the year at Auburn with a thirteen-win-and nine-loss record. It was a great learning experience. I pitched in the rotation on a regular basis. Clyde let me pitch. I pitched well even in the losses, most of which were close games.
Against Jamestown I was pitching a perfect game going into the bottom of the sixth inning. The opposing pitcher was up, and I ran up a three-ball-and-no-strike count. Clyde called time and came to the mound.
Clyde said, “For God’s sake, if you’re going to lose the perfect game, don’t walk the son of a bitch.”
My first pitch after that was a strike, and my second pitch was a strike, and on the third pitch, the Jamestown pitcher hit a line drive back up the middle that struck me in the face. I was knocked out of the game, and for a couple of days my face was swollen. Oh yeah, I lost my perfect game.
Once I got the okay from the doctor to play again, my next challenge was to pitch without fear of getting hit by a batted ball. The first time back on the mound, I pitched and ducked, pitched and ducked, pitched and ducked, until Clyde came out to the mound to talk to me.
“You can’t pitch that way,” he said. “Throw naturally.”
I hadn’t realized what I was doing. Clyde got me through the game, and I had a terrific year.
NOT LONG AFTER I RETURNED HOME FROM my first year at Auburn, I received my draft notice. The Vietnam War was raging, and I knew that if I was drafted my professional career would be over before it began. I preferred not to have to give up playing baseball. I called Johnny Murphy and asked him what to do.
“No problem,” said Murphy. “Call the governor of Connecticut and let him know, and he’ll take care of it.”
When my dad came home, I told him about Murphy telling me to call the governor.
“That doesn’t sound right,” Dad said.
Instead, my dad called a local Irish Middletown politician who was the head of the Democratic Party. The man suggested that I come and see him.
The politician lived in a big mansion on High Street. He and I sat in a large sitting room.
“Just go down to the National Guard tomorrow and enlist, and you’ll be all taken care of,” he said. The next day I went down to the National Guard office and got in line. When I returned home, my dad asked me what had happened.
“They didn’t take me,” I said. “I’m number 252 on the waiting list, and if I’m number 252, I’m going to be drafted. There’s something wrong.”
“Let me call him again,” said his father.
I returned to the politician’s house.
“Did you speak to Captain Dzailo?” he asked.
“No.”
“They must have forgotten to tell you,” he said. “Go in tomorrow and talk to Captain Dzailo. He’ll take care of you.”
I returned to the National Guard recruiting office and asked to see Captain Dzailo, who said he was expecting me. I signed the papers, and the following day I found myself at Fort Dix, New Jersey, getting my hair cut for the National Guard.
The National Guard enlistment consisted of four months of boot camp at Fort Dix followed by six years of weekend service in New Jersey, rather than two years of trekking through the rice paddies while getting shot at in Vietnam.
Captain Dzailo had fixed me up, all right. I owe you, captain.
I was an excellent marksman with a .45-caliber pistol, and I was adept at hand-to-hand combat. In fact, of all the soldiers in my battalion, hundreds of men, I finished with the highest proficiency score. I had a 97.5 score out of 100 for my skill shooting a .45 caliber, an M-16, and a mortar; for fighting hand to hand; and for my proficiency in medical training. I had the highest score in the battalion. I’m damn proud of that. I still have the trophy.
We learned hand-to-hand combat, a skill I really loved. It was a perfect vehicle to unleash my aggression and pent-up anger. One of the soldiers I fought was Boston Red Sox outfielder Tony Conigliaro. Tony was cocky. He came at me with a rifle. I parried, stepped to the side, and hit him with my elbow right in the forehead, almost knocking him out.
Tony was pissed. Now it was my turn to go at him with a rifle, and I figured he was going to try to knock my block off. The sergeant had said to me, “When you thrust with a rifle, drop your head down so the steel helmet will be facing him.”
Sure enough, I went after Tony C with my bayonet, and he parried me perfectly, and then he stepped to the side and gave me his best shot with his elbow—right into my steel helmet!
I was made platoon leader, and two of my squad leaders were Tony and Billy Rohr. Billy was a young kid who pitched for the Red Sox. They were great guys.
We had to go on bivouac. It was winter in New Jersey, and it was absolutely freezing. Tony came up with the bright idea that I needed to sneak into the officers’ tent and steal some coal. Not that he had to sneak in—I had to sneak in. Tony said, “We could burn the coal in one of our steel helmets inside our little pup tent and stay warm.”
I snuck inside the officer’s tent, swiped ten pieces from a huge pile next to the stove, hid them in my jacket, stole some matches, and snuck back to our little tent.
Tony put the coal in his helmet and lit it, and we went to sleep. The next morning we awoke to find that the coal had burned a large hole in our tent.
“Okay, you wise guys,” our superior officer said, “you’re sleeping with a hole in your tent.”
“This was your idea,” I told Tony. “You’re sleeping under the hole.”
Two nights later it snowed. I woke up at six o’clock in the morning when the bugle blew, and I looked at Tony, and all I could see were his nostrils. The rest of his face was covered with snow.
One evening in January Tony and I were invited to leave our little pup tent, where we slept on the hard ground, and enter the warm tent of the superior officers. We were told, “The son of the general is having a Little League banquet, and the general wants to know if you two will come and speak.”
“Of course we will,” I said.
Tony wasn’t quite so willing.
“Oh no,” said Tony. “I’m not doing this for nothing.”
“I think we should just go,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what,” Tony said to the general’s assistant. “If we can get a weekend pass, we’ll do it.”
I thought to myself, They are going to throw us in the brig. But they didn’t.
Instead, they gave us weekend passes. Tony and I spoke at the Little League banquet at Fort Dix, New Jersey, and then spent the weekend in New York City.
Tony, an idea man, was always looking for ways to escape the freezing bivouac.
“If we join the boxing team,” Tony said, “we could get off bivouac for a couple of days. Let’s join the boxing team.”
“I don’t want to join the fucking boxing team,” I said.