He Makes the Most of His Run

It’s not like Big D to leave us in the middle innings. Don usually went the route. Of his 209 lifetime victories, 167 of them were complete games.

He never needed much in the way of support. One or two runs were enough. And, with the Dodgers of his era, that was a good thing. That was all he got. It got to be a joke around the clubhouse. Captain Maury Wills would bunt for a single, steal second, go to third on a ground ball to the right side and slide home on a fly ball to short center, dust himself off and say to Don Drysdale, “There’s your run, now don’t squander it.”

No one would laugh harder than Big D. Once, when he was in Washington for a presentation at the White House or some such, a messenger came in with the breathless news that his fellow Dodger, Sandy Koufax, had pitched a no-hitter in Philadelphia. “Oh, yeah?” shot back Drysdale. “Who won?”

He was a Hall of Fame pitcher and a Hall of Fame human being. Don’s nickname at the time was the “Happy Warrior.” He had the best sense of humor about himself of any megastar I have known. When the 1965 World Series began in Minnesota, Koufax couldn’t pitch because it was Yom Kippur, a Jewish holiday. Instead, Drysdale started on short rest. Don loved to tell the story at banquets. How he got racked up for seven hits--including two home runs--and seven runs in a little over two innings, and how he said to Manager Walt Alston as he came out to relieve him, “I bet you wish I was the one who was Jewish.”

Big D was like a big collie dog. You could almost picture him going through life with his tail wagging, an ongoing Lassie movie. He could always laugh at himself and the team.

He was mean on the mound, genial off it. He took the position that home plate was his office and you intruded at your peril. He often said he split the plate with the batters. They could have the outside part, but the inside and the middle belonged to him. I don’t know how many times he hit Frank Robinson when Frank was with the Reds, but Robbie used to lean over the plate looking for the outside curve and Drysdale let him know he didn’t belong there. “Let’s see if he could hit it lying down,” Drysdale used to laugh.

He holds the modern league record for hitting 154 batters. No telling how many hundreds got out of the way just in time. “If you’re going to let them dig in, you might as well hand them your paycheck right now,” he used to say. Fresco Thompson used to say of him: “He didn’t care whether he knocked the bat off you or you off the bat.”

Willie McCovey used to hit him like he owed him. One time, in San Francisco, McCovey touched him for a home run, knocking him out of the box. I went down in the locker room, where I was not supposed to be (and the Dodger clubhouse caretaker, Nobe Kawano, had a fit), but Big D was strolling around with his shirt off, his face black with rage. I looked. He had painful shingles all around his midriff. “What the hell did McCovey hit?” I asked. Drysdale glared. Then, his face softened. “Ball four,” he said. And he roared with laughter.

That was Big D. He pitched in pain. He played hurt. He loved the game. He probably had better luck against right-handed batters. That sidearm fastball of his came in there like a hand grenade to righties. He threw a heavy ball. It was like hitting a shotput. He probably had better luck against Willie Mays than any pitcher in the league. (“Oh, yeah, I held him to triples,” Don used to scoff.) And of Henry Aaron, he said: “Trying to get a fastball past Henry Aaron was like trying to smuggle a sunrise past a rooster.”

He pitched probably the most gorgeous game I ever saw anyone pitch in the World Series. It was 1963 and he threw a three-hit, nine-strike out shutout at the Yankees. His own team only got four hits--and one run. And those, bear in mind, were the Mantle-Maris Yankees who went whole seasons without being shut out.

One hot day in Cincinnati, Big D, his face and uniform black with sweat, was systematically cutting the Reds down when, suddenly in the ninth inning, he picked up a weak ground ball and tried to throw to first. But the ball went into right field, and the winning run scored. I wrote a lead that the only ball the Cincinnati Reds got out of the infield all afternoon against Drysdale, he threw out. The next day, I approached Double D’s locker with trepidation. He glared, then broke into a grin. “You might have mentioned it was the best curve I threw all day,” he chuckled. That was D.

It was a little-known fact that he always hankered to be a play-by-play announcer. It was his dream, even when he was a big star. You could often find him around the dugout or the bullpen talking into a spoon or a broom, broadcasting an imaginary game.

The batters got wind of this. I think it was Rusty Staub who said: “I hear Big D wants to be a broadcaster--I wish he’d hurry up and do it.” The batter’s box with a 3-and-2 count would be a lot safer place.

Don never got lifted for a pinch-hitter. He was often the best the Dodgers had at that, too. But God took him out in the top of the seventh the other night. As usual, the game is a lot less fun without him. I guess God knew what he was doing. Maybe the batters up there need a little brushing back. Or they have to have someone who knows what to do with one whole run.