Tommy John won 288 games the old-time way with his brain as much as his two left elbows.
When John passed away on Saturday at 83, the sports world remembered Tommy John surgery. That’s the elbow ligament replacement operation performed on him in ’74 by Dodgers team physician Frank Jobe. Before the knife, John won 124 games. After, he won 164 more, including all three of his 20-win seasons and all three of his trips to the World Series, where he had a 2.67 ERA.
Now, about 36% to 39% of MLB pitchers have had “TJ surgery.” You miss a season, come back with a new elbow, which, on average, lasts eight years. It’s a second life. You may throw a little worse than before, or better.
I’m lucky. I remember Tommy John himself, one of my favorite players to chat with during the last decade-plus of his 26 seasons. John was funny, self-deprecating and loved by everyone. As his career victory total climbed but seemed destined to stop short of 300 wins and an almost inevitable invitation trip to Cooperstown, John never obsessed over whether he’d make it. He’d been mediocre for his first eight years and played for six teams. He’d been released and once even retired to coach high school ball. Jobe told him the odds for success on his elbow surgery were “1,000-to-1.” Once, he asked to pitch for his friend’s semi-pro team.
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So, when he hung on late in his career it was because … you never know. At 43, he discovered lifting weights — every day, even on mornings when he would pitch that night. “I discovered all those ‘lat’ muscles in the back below the shoulder,” he said. “I wasn’t even using them.”
“He never threw hard, but now he’s [back] throwing just as not-hard as he ever did,” said Yankees bullpen coach Jeff Torborg.
At 44, John went 13-6 and led the pennant-contending Yankees in innings pitched. That year I asked him if this was a 300-win quest.
“The only thing that burns inside me,” he said, “is Szechuan food.”
Modesty was core to his upbringing in Terre Haute, Indiana. A multisport star in high school, John was recruited to go to national powerhouse Kentucky to play basketball. He was also valedictorian of his class. But he didn’t give a graduation speech because of a stammer.
Perhaps that led to some of his egoless affect as an adult. But that problem also fed into his passion for self-improvement. He eventually became one of the game’s chatterbox tale-tellers.
Tommy John even liked to tell the truth. Asked about his repertoire, he said, “I have a fastball, curveball, slider and changeup — as well as eight other illegal pitches.”
“Can I quote you?” I asked him. Tommy just grinned his friendly, innocent, church deacon smile. Pitchers love hitters thinking they cheat.
Give John a ball with a scuff or scrape and he could make its gyroscope go on the fritz just before it got to the plate. Give him a perfect ball and … well … who knows what might befall it.
When pitcher Rick Rhoden was frisked by umps in search of sandpaper, John suggested that he leave notes in his glove for the umps that said, “Right church. Wrong pew.” Or: “Warmer.”
John’s fastball never touched 90. But his pitching IQ may’ve been twice that. He drove hitters crazy, especially as, with age, he seemed to be tossing batting practice.
The excellent Baltimore Oriole teams could seldom anticipate what, or where, his next pitch would be. He seemed to follow no pattern or logic. Most frustrating, he would get into jams, then escape by getting hitters to chase low pitches and hit grounders, often into double plays.
How did he do it?
“You can’t write this until after I retire,” John said. Then he explained that all pitchers and hitters focus on “the count.” The strategy for the next pitch is usually based on that count. When pitchers get behind, like 2-0, 3-1 or 3-2, they want to avoid throwing another “ball” and getting further behind.
Hitters get aggressive when they are “ahead in the count,” especially with men on base. They think they’ll get a more hittable pitch.
“I subtract one ball from the count on the scoreboard,” said John. “If it says ‘3-1’ on the scoreboard, then it says ‘2-1’ to me.
“How is the hitter going to ‘think along with me’ if he doesn’t even know what the count is?”
John did not think “ball three” existed. For him, it was never more than two. So, he never “gave in” to the hitter. For him, every aim was at an edge or a few inches off it. He’d start with “strike one,” then you might never see another.
Because of his control, combined with the natural over-anxiousness of most hitters, plus his “subtract one ball” idea, John pitched hitters tougher, more to the edges or even off the edge, the more men got on base. The worse the jam, the more he counted on you to get yourself out.
“There’s always a base open somewhere,” said John, meaning that if he issued a walk, he’d just apply his methods to the next hitter.
“What if the bases are loaded and it’s a 3-2 pitch?” I asked. “Then there’s no ‘open base.’”
“Home plate is always open,” John said.
You might get a run with “ball four,” but not two, three or four runs with one swing.
Sure, some could “wait him out.” Not many.
Ironically, John’s best-known pitch may be the one that was hit the furthest. In 1966, Tommy gave up Frank Howard’s legendary upper-deck home run to center field in RFK Stadium, one of the longest home runs ever. The seat it hit was painted white. For years, players visiting D.C. would ask me, “Where was home plate then?” “Right where it is now,” I’d say. Few seemed to believe.
“It was a line drive. I almost jumped for it,” John told me. Then John turned and claimed that he could “see it rising.” By the time he got to the dugout, he said he looked like a ghost. “If it had hit me, it would have killed me.”
In the previous inning, John had hit a home run himself. He never mentioned that.
Among all pitchers, John may be the most overlooked for his accomplishments because he is remembered for his incredible dogged longevity and for his scar. But facts, especially in appreciations like this, are fine friends. Since 1900, John ranks seventh in starts, 14th in innings pitched and 18th in wins. Read that again.
Twice, he was second for the Cy Young Award. Across 88.1 postseason innings, he was 6-3 with a 2.65 ERA. In 1968, he was an All-Star with a 1.98 ERA, using all original parts. His 3.34 career ERA tops Roy Halladay and Phil Niekro and is just behind Justin Verlander and John Smoltz. John: 26 seasons. The record: 27.
His Hall of Fame voting topped at 31%, far below the 75% needed. Why?
In part, it was because his self-deprecating personality and unflashy performance deflected attention. He only won 15 games five times — back when wins “mattered.” No-hitters: zero. Rings: none. Season leading the league in ERA, wins or strikeouts: none.
One year, he induced eight ground balls for every time he got a strikeout. In 700 starts, he only allowed 302 homers. You were safe in the bleachers, but he was death on worms in the infield dirt. Come see Tommy, and get bored.
In 1980, John won 22 games, his most ever, with 16 complete games, six shutouts and 265 innings. Take 20 guesses at his strikeout total: It was 78.
So, I’m happy they named the darn surgery after Tommy John, instead of Dr. Jobe, even though he may have been a medical genius.
Plenty of people are in Cooperstown who will be almost entirely forgotten. But as long as pitchers grab their elbow and leave the mound disconsolate, fans’ll say, “He’ll probably make it back. Tommy John showed them all the way.”
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