Dick Tidrow–Topps Company–1978 (No. 179)

Dick “Dirt” Tidrow wouldn’t fit into today’s game. In an era when pitchers have become so specialized–there are set-up men, lefty specialists, innings eaters, one-inning closers, five-inning starters, crossover relievers, and never shall any of these categories overlap–no one would fully appreciate Tidrow’s value. That’s because a large part of Tidrow’s value was the actual versatility he brought to the pitching table. He could pitch set-up relief, serve as a long man, close out games occasionally, and fill in as a starter on a moment’s notice. He could perform all of those roles effectively, sometimes within a span of about two weeks, making him one of the most subtle but vital contributors to the Yankees’ mini-dynasty of 1976 to 1978.

Yet, Tidrow didn’t become a bastion of versatility overnight. Bursting onto the major league scene in 1972, Tidrow emerged as a durable right-handed starter for the rebuilding Cleveland Indians. Pitching only occasionally in relief, Tidrow made 74 starts for the Indians in 1972 and ’73, logging over 500 innings in the process. As the Indians’ No. 2 starter (behind Gaylord Perry), the young workhorse pitched well enough in 1972 to earn The Sporting News’ American League Rookie of the Year Award. After a poor four-game stretch to start the 1974 season, the Indians foolishly included Tidrow in the deal that also sent Chris Chambliss to the Yankees for an array of can-miss prospects and pitchers. It was another in a series of brilliant moves by Yankee GM Gabe Paul, who knew the Indians’ talent base as well as anyone, having worked for the Tribe prior to his relocation to New York.

Yankee manager Bill Virdon called on Tidrow 33 times that season–25 games as a starter and eight as a reliever. The following year, Tidrow worked solely in relief, pitching primarily as Sparky Lyle’s main set-up man, at first for Virdon and then for Billy Martin. Except for two spot starts, Tidrow remained in that role exclusively through the end of 1976. During that time, he built up the trust of Martin, who loved Tidrow’s durability and willingness to take the ball. So in 1977, Martin tested Tidrow by starting him seven times, giving him the ball 42 times out of the pen, and allowing him to finish 26 of those games. In his seven starts, Tidrow recorded a spotless mark of 5-0. For the season, Tidrow won 11 games, saved five others, and logged 151 innings. Who does that in today’s game? No one does, that’s who.

The jack-of-all-trades role continued in 1978, only this time with more emphasis on starting. When injuries to Don Gullett, Jim “Catfish” Hunter, and Andy Messersmith threatened to wreck the rotation, Martin and Bob Lemon turned to Tidrow. Making only six relief appearances that season, Tidrow started 25 games. He actually notched four complete games, borderline remarkable for a part-time reliever. For the summer, he soaked up 185 innings that might have otherwise gone to the Ken Clays and Larry McCalls of the world. In a season in which Hunter made only 20 starts, Gullett registered only eight, and Messersmith made a mere five, those innings amounted to lifesavers for managers Martin and Lemon.

Many pitchers tend to become regimented and like to follow their routines to the point of superstition. The more defined their roles, the better they like it. If you ask some pitchers to do something outside of their proverbial boxes, they bristle at the suggestion. Not so with Tidrow. Whatever Virdon, Martin, or Lemon asked him to do, he did. We never heard one shred of complaint–at least not publicly. And in the Bronx Zoo atmosphere that engulfed the Yankee world in the late 1970s, those gripes tended to get published. Yet, nothing came from Tidrow.

The absence of complaint played a part in the acquisition of his nickname. Teammates called Tidrow “Dirt.” He simply did his job, without fanfare or histrionics, like a blue-collar worker who was willing to throw himself into the muck and mire. Old school all the way, Tidrow wore his stirrups high, showing plenty of the Yankees’ navy blue stocking. The rest of his physical appearance also played a large part in the nickname. Tidrow wore his hair longer than most of his Yankee teammates, complemented by an oversized Fu Manchu mustache (seen vividly in his 1978 Topps card above) and the chronic presence of a few days’ worth of bearded stubble. When Tidrow entered a game in relief, it sometimes looked like he had spent a few innings wrestling in a bullpen mud puddle. (Actually, while playing a game called “flip” prior to actual games, Tidrow often dove into the dirt in an effort to keep the ball alive. Hence the dirty uniform.) Somehow Tidrow’s unkempt exterior managed to escape the ire of George Steinbrenner, perhaps because “The Boss” was too concerned with the main carnival participants in his ongoing three-ring circus–Martin, Thurman Munson, and Reggie Jackson.

