How I Got This Way (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

GEORGE STEINBRENNER

H
ere is how the Boss entered my life: Surprisingly, it didn’t happen in the Bronx, where his Yankees were based and my own boyhood was spent. No, instead we came together in Indianapolis, of all places, where we both wound up one Memorial Day weekend in the early nineties to enjoy the hoopla and excitement surrounding that greatest of great auto races, the Indy 500. As part of the race day festivities, I’d been given the honorary and truly incomparable thrill of being paraded around that famous two-and-a-half-mile track in an open car with four hundred thousand people letting out a roaring cheer I’ll never forget.

But on the night before that overwhelming experience, I had the unexpected pleasure of meeting this unforgettable man who knew a thing or two about roaring. And also about cheering. That night, I was invited to dinner by my old TV executive friend Chris Kelly, whom I’d known in both St. Louis and Chicago, and who was now running a major Indianapolis station. Chris’s other guest that evening turned out to be none other than the colorful and controversial New York Yankees owner, George Steinbrenner, who was then somewhere in the midst of riding out his second baseball suspension for a stupid mistake he regretted very much. It was not a good moment in his life, to say the least. He missed his Yankees terribly—“Owning the Yankees,” he once said, so proudly, “is like owning the
Mona Lisa
”—but he was happy to be at the 500 that weekend, which probably made for a perfect distraction from his troubles. We hit it off almost immediately and had a great, lively dinner.

The next day we toured those Speedway spaces beside the track that housed the cars and driver crews, all prepping themselves for the race. As we wandered around together, we started playing a made-up baseball trivia game along the lines of “Do you remember this guy?” That is, we would quiz each other about who played what position during whatever year from long ago. I remember being impressed when I threw a real tough one at him: “First base, Cleveland Indians, 1949?” And George smiled confidently before he shot back: “Hal Trotsky.” I didn’t think
anyone
remembered Hal Trotsky anymore, but I always loved that name when I was a kid, and sure enough, George did, too. I was amazed that he got it—until I later realized that George grew up in Cleveland, so of course he knew Hal Trotsky! But still, you’ve got to love the sound of that name. Anyway, we shared a terrific day at the big race and didn’t lose touch afterward.

Once George’s ban had finally been lifted and he returned to his beloved team, he invited me to come watch ball games from his private suite at Yankee Stadium, which was always such a pleasure. And he also made sure to let me know that I’d be a welcome guest during spring training in Tampa if I ever happened to be in Florida when the Yankees were getting ready for the season ahead. Well, one springtime during the height of my big
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
prime-time quiz-show-hosting heyday, I came through Tampa to perform my concert act. George not only gave me the royal treatment at the beautiful Legends Field complex that he’d built for his minor-league franchise and also for the Yankees to use as a workout facility, but he instructed me to go to manager Joe Torre’s office and put on a uniform—
yes, those immortal pinstripes!
—and then join in a practice session. He wanted to get me into the mix with Joe’s current crop of players, as well as with the former Yankee greats who’d regularly turn up down there to help stoke the team during the preseason. What a thrill it was to hang around the batting cage with those formidable Bronx Bomber heroes of years gone by, like Reggie Jackson and Chris Chambliss, along with all the new younger guys. Soon enough, they insisted that I get into that cage and take some swings. Willie Randolph was on the mound doing the practice pitching, and of course everyone stopped whatever they were doing to see what this TV guy had to show for himself with a bat in his hands.

I can’t tell you how nervous it made me. I mean, talk about pressure! Keep in mind, I’d done plenty of silly batting contests out on Columbus Avenue in New York with all kinds of big-league hitters who’d guested on our show. But now I felt so awkward, like some out-of-place interloper in their exclusive world. Every time I swung and missed, or hit a little harmless ground ball, I was totally humiliated and devastated. Here I was, right in the heart of Yankees spring camp—
actually wearing the sacred pinstripes!
—surrounded by all the players who’d won all those pennants and World Series rings and made baseball history, and I could barely dribble a ball out of the infield. Some of the guys on the field and fans in the stands kidded around, hollering out my
Millionaire
show catchphrase,
“Hey, Regis! Is that your final answer?”
I can’t tell you how often I was asked that question wherever I went during those years—but for some reason, hearing it now as I took my not too impressive cuts at Willie Randolph’s pitches was not helping me feel all that confident.

Then Coach Bill Robinson had me shift my stance at the plate, and suddenly I began lifting some balls with more distance into the outfield, at least. I got a little cockier with each swing, hoping to crush a couple and shut everybody up. Like an idiot, I’d loudly announce:
“Okay, watch this, guys! This one’s going all the way!”
I swung at the next pitch and fouled the ball down with a hard slam, right onto my shin. We’ve all seen this sort of thing hundreds of times in games, and the batters just shake it off and get ready for the next pitch. But I’m here to tell you that it
hurts
. Like crazy, it hurts! And stings.
And keeps on stinging
. I almost crawled out of the batter’s box. It was actually bad enough that someone decided I should let the Yankees medical staff take a look at it. So I wound up in the first-aid room under the stadium on a table next to right fielder Paul O’Neill, who was there with a
real
injury, I’m sure.

Needless to say, I didn’t get immediate attention, but I did have a lot of fun showing off my wound—a swelling black-and-blue bump on that shinbone—especially to Boss Steinbrenner. “George,” I joked, “I love you, but if this welt is still here tomorrow . . .
I’m getting a piece of the Yankees!
” He just laughed. Naturally. And back in New York on our
Live!
show, I proudly displayed that welt every chance I got, day after day, both at the time and also over the years to come—
because it didn’t go away anytime soon!
—while receiving no sympathy at all from Kathie Lee or Kelly. All they did was call me a wimp. But to tell you the truth, it became my badge of honor. No, I didn’t get any big hits wearing my Yankee pinstripes, but that mark on my shin became my favorite new claim to fame—an authentic major league injury!

