Many of us here will remember Ken Clay, one of another generation of can't-miss pitchers from the 1970s who the Yankees—even before Brian Cashman's day—managed to squander in bad trades and bad decisions.
Is there anything sadder than a promising young pitcher who never makes it?
Ken Clay was supposed to be one of those unstoppable young talents. He had an up-and-down minor-league career, but he seemed to have figured it out early in 1977, going 5-1, 1.68 at Syracuse. The Yanks brought him up.
The "morning glory" epithet came from George Steinbrenner. May the failings of his son never let us forget what a first-class, gigantic, ignorant prick mad old George was. He was quick to get off similar barbs aimed at other young pitchers who displeased him.
There was his unforgettable characterization of Hideki Irabu, as a "fat, pus-sy toad." I think it was Jim Beattie he accused of "spitting the bit"—like "morning glory," a term for an underperforming horse. But then, his players were always just so much more horseflesh for George, creatures that existed for him only in so much as they pleased or failed him, imbued with personalities that existed only in George's head.
Then there was Billy Martin, who never met a young pitcher whose arm he couldn't ruin.
Unsurprisingly, Ken Clay never flourished in the Bronx Zoo. But he did have his moment of glory. In the first game of the 1978 ALCS, with Martin gone (for the time being) and a rational human being running the club, the Yankees found themselves desperately short of pitching.
The club had just finished its astounding, comeback run from 14 behind Boston, capped by the one-game playoff in Fenway. A lot of people thought they might be done for the year, that incredible rally a good enough moral victory. When they pulled into Kansas City, all they had to throw out there against a strong Royals team, seething for revenge after two straight, heart-ripping playoff losses, was a young rookie named Jim Beattie, who had never so much as pitched a complete game.
Beattie was a little wild that night, as who wouldn't be in such a situation. He walked five, but gave up only two hits, and going into the bottom of the sixth, somehow the Yanks had a 4-0 lead. Beattie was soon over 100 pitches, though, and out of gas. With two on and one out, Manager Bob Lemon turned to...Ken Clay.
Clay was lights-out. He gave up a sacrifice fly to the fearsome Hal McRae, the first batter he faced, then got Al Cowens to end the inning. In the seventh, he gave up a walk, but induced no less than George Brett to ground out and end the frame. Reggie Jackson soon put the icing on the cake with a three-run blast, and Clay finished the game, 3 2/3 innings without allowing a hit. The Yanks were on their way to a second straight world championship.
That was about it for Ken Clay, in the game, and his life, sadly enough. After an awful 1979 season, he was traded to Texas for Gaylord Perry, and out of baseball after 1981. He never seemed able to adjust. Repeatedly convicted of theft, grand larceny, and forgery, he had spent at least seven years in prison by 2012.
Jim Beattie—dealt away in another stupid trade, this one for Ruppert Jones—ended up having some very decent years...in Seattle. Tippy Martinez and Scott McGregor, shipped to Baltimore to pick up insurance for a 1976 race the Yanks already had well in hand, ended up having excellent careers...for the Orioles.
A pitcher who was thought to have an even brighter future than any of them was Gil Patterson, another young righty who fell victim to the Yanks' longtime indifference to common sense when it comes to developing young arms.
Patterson went a combined 16-4, 2.44 at two levels of the minors in 1976, conquering Triple-A at just 20. The next season he was brought up to the big club, and astonished everyone.
After he struck out 8 Red Sox in 5 2/3 innings of a losing effort, Carl Yastrzemski called him one of the best young pitchers he had ever seen, and said his stuff was harder to hit than Nolan Ryan's.
But Patterson's arm was already throbbing with pain, after having been used on a cold minor-league night, or for one inning too many by Billy Martin. The stories vary. Gil Patterson tried everything he could to come back, even teaching himself to pitch lefthanded. But he was done.
George Steinbrenner, in one of his moments of grand largesse, discovered Patterson parking cars at a Fort Lauderdale restaurant in 1983, and offered him a job "coaching for life" in the Yankees system. "Life" ended the next year, when Gil Patterson refused to keep a sore-armed Al Leiter out on a minor-league mound. Leiter eventually became a major-league star, of course, and called Patterson, "one of the best pitching coaches anywhere."
Patterson got to the majors again as a coach, and was widely lauded—even beloved—by people whose careers he didn't save. Despite having his greatest dreams dashed, he was able to hang on, bring out the best in himself, have a life worth living.
We all react to adversity in different ways. It's never easy, but it's best to try to hang on to that person inside you, despite of what society, or a bloated blowhard like George Steinbrenner, or a sad, warped psychopath like Billy Martin might think of you.
Call this a homily for Maundy Thursday.
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