Dock Ellis, 1945-2008

Wow.

I know I've been a bit distracted over these past few months, but I'm kinda shocked that I somehow missed the news of Dock Ellis' untimely demise from cirrhosis of the liver until nearly two weeks after the fact. I was at a neighborhood New Year's Eve Party, where the host introduced me to one of his friends and mentioned my book on 1970s baseball; I went into my usual song and dance about the magic of the era, the uniforms, the hi-jinks, the riots, and of course Dock Ellis pitching a no-hitter on acid. "Wait," said the host's friend. "Didn't that guy just die?"

I swear I almost left the party right there.

Dock's career numbers (138 wins against 119 losses, a 3.46 career ERA, 1136 strikeouts over 2127.7 innings) were solid enough, but nowhere near good enough to get him into Cooperstown. He was inducted into my personal Hall of Fame years ago, however — and not just because of the revelation that he'd actually been under the influence of LSD while no-hitting the Padres in June 1970.

No, baby; it was much, much more than that. I loved him because he was a fiery, complex and genuine individual who continually spoke his truth, even when it caused the Lords of Baseball to choke on their steak dinners, and even though his career (both as a baseball player and after his retirement) suffered greatly for it. I loved him because he caused a major PR incident by wearing curlers in the bullpen at Wrigley Field. I loved him because he once tried to bean the entire Big Red Machine in an attempt to light a competitive fire in the hearts of his Pirate teammates. I loved him because he was the starting pitcher for the Pirates on September 1st, 1971, the day the Bucs became the first team in major league history to field an all-black starting nine. I loved him because he wore an earring way before ballplayers (or mainstream American menfolk in general) dared to do so; even though wearing it caused the Yankees to exile his ass to Oakland early in the 1977 season. I loved him because he loved Jimi Hendrix, Black Sabbath and Iron Butterfly. I loved him because he later turned his life around and worked with ballplayers, prisoners and at-risk youth as a drug-counselor. I loved him because he was a badass whose example helped encourage me to live my own life with as much truth and as little bullshit as possible. And, of course, I loved him for being one of the main inspirations behind my book.

Unlike Dick Allen, an equally baaaad dude who just wanted to be left alone to play baseball in peace, Dock was a serious shit-stirrer. He essentially forced Sparky Anderson to start him over Tom Seaver in the 1971 All-Star Game by loudly proclaiming in the press that baseball would never allow two black pitchers to start the mid-summer classic (Vida Blue was starting the contest for the AL). Never mind that Anderson was one of the most color-blind managers of the era; Dock knew that it would be a major event to have two brothers on the mound at the start of the game, and he forced the issue instead of waiting around with his fingers crossed, hoping that it would happen. Of course, he got his karmic payback in the third inning of the contest, when Reggie Jackson hit one of the most mammoth and memorable home runs in All-Star history off of him, and Frank Robinson knocked a subsequent two-run homer that tagged him with the loss. Dock was never particularly careful about what he wished for...

Still, Dock clearly loved the game of baseball, even if he didn't have much time for uptight white guys like Bowie Kuhn who ran the show. As a teammate of the late, great Roberto Clemente on the Pirates' 1971 World Championship squad, Dock spoke openly and admiringly of the example that Clemente set daily for all the Pittsburgh players, even down to the way that they should demonstrate their "Pirate pride" by letting the stripes on their stirrups show. He was, by all accounts — despite many media attempts to paint him as a hostile prima donna or (much worse) an "uppity negro" — a great guy to have on your team; regardless of what color you were, if you were his teammate, Dock always had your back.

I saw Dock pitch only once, on a brutally hot August 1979 afternoon at Shea Stadium. He was pitching for the woeful Mets by then, his second of three stops during the final season of his major league career (he would, poetically enough, end the year and his career as a member of Willie Stargell's "We Are Family" world champion Pirates), and he clearly didn't have too much gas left in the tank by then. The Phillies roughed him up for three hits and two runs before he even recorded an out, and Greg Luzinski crushed one into the right field upper deck in the fourth that almost took my grandmother's head off. "Settle down, Ellis!" I yelled at one point, my adolescent quaver echoing through the mostly-empty stands, and he looked over his shoulder and glared at me. Well, actually, he was glaring at the runner he was trying to hold at first base, but the move caused his head to turn in my general direction. And even at that distance, on a crummy day in an even crummier ballpark, his intense bearing and regal body language seemed to say, "Shut the fuck up, kid; I got this."

Rest in peace, Dock. You were one righteous dude.

Comments

[Stu]

His death was a real loss, apparently, to his clientele, and I know it's a loss to those of us who love our ballplayers iconoclastic. I find Ellis much more admirable than Dick Allen, who never seems to have learned that the secret is found without, not within...
Peace to him, and thanks to you for writing this.

[Jason]

Didn't he bean Reggie for that home run, or did I imagine that? If so, that's pretty hardcore for an All-Star Game...
In any case, I do believe you've captured the man's spirit in one word: badass.

[Dan E]

Actually, Jase, you're close -- Ellis DID bean Reggie in retaliation the next time they faced each other, but that wasn't until FIVE YEARS later. Broke Reggie's cheekbone, too.

[Michael]

Don't feel bad -- I didn't know he passed until I was thumbing through my year-end issue of SI the other night.