could you pose for a picture?”

“Sure! Come around here.”

Seaver motioned for the assistant to get out of his seat and let me sit next to him. He put his arm on my shoulder and leaned close.

“How’s this?”

“Awesome!” I said as my wife took the photo.

I probably thanked him a million times as I collected my stuff and walked off , very grateful -- and relieved -- that he was so nice.

We dropped the film off on the way home to be developed.

Remember the scene in the “Princess Bride,” when Prince Humperdink cranks up that life-sucking machine and Wesley makes that mournful wail that is heard throughout the kingdom?

“That is the sound of ultimate suffering,” Inigo tells Fezzig.

I’m pretty sure I made that sound when we picked up the photos. The camera malfunctioned.

I’m over it now.

I’ve since met Seaver two other times. Once at another card show in Connecticut, and another a couple years ago at the huge sports collectors’ convention in Chicago.

I didn’t get anything signed the last time — prices are way out of control now — but I had my son with me. The employees allowed me to walk up and shake Tom’s hand and introduce him to Andrew.

I didn’t ask to take a photo. Not going there again.