Tidrow’s look wasn’t his only distinctive feature. His pitching motion left a clear but unusual impression. As part of his windup, Tidrow kicked his left leg high into the air, until he seemingly bounced his knee off his chest, and then released the ball from a three-quarters angle. In many ways, his motion resembled Dennis Eckersley’s, but “The Eck” kept his left leg fully extended while Tidrow flexed his knee.

Tidrow was fun to imitate, but easy to overlook. Frankly, I didn’t really appreciate him until after he left the Yankees. In the midst of a bad start to the 1979 season, Tidrow turned in a lousy performance against the Tigers, raising his ERA to an unspeakable 7.94. After the game, Steinbrenner told vice president and general manager Al Rosen to trade Tidrow–NOW. Making the best possible deal available to him at the time, Rosen sent Tidrow to the Cubs for Ray Burris. While the likeable Burris imploded in pinstripes, Tidrow regained his form, becoming a valuable set-up man, at first for Bruce Sutter and later for Lee Smith.

Sadly, Tidrow has little ties to the Yankees today. He worked for several years as a special assignment scout with the organization before becoming a successful executive with the Giants, where he serves as vice president in charge of player personnel. I have no idea whether he’s particularly good at that job–the Giants have developed young pitching in recent years but virtually no hitting–but it just seems like he should be working for the Yankees in some capacity. If nothing else, he could teach the pitchers a thing or two about being professional, being versatile, and getting just a little bit dirty.

Richie Allen–Topps Company–1973 (No. 310)

Forgive me for sounding like a member of The Brady Bunch, but this 1973 card of Richard Anthony Allen is just plain cool. From the way it captures Allen’s power-packed swing to the funky powder blue and red uniforms worn by the White Sox of that era to the tilted effect of the photograph, this card is one of the best in the 1973 set.

Allen was one of the first outspoken black superstars in major league history, making him reviled in the minds of some and praiseworthy in the hearts of others. He deserved praise for his ability to overcome the racial protest that greeted him as the first professional black player in the history of Little Rock, Arkansas, and earned a fast promotion from the minor leagues to the majors. Bristling at convention and the general establishment during his major league career, Allen rebelled against managers, front office officials, and members of the media whom he felt lacked respect for the black ballplayer.

In one example, Allen complained about the childlike name that sportswriters saddled him with after reaching the major leagues; he didn’t want to be known as “Richie,” which was the name that most of the general public used in identifying him throughout the 1960s. “Richie is a little boy’s name,” said Allen, who insisted that he be called “Dick.” That finally happened in the early 1970s, after the Dodgers traded him to the White Sox, where he captivated the baseball community with his historic 1972 season. For the first time in his career, Allen found a manager with whom he could co-exist, the accommodating Chuck Tanner. Though he had never faced American League pitching prior to that summer, Allen emerged as the league’s clear-cut MVP. Leading the AL in home runs, slugging percentage, on-base percentage, walks, and RBIs, Allen almost single-handedly kept the White Sox in the divisional race against a far superior Oakland A’s team. The lone bright spot in a lineup filled with mediocrities (and even lesser lights) like Luis Alvarado, Rich Morales, Ed Spiezio, Rich Reichardt, and Walt “No Neck” Williams, Allen carried the White Sox to a level of amazing overachievement the entire summer. If Allen had found just a little bit more help from his supporting cast, the Sox might have narrowed the five-and-a-half-game gap that separated them from the eventual World Champion A’s.

Allen only added to his colorful resume in 1977, when he joined the green and gold of Charlie Finley. Like some of the other unconventional A’s (and encouraged by Finley), Allen wore something other than his surname on the back of his uniform. Allen proudly bore the name “Wampum” on his jersey, as a way of celebrating his hometown of Wampum, Pennsylvania.

For Allen, his brief tenure with the A’s would represent the final stop on the baseball trail. Bristling at Oakland’s insistence on using him as a DH, Allen announced his retirement in mid-season. For a man who always played and worked on his own terms, it was the most appropriate of ways to end a playing career.

