He said, "My reasoning is that if the next man up hits a home run, the score is still 7-6. You didn't give me a chance to battle my way out of it."
"Give you a chance?" I had to laugh. "I didn't want the married men in the infield killed. They were hitting bullets off you. I thought I'd try to save the lead as long as I could."
I missed the whole second game of the doubleheader talking to him in my office. I said, "I think you've got a good arm. But I think you forget how to pitch out there. You're just a thrower, and throwers are a dime a dozen. Until you learn how to pitch, you're going to be in trouble."
He reminded me that he was the best left-handed pitcher-in all of baseball.
"All right, Jerry, one of these days I'll let you go out and go all the way."
The very next week I was going to do just that. I let him stay in a game until they got a five-or six-run lead on him. I stayed with him and I stayed with him, and when it came to the point where he couldn't get anybody out I figured I'd have to break my word and take the consequences.
Whenever a pitcher is coming out, I always say something to encourage him. "Stay with 'em, Jerry," I said, as he came into the dugout. "These things happen."
What do you think he said to me? He looked right at me and he said, "What the hell took you so long?"
You look at a guy like this and you think, You know, you're daft.
So over the winter I read in the paper that Jerry Reuss called me a dummy. Well, I'll tell you one thing. This dummy don't throw the ball. That other dummy is throwing the ball. I couldn't have been such a dummy when he won. I must have left him in pretty good, I must have made some right guesses, because 16 was the most he had ever won anyplace.