Meanwhile, my friendship with George continued. He honored me at one of the Yankees’ spring training games, and I even threw out the first pitch that night. Another time, when Don Rickles and I did our show in Tampa, George was in the audience cheering us on. He was as generous in spirit as he was in rewarding his players those astronomical salaries. Everything was a class act with Steinbrenner. He took such tremendous pride in all things related to the Yankees, especially winning. “Winning is the most important thing in my life, after breathing,” he once said. “Breathing first, winning next.” And did he ever make sure that winning remained not only a tradition in the Bronx but an absolute requirement! So many times over the years, I’d be up in his suite at Yankee Stadium, with the team nearly always thick in a pennant chase. Steinbrenner watched every game with a life-or-death intensity, and if the Yankees fell behind and lost, many of his friends would disappear very quickly to let him get over it privately.

I remember one year, as World Series fever again swept New York, I was there for a play-off game against the Minnesota Twins. The Twins had taken a 2–0 lead very early on. But play-off games are difficult to predict; any team can get hot without warning. In postseason action, you can never be sure of anything. Somewhere around the third inning, nature called and I decided to quickly dash off to the men’s room. I’d been watching the game from the special mezzanine box seats just outside of George’s suite, which I’d have to pass through in order to get to where I suddenly needed to go. At that particular moment, the suite—a beautifully spacious room equipped with a large-screen TV—was empty. Empty, that is, except for George, who sat there all by himself, intently studying the game. He looked lonely, and I thought I’d stop to briefly cheer him up with some light banter about his assistant football coaching days at Northwestern University. George loved his early football experiences, so we reminisced a bit and also compared notes on all the great Notre Dame coaches we’d known over the years—frankly, anything to take his mind off this potential loss the Yankees looked like they might suffer that night.

Suddenly, though, the Yankees pushed across a run, which I thought would give me an opportunity to finally make it to the men’s room. But as I got up to quickly exit, George said, “No, wait! You can’t go now. Your sitting here just brought us luck. We need more runs. You’ve got to stay.” I thought he was kidding, but I could tell by the tone of his voice and the determined look in his eyes that he really meant it. And God forbid if I did leave and the Yankees lost any momentum toward taking the lead, I would never hear the end of it. So I sucked it up and stayed put beside him, shifting this way and that to offset the need for my bathroom break, while the game droned on.

Around the seventh inning, the Yankees scored a second run to tie the game, and I thought maybe I could slip away. I promised that I’d be fast about it! But that burning look in his eyes was still there. “No,” George said firmly. “Now more than ever the Yankees need you to stay right where you are. You can’t move.” Okay, maybe I’ll admit that this was kind of flattering—that the entire fortunes of the Yankees suddenly rode on the strength of my bladder—but now I felt in real danger. I mean, let’s be honest, the men’s room was really just a few feet away. I could slip in and out before the commercial break ended. But it was unthinkable. I had helped the Yankees tie the game, and now I was responsible for helping them win it. And then, to my absolute horror, the game actually went into extra innings! I thought I might explode, but there was no escape. I think it must have been in the eleventh inning when the Yankees scored the game-winning run. What a relief! And I do mean
relief
. George and I congratulated each other, and that’s when he asked me, “Can you come back tomorrow night?”

George Steinbrenner was one of the greatest characters New York City has ever known. Certainly there’s never been another baseball owner like him—in any city. Yes, he made mistakes and paid heavily for them. And the sports press was relentless about taking shots at him, always finding some new reason to criticize the larger-than-life way he ran his legendary ball club. But his players, believe it or not, understood him better than anyone outside of the franchise. He just wanted to win. He wanted his team to always score one more for New York City. His motto: “The way New Yorkers back us, we have to produce for them.” That mission simply became his life.

I can’t tell you how deeply I miss seeing him at the stadium now. He made the place that much more special—both at the venerable old House That Ruth Built structure, as well as at the new Yankee Stadium that Steinbrenner built on the adjacent parkland, which opened a few years ago. There’s no ballpark like it; George not only lovingly incorporated many of the iconic features of the old place, but made sure it also kept the original facade that once flanked the now demolished Bronx baseball shrine. Inside, it’s both fascinating and a great thrill to walk down hallways lined with huge pictures of players that New York will never forget. The stadium’s Monument Park, which so beautifully commemorates all those magical Yankee heroes long gone, has been relocated just beyond the center field fences. It’s always quite moving to go out there and spend time studying those plaques.

During the 2010 season, they added George to the group. He had died suddenly on the morning of that year’s All-Star Game, which seemed kind of poetic, I suppose. He once said, as only he could, “I will never have a heart attack—I give them.” But sadly, that’s what took him. Donald Trump and I went up to the stadium on the night of his tribute to pay our respects.

As would be expected, the ceremony was done with great class and showmanship, just before the game. Yankees captain Derek Jeter led the team out of the dugout and onto the outfield Monument grounds to watch the unveiling of George’s plaque. Yes, it was bigger than the rest, and the engraved image of him captured his classically stern expression. But that, in fact, was the way it was with him all those years at Yankee Stadium. That was George’s look. He dominated all of us, and everybody understood that’s the way it had to be.

At the end of the ceremony, the players solemnly filed back to the dugout—all of them but one. He remained out there for a long, long time, just looking at the image of his old Boss. He might have been saying a prayer, but he was too far away to tell. You could see the heartfelt affection, though, and it was quite touching. That player was the great reliever Mariano Rivera, who one day will have his own plaque there with George and all the other greats. It was a marvelous and unforgettable moment, which fifty-four thousand people quietly and lovingly watched unfold. They understood the player’s reverence. George must have loved it, too.