In 2006, I received one of the thrills of my adult life when I met Allen at a function celebrating the 35th anniversary of the first all-black lineup in major league history. After I delivered a short speech about former Pirates manager Danny Murtaugh and his involvement in starting the all-minority nine, Allen motioned me to come over to his table. When I arrived, he extended his large right hand and congratulated me for the remarks I made. It’s not often that I’ve received that kind of acknowledgment at a speaking engagement, especially from someone as noteworthy as Allen.

I guess that’s why I look at this card, cool and groovy as it is, even more fondly these days.

Steve Blass–Topps Company–1973 (No. 396)

With hands on hips and mouth awkwardly unhinged, Steve Blass looks a bit puzzled in his 1973 Topps card. It’s almost as if he knew what was about to happen that spring and summer. In 1972, the Pittsburgh Pirates’ ace had put together the best season of his major league career, finishing with a career-high 19 victories, nearly 250 innings pitched, and an earned run average of 2.49. Then, in 1973, without warning, Blass endured excruciating difficulty throwing strikes and posted horrifying numbers: a 9.85 earned run average, 84 walks in 88 and two-thirds innings, and a won-loss mark of 3-9.

The situation worsened for Blass in 1974. After a disastrous performance against the Cubs, the Pirates demoted Blass to their Triple-A affiliate, the Charleston Charlies. Blass continued to struggle, even against minor league hitters, walking a remarkable total of 103 batters in 61 innings. The Pirates enrolled Blass in a special visual program, hoping that a California oculist could help him improve his pitching control.

The special eye care did not help Blass. In spring training of 1975, Blass worked only six and two-thirds innings, surrendering 13 runs and 17 walks. In what would be his last appearance in a major league uniform, Blass lasted three sad innings against the White Sox, giving up 10 runs and 11 walks. In his final inning of work, Blass surrendered eight bases on balls and forced in six runs.

On March 27, 1975, the Pirates requested waivers on Steve Blass for the purpose of giving him his unconditional release. At a press conference announcing the decision to waive Blass, Pirates manager Danny Murtaugh appeared close to tears as he spoke fondly of his onetime ace. “It’s very hard to many any statements at this time,” Murtaugh said. “I’ve had a very close relationship with Steve ever since he joined the organization. Players of his caliber are hard to replace.” Blass himself expressed little desire to latch on with another major league team. “I’ve always pitched for the Pirates,” Blass told the Associated Press, “and I don’t have a hell of a lot of interest in pitching for someone else.” He never did.

Baseball people offered countless theories in trying to explain Blass’ downfall, which ended his career prematurely at the age of 32. Some claimed that he was emotionally devastated by the death of Roberto Clemente, who lost his life in a plane crash on New Year’s Eve, 1972. Those theorists claimed that Clemente’s death made Blass more aware of the fragility of human life; perhaps Blass feared that he would hit an opposing batter with a pitch, doing him severe bodily harm. Other dime store psychologists claimed that Blass did not know how to handle his sudden success of 1971 and ’72. Still others believed that Blass was masking a sore arm, or hiding personal problems that he may have been experiencing.

Blass attempted a number of remedies in his effort to return to former glory. In addition to his consultations with eye doctors, Blass underwent hypnosis; consulted the advice of managers, pitching coaches, teammates, and opponents; and even listened to the suggestions of fans. Throughout his struggle, Blass impressed many observers by handling his downfall with dignity and self-deprecating humor, instead of anger and bitterness. In 1974, The Sporting News asked Blass when he had first realized that he had gone into his prolonged pitching funk. “When I missed the catcher a couple of times,” Blass replied, in classic deadpan fashion.

Since his retirement, Blass has run several baseball schools for youngsters, hosted a sports talk show on a Pittsburgh radio station, and become a well-respected color commentator on Pirate broadcasts. Blass has also contributed to a number of charities, including sickle-cell anemia, multiple sclerosis, and the Roberto Clemente Memorial Fund. All along, Blass has retained the sense of humor that made him one of the most popular Pirates in 1971, and one of Pittsburgh’s most well-liked and respected sports celebrities.

Clearly, Blass is one of the good guys. Even the good guys can have their careers snuffed out in a moment–with no explanations provided.