Jackson Brought Life to Yankee Stadium

Yankee Stadium was bigger in Reggie Jackson’s time. Not physically, because the renovation that pinched the playing field and reduced seating capacity preceded George Steinbrenner’s most successful free-agent acquisition. But, psychologically, it remained the grandest stage in American sports.

And Jackson, whose presence helped to sustain the illusion, filled it with his will, his need, his talent. The man not only understood what the future would hold when he brought his star to New York, he appeared to orchestrate the tumult.

On his very first day in a Yankees uniform, in spring training at Fort Lauderdale Stadium, he told a knot of reporters, “They’re looking for me here. I’m the hunted. I’m the hunted on the team of the hunted. Sell your papers. I can deal with it.”

So he did, in a fashion that has landed him in the Baseball Hall of Fame in his first year of eligibility. Chances are his deeds would have earned a plaque in Cooperstown had Jackson’s time in the Bronx been limited to road trips. But for a man who wanted so much to be viewed as more than a ballplayer, a man who tried so hard to become a larger-than-life figure, New York was an absolute necessity. It was here he became Reg-gie, Reg-gie, Reg-gie, a front-page personality in a tabloid town.

He had been preparing for the moment his entire life. The outfielder’s ability to grab headlines did not surprise his former teammates on the Oakland A’s, with whom he won three consecutive World Series. “There’s not enough mustard in the world to cover Reggie Jackson,” relief pitcher Darold Knowles once said without rancor. Those players grew up with Jackson in the A’s farm system, judged him by his actions and not his statements, were more amused than offended by his attempts to call attention to himself.

From the outset, there was tension in New York. He carried a Louisville Slugger-sized chip on his shoulder to a clubhouse already filled with accomplished players and presided over by a manager whose zeal to win was exceeded only by a mania for winning on his own terms. Even if he hadn’t been quoted as saying, “I’m the straw that stirs the drink,” in a Sport magazine article that first spring, complete acceptance by the Yankees was unlikely.

The man held himself apart. Players said he tried to impress them by reaching into his pocket and flashing a huge roll of bills. Mickey Rivers, the center fielder who held court in the back of the bus, skewered him with his own name--Reginald Martinez Jackson--citing it as a source of an identity problem. Did he want to be white, black, Hispanic? On the occasion of his last post-season triumph with the Yankees, Jackson and Graig Nettles celebrated the sweep of the A’s in the American League Championship Series by fighting at a post-game victory dinner.

Steinbrenner stacked egos like bats in a bat rack. Their constant rubbing created flames. None burned so brightly as Jackson’s. He caused explosions with something as simple as a bunt.

As for his strikeouts, which outnumbered hits in his major-league career, they could be as theatrical as Casey’s in the famous poem. Recall his showdown against Los Angeles Dodgers rookie Bob Welch in the second game of the 1978 World Series when Jackson fouled off three two-strike fastballs en route to a full count with the tying and winning runs on base and two out in the ninth. Jackson ultimately fanned on another sizzling fastball and the Dodgers prevailed, 4-3.

Although a victim, Jackson was energized by the moment. He said it would be different next time. And it was. Facing Welch in the 10th inning of Game 4, he rapped a two-out single to place the winning run in scoring position. In Game 6, the man homered off Welch to cap a 7-2 victory and a second consecutive championship for the Yankees.

Of course, that moment paled beside his performance in the sixth game of the 1977 World Series, when he homered on the first delivery from three different pitchers (Burt Hooton, Elias Sosa, Charlie Hough) in three successive at bats. Only the pre-eminent Yankee, Babe Ruth, previously had homered three times in a Series game. Jackson’s four consecutive homers over two games and his five in the course of the Series were unprecedented.

“It’s the greatest thing ever in a championship series, an All-Star Game or a World Series,” Steve Garvey said. “If it had been in a seventh game, it might have been the greatest thing ever in baseball.” The Dodgers first baseman was sufficiently moved by the occasion to applaud into his glove as Jackson trotted by for the final time.

He earned the designation as Mr. October with a .357 World Series batting average. Jackson did his best under pressure, some of it self-inflicted. His mental lapses rarely occurred in prime time. If he lacked sufficient motivation or concentration, he would dive into the dirt to avoid imaginary knockdown pitches, stoking his fire end invariably rocking the next offering.

Far from wilting in the incessant glare of New York, he thrived, at least professionally. Publicly challenged and occasionally benched by Billy Martin, he responded with significant base hits. Adversity sharpened his game. He wasn’t cowed by great expectations because he had grandiose designs of his own. “You expect the sun to shine in Florida,” he once explained. “Does that mean the sun is under pressure?”

Jackson was an extraordinary player who helped to win a World Series game by rotating his hip on the base paths, deflecting a relay throw in what the Dodgers contended was a premeditated, unlawful and shrewd maneuver. Dick Howser massaged his ego in 1980 with small considerations, such as declining the manager’s prerogative to sign autographed baseballs under the trademark between the seams, leaving that honor to his cleanup hitter. Jackson responded with 41 homers, 111 RBI and the lone .300 average of his career.

He was a lightning rod for controversy but he was a winner. It’s no coincidence the Yankees haven’t finished atop their division since 1981, when Steinbrenner let him file for free agency. You could make the case that there hasn’t been a truly electric moment in the ball park since that night Jackson returned as a member of the California Angels. The fans took the owner’s name in vain. The player, of course, homered.

And Yankee Stadium grows smaller with each succeeding year.